Page 4 of No Ordinary Girl
I’ve been helping at my mother’s coffee shop since I was thirteen. I’m sure there’s some kind of child labor law against that, but I’ve always loved it there. Through the years, I’ve learned to zone out most of the people coming in and out. It would be mentally exhausting if I didn’t. For me, being around people can be draining.
My abilities are both a blessing and a curse. I’ve had them for as long as I can remember, and when I was a kid, I couldn’t quite handle them. People’s thoughts and emotions would wash over me like a tidal wave; their fears and troubles would pull at me, draw me in different directions. They were all screaming for help. I suffered from splitting headaches, a constant ringing in my ears, temper tantrums and full-on breakdowns. I ended up in the children’s psychiatric ward more times than I can count. I saw a child psychologist for years. I was diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder, but both my parents and I knew there was more to it. I needed to learn to control my powers, get a handle on the thoughts and visions. Over the years, I’ve learned to push back the sudden visions, the images and words jumbling my mind.
This is why I zoned her out. This is why I didn’t help her at first.
She ordered a Chai latte. A dark aura hovered above her, and I wanted to help her, but the old me who’d been running away from people forever decided to walk away. I offered a smile and chose one of our cheeriest mugs. My mom’s café is quite eclectic – there’s a wide selection of coffee mugs which she’s been collecting for years; cats, flowers, smiley faces, and the list goes on. One of my favorites is the Paris mug with the Eiffel tower handle. That’s the one I chose for her that day. And being the fabulous barista I am, I drew an Eiffel tower design at the top of her latte, as if I could somehow transport her there and take her away from all her troubles.
When I handed her the change, I touched her hand and held her gaze for a bit longer than necessary – I wanted to read her. Part of me still wanted to help. Her aura was so dark; the color of a dark stormy sky, the kind of sky that screams:Run home now!She was completely overwhelmed with negative emotions, and her thoughts were a scattered mess. I saw a toddler; a beautiful little girl with big brown eyes and curls. I also saw a middle-aged woman passed out on a sofa, a tired silver-haired man, and a boy on a motorcycle. I wanted to see more but I didn’t have her in my grasp long enough. I couldn’t exactly see what she was planning, but I knew she desperately needed help.
She barely touched her latte and was drawing furiously in her notebook. When I came by to wipe her table (which was already spotless), I saw her illustration. She had a drawn a girl standing on the edge of a waterfall, gazing down at the water below. The drawing was quite detailed and exquisitely rendered. I was practically transported there. I could see it all so clearly; the waterfall beneath her feet, the trees and the small bridge in the background.
Just after she left, I closed up shop early. I ran straight home and told my mother about her. Then we headed straight to the police, but as expected, they thought I was just a crazy teenager. They probably thought I was on drugs. I tried to make them understand, but they pushed me away and sent me home.
When I saw her face on the news a day later and heard that she had disappeared, I crumpled. I knew that I had let her down.
I went back to the police station, but they pushed me away again. It was when I spotted the tired silver-haired man, the one I had seen in Calista’s mind, that I got a chance to properly tell my story. He was a desperate man, and he took the time to let me tell him what I knew, despite the unkempt woman who stood by him, and kept telling him I was a kook. I assumed it was Calista’s mother. She was the one I had seen in my vision, the one passed out on the sofa.
“C’mon, Anita,” he pleaded with her. “Let’s give the girl a try. She says she knows Calista.”
Anita slurred her next words. “Fine… if-if you think this cra-crazy girl can help,” and then she swayed like a weed in the wind, and toppled down on one of the hard plastic chairs.
I told him I knew Calista from the café. I explained that she came in often, and told him that we had been friends. Obviously, I lied. It was the only way to be taken seriously. I’ve learned over the years that people don’t generally listen to you if they think you’re crazy. I told him everything I knew. I still didn’t know who the toddler was, or who the boy on the motorcycle was, but I spoke of them. He didn’t seem to know anything about a boyfriend, but he told me that he did have a small daughter. I told him all about the illustration, and even tried my best to replicate it. Although I’m nowhere near as talented as Calista, thankfully I’m a decent artist. And finally, I told him about Calista’s suicidal thoughts. “It was her in the illustration,” I insisted. “She was drawing herself.”
He instantly recognized the waterfall in my drawing. It was a place close to both their hearts, a spot where the family used to go camping when Calista was small, during happier times.
The search and rescue team and her father found her there, standing at the edge of the waterfall; a real-life re-enactment of her illustration. They got there just in time, and her father was able to talk her down and bring her back into his arms.
Our story made news around the world – the illustrations that led the detectives to the girl, and the strange girl who knew of a suicide before it even happened. A strange girl who said she had been a friend, but as it turned out, really didn’t know Calista Summers at all.
I devoured all the news stories. I became obsessed with Calista. I stalked her on the Internet, typing her name feverishly in the Google search box, eager to learn more.
On top all the news stories, I found a single article.
Young artist wows crowd at the Varley Art Gallery with her beautiful ink and watercolor paintings.
She had had a small showing there two years before. The article featured three of her works; local scenery; a lone man standing by a light post, a boy playing by the water, and two children walking hand in hand at the park – they were all stunning. And she’d only been sixteen at the time, according to the article.
There was also a smiling photo of her. I’d never seen her smile before – it was beautiful. She was happy. What had happened between then and now? What had torn her world apart?
I needed to know.
3
The interview was a highly anticipated event.
We’d been talking about it all week, going over the details of what I should and shouldn’t do and say. My mom had done extensive research (a.k.a. Googling fests going late into the night), and she was even more excited than I was. Actually, I was more terrified than excited. My mother liked the idea of me finally meeting kids who were like me, who understood me. And my dad liked the idea of me finally being able to use my ‘gift’, as he likes to call it, and not be made out to be a freak.
My mother was scrubbing the kitchen counter to a gleam. “Everything needs to be perfect,” she said, breathless. This was weird – my mom usually couldn’t give a rat’s rear about how the house looks. It’s typically an eclectic mess; a beautiful disaster; books, art projects, toys, the home of a busy family.
And now it looked strange, all tidy and adult-like. “Thanks so much for helping me clean the house,” she said, a smile curving her lip. “I know I ask a lot from you, and I want you to know I appreciate everything you do.”
I nodded hesitantly, and reached into the fridge for a glass of juice. “No problem.”
Oh my God, what will she do without me if I ace this interview, and go away to this fancy freak school?
“Are you chewing gum?” she asked. “You can’t be chewing gum. They could be here any minute.”
I spat out my gum obediently, and threw it in the garbage.
