“Latin on that side,” Gansey observed. He turned it. “Greek here. What’s that — Sanskrit, I think. Is this Coptic?”
Ronan said, “Who the hell knows what Coptic looks like?”
“You, apparently. I’m pretty sure that’s what this is. And this side with the wheels is us. Well, our alphabet, anyway, and it’s set to English words. But what is this side? The rest of these are dead languages, but I don’t recognize this one.”
“Look,” Ronan said, pushing to his feet. “You’re overcomplicating this.” Stalking to Gansey, he took the box. He spun a few of the wheels on the English side, and at once buttons on the other sides began to move and shift. Something about their progress was illogical.
“That hurts my head,” Gansey said.
Ronan showed the English side to him. The letters read tree. He flipped it to the Latin side. The letters had shifted to read bratus. Then round to the Greek side. .
“So, it’s translated the English into all those other languages. That’s ‘tree’ in all those. I still don’t know what language this is. T’ire? That doesn’t sound like …” Gansey broke off, his knowledge of perished linguistic oddities exhausted. “God, I’m tired.”
“So sleep.”
Gansey gave him a look. It was a look that asked how Ronan, of all people, could be so stupid to think that sleep was just a thing that could be so easily acquired.
Ronan said, “So let’s drive to the Barns.”
Gansey gave him another look. It was a look that asked how Ronan, of all people, could be so stupid as to think that Gansey would agree to something so illegal on so little sleep.
Ronan said, “So let’s go get some orange juice.”
Gansey considered. He looked to where his keys sat on the desk beside his mint plant. The clock beside it, a repellently ugly vintage number Gansey had found lying by a bin at the dump, said 3:32.
Gansey said, “Okay.”
They went and got some orange juice.
You are an unbelievable phone tramp,” Blue said.
Orla, unoffended, replied, “You’re just jealous that this isn’t your job.”
“I am not.” Sitting on the floor of her mother’s kitchen, Blue glared up at her older cousin as she tied her shoe. Orla towered over her in a shirt, stunning both for its skintight fit and its paisley print. The flare of her bell-bottoms was capacious enough to hide small animals in. She waved the phone above Blue in a hypnotic figure eight.
The phone in question was the psychic hotline that operated out of the second floor of 300 Fox Way. For a dollar a minute, customers received a gentle probing of their archetypes — a slightly more than gentle probing if Orla answered — and a host of tactful suggestions for how to improve their fates. Everyone in the house took turns answering it. Everyone, as Orla was pointing out, but Blue.
Blue’s summer job required absolutely no extrasensory perception. In fact, working at Nino’s would have probably been unbearable if she’d possessed any more than five senses. Blue generally had a policy of not doing things she despised, but she despised working at Nino’s and had yet to quit. Or to get fired, for that matter. Waitressing required patience, a fixed and convincing smile, and the ability to continuously turn the other cheek while keeping diet sodas topped up. Blue possessed only one of these attributes at any given time, and it was never the one she needed. It didn’t help that Nino’s clientele was mostly Aglionby boys, who often thought rudeness was a louder sort of flirting.
The problem was that it paid well.
“Oh, please,” Orla said. “Everyone knows that’s why you’re so irritable.”
Blue stood up to face her cousin. Apart from her large nose, Orla was beautiful. She had long brown hair crowned with an embroidered headband, a long face pierced by a nose stud, and a long body made longer by platform wedges. Even when standing, Blue — barely five feet tall — only came to Orla’s deeply brown throat.
“I don’t care about being psychic or not.” Which was partially true. Blue didn’t envy Orla’s clairvoyance. She did envy her ability to be different without even trying. Blue had to try. A lot.
Again with the waving of the phone. “Don’t lie to me, Blue. I can read your mind.”
“You cannot,” Blue replied tersely, scraping her button-covered wallet from the counter. Just because she wasn’t psychic didn’t mean she was clueless on the process. She glanced at the oven clock. Almost late. Practically late. Barely on time. “Unlike some people, my sense of self-worth isn’t tied into my occupation.”
“Ooooooooh,” Orla crowed, galloping down the hall, stork-like. She traded her Henrietta accent for a gloriously snotty version of Old South. “Someone’s been hanging out with Richard Campbell Gansey the third too much. ‘My sense of self-worth isn’t tied into my occupation.’” This last bit was said with the most exaggerated rendition of Gansey’s accent possible. She sounded like a drunk Robert E. Lee.
Blue reached past Orla for the door. “Is this about me calling you a phone tramp? I don’t take it back. No one needs to hear their future in that voice you do. Mom, make Orla go away. I have to go.”
From her perch in the reading room, Maura looked up. She was a slightly taller version of her daughter, her features amused where Blue’s were keen. “Are you going to Nino’s? Come take a card.”
Despite her lateness, Blue was unable to resist. It’ll only be a moment. Ever since she was small, she’d loved the ritual of a single card reading. Unlike the elaborate Celtic cross tarot spreads her mother usually did for her clients, the single card reading she did for Blue was playful, fond, and brief. It wasn’t so much a clairvoyant experience as a thirty-second bedtime story where Blue was always the hero.
Blue joined her mother, her spiky reflection dimly visible in the table’s dull sheen. Not looking up from her tarot cards, Maura gave Blue’s hand an affectionate shake and flipped over a card at random. “Ah, there you are.”
It was the page of cups, the card Maura always said reminded her of Blue. In this deck, the art was of a fresh-faced young person holding a jewel-studded goblet. The suit of cups represented relationships — love and friendship — and the page stood for new and budding possibilities. This particular bedtime story was one Blue had heard too many times before. She could anticipate exactly what her mother was going to say next: Look at all the potential she holds inside her!
Blue cut her off. “When does the potential start being a real thing?”
“Ah, Blue.”
“Don’t ‘ah, Blue’ me.” Blue released her mother’s hand. “I just want to know when it stops being potential and starts being something more.”
Maura briskly shuffled the card back into her deck. “Do you want the answer you’re going to like, or the real one?”
Blue harrumphed. There was only one answer she ever wanted.
“Maybe you’re already something more. You make other psychics so powerful just by being there. Maybe the potential you bring out in other people is your something more.”
Blue had known her entire life that she was a rarity. And it was nice to be useful. But it wasn’t enough. It was not, her soul thought, something more.