Cackle(2)

I prefer Sam.

“Here,” she says. She reaches out for a small tea light candle and lifts it up, the yellow flame spasming, the wick decaying. “Make a wish.”

“You’re serious?” I ask her. In this moment, I do regret not going out with Nadia sooner. I bet she’s a good friend. She seems like one of those people who are born knowing exactly who they are. Her entire personality written in the stars, set in concrete.

“Yes,” she says. “Quick! Before it burns out!”

I close my eyes and think.



* * *



—

We leave a collection of glasses sweating on the bar, along with a wad of crumpled bills and enough rinds to generously zest a pie. We stagger out into the June night, the air thick, sticky and sweet as syrup. It’s going to be a hot summer. For the first time, I’m sincerely relieved to be leaving the city. I won’t miss the humidity, thighs sticking to the seats on the subway, everyone grumpy and perspiring, any amount of deodorant rendered inadequate.

Nadia is on a quest for her favorite pizza slice. It’s at some hole-in-the-wall place in the West Village she used to frequent during her “partying days.” If her partying days are behind her, I’m a little curious what they were like, because right now she’s saying hello to strangers in a truly horrendous British accent while somehow balancing on the tallest heels I’ve ever seen. On a cracked asymmetrical sidewalk. While drunk!

This must be a practiced skill.

I scamper behind her, the bumbling sidekick in a pair of practical flats.

“It used to be right here, I swear,” she says as we stand on a side street at the foot of a domestic brownstone. She sighs, and it’s interrupted by a single faint hiccup. We’re far too drunk for this.

“We should call it,” I say.

“It’s ten o’clock,” she says.

I’m assuming by her horrified expression that she thinks ten o’clock is early. I’m of a different opinion. Ten o’clock is bedtime.

“Okay?”

“We’re not giving up on pizza,” she says, and hurries down the block, faster than expected, considering her shoes.

I follow her, breaking into a light jog as she disappears around the corner.

“Nadia?”

She’s hopping up and down, one set of fingers stuffed in her mouth, while another finger points down the street.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“Look!” she squeals. “We’re going.”

I turn my murky drunken gaze in the direction she’s pointing. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on what’s there. A neon sign floating in a glass window. A crystal ball.

“No,” I say.

She seizes my wrist. “We’re getting our palms read.”

“Nope.”

She’s laughing. I’m not quite sure why, but she’s got a fun laugh. It’s loud and melodic.

“Please, please, please! It’s probably extra accurate to get read on your birthday.”

“Accurate,” I repeat. Now I’m laughing. I’m laughing so hard I can barely stand; I’m hunched like a wilting flower, arms limp.

“It’ll be fun,” she says.

“Famous last words.”

“Annie. Puh-leeeeasssse.” In the orangey glow from the streetlamp, her eyes look crazed and inhuman.

“Okay,” I say. “But if this goes poorly, I’ll do nothing about it and suffer in silence.”

“Yay!” she says, clapping and twirling around. The light from the lamp streaks through her black hair, and it looks like lightning threading a dark night sky.

She reaches out for my hand and I give it to her. She swings it back and forth, taking my arm with it. The closer we get, the more I regret agreeing to this. My apprehension quickly mutates into dread. The dread elbows around my chest like a stranger with somewhere to be. By the time we’re standing at the door, engulfed in the neon haze from the crystal ball, I’m certain I do not want to do this. Above the crystal ball, there’s another neon sign, on but barely functioning, sputtering and pale, that reads PSYCHIC.

It’s literally a bad sign.

But it’s too late to object. Nadia is already pushing open the door. A bell chimes somewhere above us.

Thick curls of smoke writhe across the room. It smells of incense and antiques, like basement furniture. The smoke stings my eyes and monopolizes my lungs. I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle a series of awkward coughs.

“Hello, hello,” says a disembodied voice. A woman emerges from behind a velvet curtain. She’s short and covered in scarves. Her hair is in a chaotic bun. She’s older. The deep wrinkles on her forehead remind me of the small, illegible script on historical documents. A constitution or peace treaty.

“Hiiiiii,” Nadia sings. “We’re here for readings.”

“Yes,” the woman says. “Welcome. My name is Atlas.”

She looks more like a Linda to me.

“What kind of readings?” she asks us. “I do a fifteen-minute tarot, half an hour, and a full hour. Ten-minute palm. I could also do birth charts, chakras, numerology.”

“Palm,” Nadia says. She turns to me for my approval.

“Sure,” I say.

“Okay,” Atlas says, smiling at us. She’s got a gold tooth. I wonder if it’s real. “Who’s first?”