Me: L, did you get your own phone?
Leo: Same phone. Robin doesn’t need it anymore.
Avery: Why not?
Leo: She’s gone back home.
Aaron: She left Brownhill?
Leo: Yes.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who wants to know more, but Leo’s curt, formal answers silence us. Robin came and went and none of us got to meet her. She’s a mystery that will never be solved.
Aaron stayed in Alderford for five days before going home to Charlotte. The night before he planned to leave, he was in one of the Blakely Hall practice rooms when he heard his parents arguing—over a hundred miles away. They were louder than any note he could play on his sax, fighting about the money his father lent to Aaron’s uncle.
Aaron: I wasn’t going home to that. I let it blow over.
Avery: Did it?
Aaron: Enough.
Leo: Does this happen often?
Aaron: Yeah. Dad’s brother is a deadbeat.
Me: I’m sorry. That sucks.
Although I feel bad for Aaron, I’m jealous of his clairaudience. It’s useful. Thanks to what he heard, he was able to avoid a toxic situation. My clairsentienceisa toxic situation. Yes, deliberately using it gives me more control over it, but what’s the point? So I can feel other people’s emotions. Great. Peachy. Now what am I supposed to do with them? Call people out on how they’re feeling? I guess, on rare occasions, that could be helpful. Especially when emotions lead to dangerous actions. But who’s going to pause in the middle of an argument, say, to give me time to sense if their opponent is about to get violent? People don’t work like that.
I just can’t think of any good reason to intentionally sense someone else’s emotions. It’s intrusive. Even if someone gives you permission to read them, like Leo did at Avery’s, there are still some things I don’t want or need to know.
I wriggle, my skin suddenly hot and prickly in my fleece pajama bottoms. Kicking off my slippers and freeing myself from my sweatshirt helps, as does shifting my focus. I agree with Leo and Avery that I need to practice. It’s the only way to achieve that elusive control they keep going on and on about. But there have to be other ways todo it than invading people’s brains. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
I rummage through the side pockets of my suitcase until I find the Tarot cards Avery gave me. I don’t know what any of them mean, but there are guides aplenty on the internet. I text Avery for reliable sites, then try my hand at reading a few spreads—past/present/future, embrace/release—what better way to get to know the cards? I even tackle a Celtic Cross. I’m not all that confident in my interpretations, but one message comes across loud and clear in nearly every reading I do: Change. Massive change. The Tower and Death appear over and over. Every resource assures me these cards aren’t necessarily negative, but they give me a weird feeling. Like something is lurking just around the corner.
Freaked out, I quit doing spreads and move on to Leo’s guessing game instead. I hold a card to my chest, write down the emotions it gives me, then look up its meaning to see if I’m anywhere close to its mood and tone. About seventy-five percent of the time, I am. And when I really concentrate and keep my focus, when I’m not worried about being interrupted or trying to block out the noise of my family, I guess correctly every time.
The day after Christmas, I leave humanity behind and go for a long walk in a nearby park. It lacks the wild beauty of the French Broad River, but it’s forested and, because of the cold, nearly deserted. I draw in the crisp, dry air, willing it to clear my head. Near-frozen branches pop and crackle in the wind, and the occasional squirrel skitters through the dead leaves alongside the path.
I keep an eye out for hemlock trees, but either there are none or I’ve forgotten what they look like. And without leaves, I can’t even identify the ubiquitous maple. A dog barks in the distance, signaling another trail walker, but they’re at least halfway around the lake. Safely alone, I pause to hug a tree. I can’t tell what species it is, butthat doesn’t matter to me. Its trunk is wide and inviting and its bark tightly woven like a fisherman’s knit sweater.
Sitting at its base, I close my eyes and rest my cheek on the trunk, inviting in its peaceful energy. There’s plenty of life left in this tree, but it’s an old soul. A grandfather. As time passes, my skin prickles where the bark digs into it. My feet have gone numb with cold, but I don’t care. I don’t want to leave this tree.
I dig my phone out of my coat pocket and send a text.
Me: What are you doing?
As I wait for a response, my fingers find their way to the rhinestone faerie holding back the front of my hair.
Leo: Reading. You?
Me: Making a new friend.
I snap a selfie of the tree above me. A selfie without my self.
Me: What kind of tree is this?
Leo: Send me a close-up of the bark.
