The Ghost of Ben Hargrove by Heather Brewer Page B

many chores, not having my own car, and a C average, at best.”
    She flashed me a look that said she acknowledged what a smart-ass I could be, then held up a stack of tarot cards. The edges of the cards were worn, softened with age and use. She said, “I meant with these.”
    I slipped my thumbs into my front jeans pockets and nodded, keeping a straight face. “Oh cool, the devil’s instruments.”
    With a groan, she led me up onto the porch, where she knelt and then arranged her legs in a crisscross position. When I was in the second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Davis, told us this way of sitting was called crisscross applesauce. Mrs. Davis was obviously stupid.
    The wooden planks that made up the porch were old to the point of dilapidation. It looked like they’d been painted a light-blue color once, but most of that had worn or peeled away with time and neglect. I could still see bits of the color on the edges of the porch, a hint at what a nice home this might have been, once upon a time.
    I sat on my knees facing Cara and she handed me the deck. The cards were warm in my hands. Cara’s warmth. Or maybe the fires of hell. I’d have to check with Martha to be certain. “Shuffle these and then cut them as much as you feel like.”
    I did as instructed, then handed the deck back to her. Our fingers touched briefly, and I could have sworn I felt an electrical charge spark between us. But maybe that was just static. She took three cards from the top of the deck and laid them out side by side in front of her. “These three cards, from left to right, represent your past, your present, and your future. Got it?”
    â€œGot it.” I examined the cards. One looked like the grim reaper. The next looked like some kind of hairy demon. And the third looked like a mass suicide. I wasn’t exactly filled with hope. “I’ll be honest. Things look bleak.”
    Cara shook her head, a light smile dancing on her lips. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”
    Our eyes met, and this time, for a too-brief moment, something definitely passed between us. I wasn’t sure what it was, just that it was .
    After our gaze broke, Cara went back to the cards. “So, in your past you have the Death card. I know it seems freaky, but that’s actually a good position for that card. It means you’ve gone through a wrenching change that involved loss and a helpless inability to do anything about it. Probably your move to Spencer, or maybe your mom staying behind.”
    â€œDoes it mention which box my alarm clock is in? Because I’ve been looking for it.” I had to joke, because the whole thing with my mom and the move was just a bit too fresh for me to face.
    â€œCome on, be serious.” She shoved me playfully before tapping the card in the center. As she moved, I was reminded of her fingers scratching her thigh and had to bite the inside of my cheek just so I could focus on the task at hand. “In your present, you have the Devil.”
    I resisted the urge to ask her how much she knew about goat sacrifices.
    â€œIt’s basically your wake-up call. You’re hooked into something and may not even realize it. It could be the mindset of being a victim, or something like that. Your thought processes and actions are currently holding you back. The Devil card here says that a terrible connection in your life right now is chaining you down from being who you truly are.”
    Who I truly am. Not a gamer. Not a book nerd. Not a history geek. Did this mean the devil was going to help me find out who I was? Looking at the cards and their weird cartoonish drawings, I doubted it.
    â€œWhat’s that? People are . . .” I pointed to the last card. It featured a building on fire. People were diving from the windows in a mad panic, screaming on their way down. Was that my future? I looked at Cara, hoping she’d shrug it off and tell me it was