bag on the carpet. She flipped past pictures of Uri Geller, misshapen spoons, fallen-over bookcases, and a half-burned teddy bear.
“See this girl?” she said.
I looked at the page she’d found for me. On it, an older girl in ripped jeans was seated on a recliner, against a dark-wood-paneled living-room wall. There was a surprised expression on her face, and a telephone receiver was leaping across her lap.
“Yeah?”
“She had a poltergeist. She was fourteen.”
“That picture looks fake,” I said, twisting away from Charlotte.
“Explain how she could have faked that.”
I ignored the question and heard Charlotte flipping pages.
“Psychokinetic phenomena,” Charlotte explained. “It happens a lot around girls in the early stages of puberty.”
I couldn’t tell if she was reading or stringing together a bunch of memorized phrases. Either way, I didn’t understand what she’d said. But I could feel tears of embarrassment forming in my eyes, mortified that she’d just used the word “puberty.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Charlotte asked.
“No!” I said, letting a hot tear fall off the bridge of my nose and onto my pillow.
“Have you ever seen Carrie ?”
“No.” I sniffled.
I knew what she was talking about, though. I’d seen the movie box in the video store, with its picture of that bony, bug-eyed girl covered in blood and surrounded by fire. If Charlotte made me watch that someday, it would surely be even worse than Jaws.
“Ever have funny things happening at your house, Nora? Lights flickering or things falling down without anyone touching them?”
“No,” I said, wiping my eyes quickly before sitting up. “No, I don’t have a poltergeist. Now, let’s just shut up about it.”
“But you have some telepathic powers,” she said.
I was too embarrassed already to argue with that statement.
“That’s not the same thing,” I said.
“But these things are all connected. People who have telepathy often have telekinetic powers and, if they’re lucky, clairvoyance and even precognition.”
“Nice big words, Charlotte.”
“I’m just saying they’re all connected.”
“So maybe I’ll get a poltergeist?”
“No. I don’t know. I understand now, though. That’s why you did so much better than me. On the Zener cards.”
I stared at Charlotte. I was frustrated with her in a way that I didn’t recognize. Not like the anger we had toward each other in third grade, when we’d fight over who cheated at spit or who jumped farther off the swing or who’d bought purple jeans first and therefore who was copying whom. I was angry at her for thinking—and making everyone think—that she was smarter than me, when she was actually incredibly stupid. Too stupid to understand what was so scary about the movies she liked to watch. Too stupid to see I didn’t want to talk about puberty.
“You’re developing, ” Charlotte said.
My cheeks burned furiously at this second uncomfortable word—“develop.” It was as bad as “puberty.” God, Charlotte was a moron.
“It might be hard to believe, but it’s true,” Charlotte continued, mistaking my wide-eyed expression for wonderment. “Your psychic powers are probably developing right now, and who knows how strong they’ll get?”
I was quiet for a long time.
“Maybe soon,” I said, “yours will develop, too.”
Charlotte looked wistfully at the girl with the jumping telephone. “I don’t think so,” she said softly.
“Why not?”
“Because what are the chances of two girls on the same street being gifted psychics?”
I recoiled at the word “gifted.” She probably got it from school—TAG, the Talented And Gifted program she’d recently begun based on some testing we’d had the previous year. I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t turned out to be gifted, but I hadn’t expected Charlotte to be either.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Charlotte closed the book, put it back in her closet,
“See this girl?” she said.
I looked at the page she’d found for me. On it, an older girl in ripped jeans was seated on a recliner, against a dark-wood-paneled living-room wall. There was a surprised expression on her face, and a telephone receiver was leaping across her lap.
“Yeah?”
“She had a poltergeist. She was fourteen.”
“That picture looks fake,” I said, twisting away from Charlotte.
“Explain how she could have faked that.”
I ignored the question and heard Charlotte flipping pages.
“Psychokinetic phenomena,” Charlotte explained. “It happens a lot around girls in the early stages of puberty.”
I couldn’t tell if she was reading or stringing together a bunch of memorized phrases. Either way, I didn’t understand what she’d said. But I could feel tears of embarrassment forming in my eyes, mortified that she’d just used the word “puberty.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Charlotte asked.
“No!” I said, letting a hot tear fall off the bridge of my nose and onto my pillow.
“Have you ever seen Carrie ?”
“No.” I sniffled.
I knew what she was talking about, though. I’d seen the movie box in the video store, with its picture of that bony, bug-eyed girl covered in blood and surrounded by fire. If Charlotte made me watch that someday, it would surely be even worse than Jaws.
“Ever have funny things happening at your house, Nora? Lights flickering or things falling down without anyone touching them?”
“No,” I said, wiping my eyes quickly before sitting up. “No, I don’t have a poltergeist. Now, let’s just shut up about it.”
“But you have some telepathic powers,” she said.
I was too embarrassed already to argue with that statement.
“That’s not the same thing,” I said.
“But these things are all connected. People who have telepathy often have telekinetic powers and, if they’re lucky, clairvoyance and even precognition.”
“Nice big words, Charlotte.”
“I’m just saying they’re all connected.”
“So maybe I’ll get a poltergeist?”
“No. I don’t know. I understand now, though. That’s why you did so much better than me. On the Zener cards.”
I stared at Charlotte. I was frustrated with her in a way that I didn’t recognize. Not like the anger we had toward each other in third grade, when we’d fight over who cheated at spit or who jumped farther off the swing or who’d bought purple jeans first and therefore who was copying whom. I was angry at her for thinking—and making everyone think—that she was smarter than me, when she was actually incredibly stupid. Too stupid to understand what was so scary about the movies she liked to watch. Too stupid to see I didn’t want to talk about puberty.
“You’re developing, ” Charlotte said.
My cheeks burned furiously at this second uncomfortable word—“develop.” It was as bad as “puberty.” God, Charlotte was a moron.
“It might be hard to believe, but it’s true,” Charlotte continued, mistaking my wide-eyed expression for wonderment. “Your psychic powers are probably developing right now, and who knows how strong they’ll get?”
I was quiet for a long time.
“Maybe soon,” I said, “yours will develop, too.”
Charlotte looked wistfully at the girl with the jumping telephone. “I don’t think so,” she said softly.
“Why not?”
“Because what are the chances of two girls on the same street being gifted psychics?”
I recoiled at the word “gifted.” She probably got it from school—TAG, the Talented And Gifted program she’d recently begun based on some testing we’d had the previous year. I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t turned out to be gifted, but I hadn’t expected Charlotte to be either.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Charlotte closed the book, put it back in her closet,
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