Spiky choker. I dig that." But the girl in front of me, dark-haired, gray-eyed, no makeup, with a blue V-neck, wasn't a goth chick. The girl that was shimmering out of James' consciousness was me.
I looked away from his eyes, at the floor, and the image vanished. "She sounds interesting."
Okay. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I was just imagining myself floating mysteriously in the air on a cosmic television screen. But I didn't think so. I think I read his mind.
Oh man.
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This was about one thousand times harder to swallow than being able to move spoons.
The more I thought about it, the more I couldn't seem to wrap my brain around it. I could avoid moving spoons. I couldn't very well avoid looking into someone's eyes for the rest of my life. I didn't want this.
"Deirdre!" I focused on James again. "He asked what you wanted to drink."
The pimply waiter stood by the table, and I tried to look at him without looking at his eyes.
"Sorry," James jumped in. "My friend here was attacked by my mother's ill-tempered Bichon Frise earlier today and I'm afraid she's in a bit of shock. Could you get her some sweet tea?
Better bring her some fries, too."
The waiter fled. I stared at the table.
"What is wrong with you? You're completely spaced out." James reached across the table and knocked my chin up with his finger. "Is this about the killer cat or the goth chick?"
I sighed miserably. "I didn't want normal until I didn't have it anymore."
At that, he smiled. "Dee, you were never normal."
His answer was too easy, like some inspirational poster. "I was never this not normal. I'm a total freak and freak-magnet, now."
"Dee, moving clover and being hunted by evil fey doesn't change who you are. It's like learning to play a musical instrument. It's just something you do. And the evil fey--well, they're kinda like stalker-groupies. You're still
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the same you underneath, no matter how big the spoons are that you learn to move or how wildly the groupies are rocking the van as you drive away. The only thing that can change you during all this is you."
I frowned at him, careful not to study his eyes too closely. "When did you get so smart?"
He tapped his forehead. "Brain transplant. They put in a whale's. I'm passing all my classes with my eyes closed now, but I just can't get over this craving for krill." He shrugged. "And I feel sorry for the whale that got my brain. Probably swimming around Florida now trying to catch glimpses of girls in bikinis."
I laughed. It was impossible to talk about anything serious with James, but it was impossible to be upset, too. I think I probably took him for granted. "Why do you believe me?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because it's crazy."
James' eyes darkened, and for a second I thought I saw something more to good old safe James.
"Maybe I'm crazy as well."
***
By the time James dropped me off, it was nearly dark. Granna hadn't come by the house yet, or if she had, Mom didn't mention it. I wondered how long Granna's green muck would take to prepare. And where she'd learned to make it. I escaped from Mom's grip before she could question
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me too closely and put on a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the chew marks. As I walked back into the twilight kitchen, Mom looked up from one of the bar stools. She pushed a mug of hot cocoa across the island toward me. A white flag. I accepted it without hesitation. For starters, I'd forgotten how she'd left me at the church; also, her made-from-scratch cocoa covered a multitude of sins.
She looked into the steam of her cocoa as it swirled upward, looking young and pretty in the dim ochre light of the kitchen. Knowing Mom, she probably painted the walls ochre for just that reason. "Did your gig go well?"
So it was to be the cozy approach.
"Very well. Granna and I had a good time together. She--" I stopped, realizing that Granna had asked me not to tell Mom she was coming. "She has my dress at her house. I accidentally got some soda on it and she's going to clean it."
"And James got you some dinner?"
I took a sip of the cocoa. Dark chocolate sludge slid down my throat and for a moment I forgot what the question was. Mom had to repeat it. I took another sip. There was a hint of orange in there. "At the Sticky Pig."
"I'd rather you spend time with James than Luke."
I frowned, but didn't look up. It was one thousand times easier to cross Mom when you didn't look at her. "Why?"
"For one thing, I know James. I know his family. I know you're all right when you're with him."
"I'm all right when I'm with Luke." I thought of him sliding the dagger silently into the cat's jaw, sticking a blade through its brain without a second's hesitation.
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"He's too old for you. And he doesn't go to your school." The last sentence was a bit indecisive.
She was guessing.
I looked up, right at her. Her weakness lay in her indecision. I wondered how many times I'd had an opening in a discussion like this and missed it because I was too complacent.
"You're right. He's only here for the summer, and he's a senior. I know he's a little old. But I'm not doing anything stupid. And he's a gentleman. Is there anything wrong with that?"
Mom blinked. I don't think she knew what to do. Had I ever rationally contradicted her before?
Ever? She drank her cocoa, still young and pretty, but now with a glaring chink in her armor.
I could have waited for her to say something, but I didn't. I pressed home my victory. "And I have my cell
