Psychic Junkie Read Online Free PDF Page B

around each corner so he can run into me! I’m a freak!
    But no. It was real. It had happened. I was once again brokenhearted—and, sadly, that made perfect sense. To add to the fun, the ex-Brat-Packer and I had a blowout, an argument ill-timed, as it was during a scene where I was gagged, hysterically crying, and tied to a bed while she threatened to kill me with a knife. When she stormed off the set, everyone went after her, forgetting all about me as I continued to bawl and writhe in my ropes. After that, things between us were never the same.
    I was miserable. My driver Karen saw it all unfold and tried to help. Knowing I had several days off with nothing to do but hide in my hotel room—curled into a fetal position and weeping—she’d made plans to introduce me to her friend Aurelia.
    “You have nothing else to do.”
    My head was against the window. Everywhere I went I perfected a posture of defeat. “Yes, I do.”
    “You’re not spending three days crying.”
    “I like crying.”
    “But you’ll have fun with Aurelia. And guess what?” She smiled. “She’s a psychic.”
    The way she said the word “psychic” was the way an adult says “ice cream” to a child who’s about to have her tonsils ripped out. And it worked. I lifted my head from the window. Never before had I been to a real psychic. “She’s a psychic?” I asked.
    Like I said, it was the beginning of the end.
     
    Frankly, I was disappointed when I met Aurelia. Karen had told me Aurelia was Hungarian, and I just knew she’d be my gypsy psychic; would open the door in a swirl of exotic smoke, jasmine, and patchouli; dressed in bright colors and flowing scarves and mystery; her voice deep and thick with an accent that would scare children. Instead, not only did she not have an accent, but she also had one of the smoothest, silkiest voices I’d ever heard. The girl could’ve made a fortune in radio. And scarves? Mystery? Nope. What she had was jeans, a sweatshirt from the Gap, and long blond hair swept up in a tight ponytail. For all intents and purposes she looked as though she’d just escaped from a local sorority. This was my gypsy psychic?
    I’d also—and this is somewhat embarrassing to admit, but it appears I’ve lost all pride—harbored a secret fantasy that she’d take one look at me and gasp at the bright future she immediately saw. Yes, I’d had visions of her opening the door and being overcome by images of my success in a way that normally never happened to her.
    “This,” I imagined her gravelly voice saying as her kohl-lined eyes widened, “normally never happens to me. Usually I need to read cards to see the future, but with you I see it so clearly! It exudes from you! You will be a famous actress! Like Julia Roberts famous! People will give you free clothing and makeup. Success! I see it all! This is very exciting for me, that one day I can say I read your cards. Would you mind signing those napkins over there? I also see myself selling your autograph for a lot of money.”
    I know it’s ridiculous, but I did hope for something like that when she opened the door. Just a fraction of it, maybe. So again, I was slightly disappointed when she simply introduced herself and asked me if I wanted a Coke. Though, actually, I did want a Coke.
    As Aurelia fixed my drink, I took the opportunity to inspect her kitchen. It was a discerningly decorated room, save for the avocado-colored appliances, which immediately told me she was renting and the landlord was cheap. But other than the hideous green remnants of the 1970s, everything was cheerful and reassuring. White cotton curtains on the windows, colorful mixing bowls stacked on the counter, pot holders with smiling pigs, and something that must’ve been a pantry covered by a long red gingham curtain. Always into things I shouldn’t be, I was immediately drawn to the secret room.
    “Oh!” Aurelia gasped as I pulled the curtain aside.
    I didn’t know what to say.