I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.

“You know what we need?” she asks.

I don’t like her use of the word we. “What?”

“Tea. We need tea.”

I sigh. “I don’t need tea. I need to go to bed.” Norah pulls herself up. She groans as if her joints are sore, as if they were as old as the blanket around her shoulders. She takes my arm, and I flinch. The warm, comforting feeling of Cricket’s hand disappears and is replaced by hers, clammy and sharp. She leads me into the kitchen, and I’m too worn out to stop her.

Norah pulls out a chair at the table. I sag into it.

“I’ll be right back,” she says. I hear her climb the stairs, followed by the sound of my bedroom door being opened.

Before I can get worked up, my door shuts again. She returns and hands me another pair of eyeglasses.

I’m surprised. “Thanks.”

“What happened to the pair you left in?”

“They got stepped on.”

“Someone stepped on your glasses?” Now she sounds pissed.

“Not on purpose. Jeez.” I scowl. “Are my parents still on their date?”

“I guess. Why should I care?” She fills the copper teakettle with tap water and sets it down with more force than necessary. It shakes the stove.

“You had another fight,” I say.

Norah doesn’t respond, but the manner in which she roots through her cardboard box of tea is resentful and angry. Her box of tea.

“No!” I jump up. “You’re not reading my leaves.”

“Nonsense. This is what you nee—”

“You don’t know a thing about what I really need.” The bitter words spit out before I can stop them.

She freezes. Her hair falls before her face like a shield. And then she tucks it behind her ears as if I didn’t say anything, and she removes something from her box. “Fenghuang dancong oolong. Fenghuang means ‘phoenix.’ This is the one for you.”

“No.”

Norah opens our cabinet of drinking glasses and takes out a pink teacup. I don’t recognize it, so it must be one of hers. My blood fires again.

“You put your cups in our cabinets?”

“Just two.” She pulls out another, the color of jade. “This one is mine.”

“So where’s your crystal ball? Beside the television? Will I find your turban in the laundry room?”

The empty cups rattle against their saucers as she sets them on the table. “You know I hate that crap. A costume doesn’t signify meaning or experience. It’s a lie.”

“And what you do isn’t lying?”

“Sit down,” she says calmly.

“I’ve never let you read my leaves before, so why would I start now?”

Norah thinks for a moment. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“No.” But I say it too quickly. She spots a waver as the back corners of my mind answer differently. Who isn’t the least bit curious? I know fortune- telling is a deception, but my life has become such a struggle that I can’t help but hope for an answer anyway. Maybe the fortune will tell me something about Cricket. Maybe it knows something I don’t, or maybe it will make me think of something I wouldn’t have otherwise realized.

Smugness on her lips. I sit back down but avert my eyes to show how much I dislike being here. The kettle whistles, and Norah scoops a spoonful of tea directly into it. The house creaks quietly while the oolong steeps. The longer we wait, the edgier I become. I almost get up to leave a dozen times, but curiosity has a strong hold on me.

“Drink,” Norah says, when it’s finished. “Leave about half a teaspoon of liquid.”

I sip the tea, because it’s hot. The flavor is light, and it tastes like a peach, but with something darker hidden inside. Like smoke. Norah doesn’t mind the heat. She gulps hers down and pours another cup. I finally reach the bottom. I hold the pink cup close and frown at the brown-green leaves, looking for symbols. It’s all lumped together.

“Now what?”

“Take the cup with your left hand.”

“Is that my magic hand?”

She ignores this, too. “Now turn it three times, counterclockwise—faster than that. Yes, good. Turn it over onto your saucer.”

“Won’t all the leaves run out?”

“Shh. Keep your hand on the bottom of the cup. And close your eyes and take a moment to think about what you’d like to know.”

I feel stupid. THAT is what I think about. And . . . I think about Cricket Bell.

“Turn it back over. Carefully,” she adds. I slow down and right my teacup. The leaves have used the last remaining droplets of liquid to stick to the sides. “I’ll take that now.” She’s silent for many minutes. Her bony hands tilt the cup every which way, to gain different perspectives or perhaps just to see the shapes better in the dimmed kitchen light. “Well.” Norah sets it down and gestures for me to scoot closer. I do. “Do you see this cloud here, close to the handle?”

“Sort of.Yeah.”

“That means you’re in a stage of confusion or trouble. But with me living here, we didn’t need leaves to tell us that. And this triangle down here, that means you possess a natural talent for creativity. But we didn’t need them to know that either.” I’m surprised by her frankness, as well as the rare compliment. I scoot a little closer.

“But do you see these dots, traveling around the edge of the cup?”

I nod.

“A path of dots means a journey. This one will be taken over the course of several months. If it circled all the way back around, it would have been at least a year,” she explains. “But the journey ends here, into this shape. What does that look like to you?”

