Be Good Be Real Be Crazy by Chelsey Philpot Page A

Einstein said slowly, “you’re not even sure that those things work?”
    â€œNope.” Mia pointed the camera at Einstein’s face and clicked.
    â€œAnd you’re taking pictures anyway?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œThat’s stupid.”
    â€œSteiner,” Homer said, shaking his way loose from the tent door’s netting. “S.F., dude.”
    â€œIt’s not stupid,” Mia said. She held the camera in front of her and tilted it toward her stomach. “Baby’s first picture.” Click. Click. Click. “It’s an act of faith.” She slid the camera into the old hiking backpack D.B. had given her. “Most things are.”
    Einstein and Mia probably could have gone back and forth all night, but a new voice entered the dusk.
    â€œHey there. I saw your headlights from ’cross the way.” The girl who appeared from the edge of the clearing had a voice like a heavy whisper, a combination of syrup and concrete. She had dark skin, a broad nose, and wide-set eyes framed by thick eyebrows above and shadows underneath.
    Mia was the first one to respond. “Hello. I’m Mia.” She pointed over her left shoulder. “These guys are Homer and Einstein. They’re brothers. Homer’s tall and very sweet and Einstein’s a genius. We’re just camping out for the night.”
    The girl glanced at the tent. It looked like a candle that had melted on one side. “I see that. Usually, tourists stay at the newhotels on Route 17. It gets real muggy in the woods, even in December.”
    â€œYou live here?” Einstein asked.
    â€œBack yonder.” She pointed vaguely in the direction she’d come from. “I like the trees. Plus, it’s quieter—or least it’s quieter than the new part of town.”
    â€œIt’s crazyville over there,” Mia said, rolling her fingers over her stomach like it was a drum. “There’s all those empty buildings and then the line of people and the movie folks with fancy-pants equipment and lots of cigarettes.”
    â€œActually, they’re TV people. They shoot the show.”
    â€œWhat show?”
    â€œ American Oracle. On every Monday. Prime time.” Even though the daylight had faded to the point where shadows were starting to disappear, the girl must have been able to see Mia’s, Homer’s, and Einstein’s puzzled expressions, because she added, “Prime time’s between eight and eleven p.m.” She looked at each of them in turn, settling on Mia, who shrugged apologetically. “Huh, y’all really don’t know who I am, do ya?”
    Homer studied her face. It could be familiar, but it was hard to tell. She had on thick makeup, and her loose, billowing clothing was the same style as the one that hundreds of women who stepped into La Isla Souvenirs had been wearing that year. “Sorry,” he finally said. “I don’t think we do. But,” he added, not wanting to be rude, “we’re not from around here.”
    â€œWell, that shouldn’t matter. American Oracle ’son networkTV. But let’s start at how-ya-do. My name’s Daphne Treme. I’m the Oracle of Pythia Springs.”
    Homer nudged a tent-pole clip with his sneaker. “You tell people their futures? Like a psychic?”
    Daphne shook her head. “It’s more complicated than that. But not so complicated that it doesn’t work for TV. Hey, I’ve got an early day tomorrow. We start shooting American Oracle during the ten a.m. session. Y’all should come watch. In fact”—she glanced at Homer and Einstein’s half-erected tent—“why don’t y’all come crash in my trailer. December in Pythia doesn’t get too bad, but the weather’s mighty unpredictable. It can get down to the thirties some nights.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t want to—” Homer started to say, but Mia