Smugness on her lips. I sit back down but avert my eyes to show how much I dislike being here. The kettle whistles, and Norah scoops a spoonful of tea directly into it. The house creaks quietly while the oolong steeps. The longer we wait, the edgier I become. I almost get up to leave a dozen times, but curiosity has a strong hold on me.
“Drink,” Norah says, when it’s finished. “Leave about half a teaspoon of liquid.”
I sip the tea, because it’s hot. The flavor is light, and it tastes like a peach, but with something darker hidden inside. Like smoke. Norah doesn’t mind the heat. She gulps hers down and pours another cup. I finally reach the bottom. I hold the pink cup close and frown at the brown-green leaves, looking for symbols. It’s all lumped together.
“Now what?”
“Take the cup with your left hand.”
“Is that my magic hand?”
She ignores this, too. “Now turn it three times, counterclockwise—faster than that. Yes, good. Turn it over onto your saucer.”
“Won’t all the leaves run out?”
“Shh. Keep your hand on the bottom of the cup. And close your eyes and take a moment to think about what you’d like to know.”
I feel stupid. THAT is what I think about. And . . . I think about Cricket Bell.
“Turn it back over. Carefully,” she adds. I slow down and right my teacup. The leaves have used the last remaining droplets of liquid to stick to the sides. “I’ll take that now.” She’s silent for many minutes. Her bony hands tilt the cup every which way, to gain different perspectives or perhaps just to see the shapes better in the dimmed kitchen light. “Well.” Norah sets it down and gestures for me to scoot closer. I do. “Do you see this cloud here, close to the handle?”
“Sort of.Yeah.”
“That means you’re in a stage of confusion or trouble. But with me living here, we didn’t need leaves to tell us that. And this triangle down here, that means you possess a natural talent for creativity. But we didn’t need them to know that either.”
I’m surprised by her frankness, as well as the rare compliment. I scoot a little closer.
“But do you see these dots, traveling around the edge of the cup?”
I nod.
“A path of dots means a journey. This one will be taken over the course of several months. If it circled all the way back around, it would have been at least a year,” she explains. “But the journey ends here, into this shape. What does that look like to you?”
“Um. A moon, maybe? With a . . . stick coming out of it?”
“How about a cherry?”
“Yeah! I see that.”
“Cherries represent first love. In other words, this path you’re on leads to first love.”
I jolt, and my legs smack the table. The way she doesn’t startle makes me believe she expected this reaction. Does she know how I feel about Cricket? Or, should I say, how I felt about him in the past? She was certainly around, but how much did she observe?
Norah is messing with me.
She pauses. “Why don’t you tell me what shapes you see in the cup?”
I stare into it for several minutes. I look for dogs or shoes or anything recognizable, but all I see are wet leaves. My eyes keep returning to the cherry. I set the cup down. “I don’t know. There’s a pile of sticks on that side. And a curlicue thing.”
“Okay. The loop is near the rim, so that means you’ve been making—or you’ll soon be making—impulsive actions.”
“Good or bad?” I quickly ask.
She shrugs. “Could be either, but are things done on impulse ever really a good idea?”
“Is that something your therapist told you?” I snap.
Norah’s tone darkens. “And see how the sticks are crossed, all on top of each other? That suggests a series of arguments. It usually leads to a parting.” Her voice is short.
“A parting.” I stand. “Yes, thank you. This was very educational.”
Arguments, partings, impulses. Clouds of confusion. I thought fortunes were supposed to make people feel BETTER about their lives. I thought that’s why people paid money to hear them. And a journey to first love? Just because Max insulted her doesn’t mean she has to steer me into the arms of another guy.
Though it did look like a cherry.
I don’t know why I’m giving any of this crap my consideration. Norah thinks my costumes are lies, that they lack meaning? She should look in the mirror. Her entire livelihood—what’s left of it—lacks meaning. I’m steaming as I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I turn off my lights just as a light behind my curtains flicks on.
So he’s staying the night.
Has he been talking to Calliope? I wonder if he’ll be able to complete his project for school, whatever it is. Probably not. I toss in my bedcovers, unable to sleep from the guilt over Cricket, from the caffeine in the tea, from that stupid freaking cherry. Maybe cherries don’t mean first love. Maybe they mean the person you lose your virginity to. It would make more sense, and in that case, my path leads to Max.
Which means I’m on the right path?
I hear his window slide open.