“Um. A moon, maybe? With a . . . stick coming out of it?”

“How about a cherry?”

“Yeah! I see that.”

“Cherries represent first love. In other words, this path you’re on leads to first love.”

I jolt, and my legs smack the table. The way she doesn’t startle makes me believe she expected this reaction. Does she know how I feel about Cricket? Or, should I say, how I felt about him in the past? She was certainly around, but how much did she observe?

Norah is messing with me.

She pauses. “Why don’t you tell me what shapes you see in the cup?”

I stare into it for several minutes. I look for dogs or shoes or anything recognizable, but all I see are wet leaves. My eyes keep returning to the cherry. I set the cup down. “I don’t know.

There’s a pile of sticks on that side. And a curlicue thing.”

“Okay. The loop is near the rim, so that means you’ve been making—or you’ll soon be making—impulsive actions.”

“Good or bad?” I quickly ask.

She shrugs. “Could be either, but are things done on impulse ever really a good idea?”

“Is that something your therapist told you?” I snap.

Norah’s tone darkens. “And see how the sticks are crossed, all on top of each other? That suggests a series of arguments. It usually leads to a parting.” Her voice is short.

“A parting.” I stand. “Yes, thank you. This was very educational.”

Arguments, partings, impulses. Clouds of confusion. I thought fortunes were supposed to make people feel BETTER about their lives. I thought that’s why people paid money to hear them. And a journey to first love? Just because Max insulted her doesn’t mean she has to steer me into the arms of another guy.

Though it did look like a cherry.

I don’t know why I’m giving any of this crap my consideration.

Norah thinks my costumes are lies, that they lack meaning? She should look in the mirror. Her entire livelihood—what’s left of it—lacks meaning. I’m steaming as I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I turn off my lights just as a light behind my curtains flicks on.

So he’s staying the night.

Has he been talking to Calliope? I wonder if he’ll be able to complete his project for school, whatever it is. Probably not. I toss in my bedcovers, unable to sleep from the guilt over Cricket, from the caffeine in the tea, from that stupid freaking cherry. Maybe cherries don’t mean first love. Maybe they mean the person you lose your virginity to. It would make more sense, and in that case, my path leads to Max.

Which means I’m on the right path?

I hear his window slide open.

And then . . . nothing more.

I don’t know why, but I think he’ll call my name. He doesn’t. I grab my glasses and creep out of bed. I peer through the darkness. Cricket is looking up, staring at the sky. I watch him silently. He doesn’t move. I reach for my curtain, that impulse I can’t control, and open my window. “Hi,” I say.

He looks directly at me. His eyes are deepened as if he’s still staring at the stars.

“Is everything okay with your sister?”

Cricket nods slowly. “She’ll survive.”

“I’m sorry about your project.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Will you get to make it up?”

“Maybe.”

“Do . . . do you want those illustrations?”

A small smile. “Sure.”

“Okay. Hold on.” I dig through the piles on my floor until I find the binder of pictures printed from the internet and photocopies xeroxed from books —all of the inspiration for my dress that I’ve collected since I met Max at the beginning of summer. I return to my window, and Cricket is sitting in his, just like the first time I saw him again. At the end of summer. “Should I toss it to you?” I glance at Andy’s compost pile below.

A split second of thought and he says, “I’ll be right back.” He disappears, leaving me to observe his room. It’s still bare, but traces of him have begun to appear—a science magazine by his bed, a pile of tangled rubber bands on his dresser, a half-filled juice glass on his desk, an unusual coat hanging on the back of his desk chair. Cricket returns a minute later with a broom and a metal basket of fruit. He removes the fruit, one by one, and sets them on his dresser. I’m terrified he’ll pull out a cherry.

He doesn’t.

He places the empty basket on the wooden broom handle, raises the end, and the basket slides down to his hand. Cricket leans out his window and stretches out the broom handle. His arms are long enough that it reaches me with room to spare.

“Ready?”

I prepare for the catch. “Aye, Captain.”

He tilts the broom, and the basket flies down the stick and into my arms. I laugh in delight. “You know, I really could have thrown it.”

“Wouldn’t want to take the chance. I might have missed it.”

“You never miss a catch.” I tuck the binder inside the basket.

“It’s kinda heavy.”

“I’ve got it.” Cricket holds the broom steady and up at an angle.

I stretch on my toes to slide the basket’s handle onto the broom.

I drop it. The weight lowers the broom, but he raises it in just enough time to send the basket flying back to him. “HA!” His belt buckle clicks against the window frame as he moves his body back inside, and I’m startled to recognize it. It’s the same belt he’s had for years—black, cracked leather. He pulls down his shirt, which has come up a bit. His torso is so long that shirts are always a little short on him. Another detail I’d forgotten.