The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney by Suzanne Harper Page B

Grandma Bee, but Mrs. Winkle had a strange look in her eye that made me uneasy. This was not the cheerful, ditzy Mrs. Winkle I had always known. This was a seer, a prophet, a woman who could see into the future and predict all kinds of strange and wonderful and dire outcomes. The fact that her frizzy gray hair was held back by tarnished bobby pins or that I could see a dab of toothpaste at the corner of her mouth did not lessen her authority as she stared intensely into my eyes.
    â€œI see a young man,” she intoned. “He is pointing down a road.”
    Mrs. Winkle looked past me, narrowing her eyes as if to bring the vision into greater focus.
    â€œHe is watching out for you.”
    I blinked.
    â€œHmm. You don’t want to take the path he is showing you, but he wants you to know that you should not be afraid.”
    A little thrill of dread ran down my spine.
    Then Mrs. Winkle blinked distractedly several times, as if she had just come out of a trance and needed a moment to readjust to the ordinary world. She smiled sunnily at me, as if nothing had happened.
    â€œYou see, dear, there’s no need to worry. You’ll have help with whatever the future holds. Well, we all do, don’t we?” she said. “Now, I’d better get back to work! Have a nice day, dear.” She nodded coolly to my grandmother. “Bee.”
    She waved merrily and floated back to her own backyard.
    â€œThat was so strange. What do you think it meant?” I asked my grandmother. My mind went back to what she had been saying before Mrs. Winkle came over. “And why is fifteen a tricky age? And what do you mean, for someone like me?”
    Grandma Bee cast a disdainful look at Mrs. Winkle’s garden and muttered, “Fairies!” in a tone of utter scorn. “That woman is a complete noodle.”
    â€œGrandma Bee!”
    She turned her attention back to me. “Yes?” she asked, the picture of innocence.
    â€œWhy is fifteen such a tricky age?”
    â€œI’m so glad you asked,” she said smugly. “Most mediums have realized their talent by the time they’re sixteen. So, someone like you, who hasn’t shown any signs of psychic talent whatsoever—” She pursed her lips, as if daring me to contradict this statement.
    â€œRight,” I said tensely. “Not one iota.”
    â€œMmm. Well, either you are supremely untalented, in which case this year will be one of waiting with less and less hope as the months go by, or you are simply repressing your gifts, in which case this year will be one of upheaval and tumult and disorder and confusion, as all that spiritual energy comes to a boil and then”—she flung her arms wide—“bursts out into the waiting universe!”
    This dramatic gesture was ruined only slightly by the fact that one arm had become tangled in the netting that hung over her shoulders, which then pulled the beekeeper’s helmet off her head. She picked it up, dusted it off, and settled it back on her head with aplomb, despite the twigs and leaves caught in the veil.
    â€œYou make me sound like a volcano,” I said, feeling even more uneasy.
    â€œWell, according to you, you have nothing to worry about.” Grandma Bee pointed to the Sadly Missed. “Now would you mind brushing those maple leaves away? Poor dear Johnny always had such terrible allergies in the fall.”

Chapter 6
    I went inside and tossed the bills on the kitchen table. My mother was sitting there, sipping a cup of tea and talking to the ghost of Mr. Tillman, a local farmer who had Crossed Over in April.
    â€œI don’t think you have to worry anymore about Eddie,” she was saying calmly. “I was at Rita’s house just the other day, and he’s doing fine. Back to eating table scraps and running all over the lawn.”
    I carefully didn’t look in his direction. “Mr. Tillman?” I mouthed at my mother. She nodded