Jennifer Barnes - The Naturals

Youve chosen and chosen well. Maybe this one will be the one who stops you. Maybe shell be different. Maybe shell be enough.

The only thing that is certain is that shes special.

You think its her eyesnot the color: an icy, see-through blue. Not the lashes, or the shape, or the way she doesnt need eyeliner to give them the appearance of a cats.

No, its whats behind those icy blues that brings the audience out in droves. You feel it, every time you look at her. The certainty. The knowing. That otherworldly glint she uses to convince people that shes the real deal.

Maybe she is.

Maybe she really can see things. Maybe she knows things.

Maybe shes everything she claims to be and more. But watching her, counting her breaths, you smile, because deep down, you know that she isnt going to stop you.

You dont really want her to stop you.

Shes fragile.

Perfect.

Marked.

And the one thing this so-called psychic wont see coming is you.

The hours were bad. The tips were worse, and the majority of my coworkers definitely left something to be desired, but cest la vie, que sera sera, insert foreign language clich of your choice here. It was a summer job, and that kept Nonna off my back. It also prevented my various aunts, uncles, and kitchen-sink cousins from feeling like they had to offer me temporary employment in their restaurant/butcher shop/legal practice/boutique. Given the size of my fathers very large, very extended (and very Italian) family, the possibilities were endless, but it was always a variation on the same theme.

My dad lived half a world away. My mother was missing, presumed dead. I was everyones problem and nobodys.

Teenager, presumed troubled.

Order up!

With practiced ease, I grabbed a plate of pancakes (side of bacon) with my left hand and a two-handed breakfast burrito (jalapeos on the side) with my right. If the SATs didnt go well in the fall, I had a real future ahead of me in the crappy diner industry.

Pancakes with a side of bacon. Breakfast burrito, jalapeos on the side. I slid the plates onto the table. Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?

Before either of them opened their mouths, I knew exactly what these two were going to say. The guy on the left was going to ask for extra butter. And the guy on the right? He was going to need another glass of water before he could even think about those jalapeos.

Ten-to-one odds, he didnt even like them.

Guys who actually liked jalapeos didnt order them on the side. Mr. Breakfast Burrito just didnt want people to think he was a wussonly the word he would have used wasnt wuss.

Whoa there, Cassie, I told myself sternly. Lets keep it PG.

As a general rule, I didnt curse much, but I had a bad habit of picking up on other peoples quirks. Put me in a room with a bunch of English people, and Id walk out with a British accent. It wasnt intentionalId just spent a lot of time over the years getting inside other peoples heads.

Occupational hazard. Not mine. My mothers.

Could I get a few more of these butter packets? the guy on the left asked.

I noddedand waited.

More water, the guy on the right grunted. He puffed out his chest and ogled my boobs.

I forced a smile. Ill be right back with that water. I managed to keep from adding pervert to the end of that sentence, but only just.

I was still holding out hope that a guy in his late twenties who pretended to like spicy food and made a point of staring at his teenage waitresss chest like he was training for the Ogling Olympics might be equally showy when it came to leaving tips.

Then again, I thought as I went for refills, he might turn out to be the kind of guy who stiffs the little bitty waitress just to prove he can.

Absentmindedly, I turned the details of the situation over in my mind: the way that Mr. Breakfast Burrito was dressed; his likely occupation; the fact that his friend, whod ordered the pancakes, was wearing a much more expensive watch.

Hell fight to grab the check, then tip like crap.

I hoped I was wrongbut was fairly certain that I wasnt.

Other kids spent their preschool years singing their way through the ABCs. I grew up learning a different alphabet. Behavior, personality, environmentmy mother called them the BPEs, and they were the tricks of her trade. Thinking that way wasnt the kind of thing you could just turn offnot even once you were old enough to understand that when your mother told people she was psychic, she was lying, and when she took their money, it was fraud.

Even now that she was gone, I couldnt keep from figuring people out, any more than I could give up breathing, blinking, or counting down the days until I turned eighteen.

Table for one? A low, amused voice jostled me back into reality. The voices owner looked like the type of boy who would have been more at home in a country club than a diner. His skin was perfect, his hair artfully mussed. Even though he phrased his words like they were a question, they werentnot really.

Sure, I said, grabbing a menu. Right this way.

A closer observation told me that Country Club was about my age. A smirk played across his perfect features, and he walked with the swagger of high school nobility. Just looking at him made me feel like a serf.

This okay? I asked, leading him to a table near the window.

This is fine, he said, slipping into the chair. Casually, he surveyed the room with bulletproof confidence. You get a lot of traffic in here on weekends?

Sure, I replied. I was starting to wonder if Id lost the ability to speak in complex sentences. From the look on the boys face, he probably was, too. Ill give you a minute to look over the menu.

He didnt respond, and I spent my minute bringing Pancakes and Breakfast Burrito their checks, plural. I figured that if I split it in half, I might end up with half a decent tip.

Ill be your cashier whenever youre ready, I said, fake smile firmly in place.

I turned back toward the kitchen and caught the boy by the window watching me. It wasnt an Im ready to order stare. I wasnt sure what it was, actuallybut every bone in my body told me it was something. The niggling sensation that there was a key detail that I was missing about this whole situationabout himwouldnt go away. Boys like that didnt usually eat in places like this.

They didnt stare at girls like me.

Self-conscious and wary, I crossed the room.

Did you decide what youd like? I asked. There was no getting out of taking his order, so I let my hair fall in my face, obscuring his view of it.

Three eggs, he said, hazel eyes fixed on what he could see of mine. Side of pancakes. Side of ham.

I didnt need to write the order down, but I suddenly found myself wishing for a pen, just so Id have something to hold on to. What kind of eggs? I asked.

You tell me. The boys words caught me off guard.

Excuse me?

Guess, he said.

I stared at him through the wisps of hair still covering my face. You want me to guess how you want your eggs cooked?

He smiled. Why not?

And just like that, the gauntlet was thrown.

Not scrambled, I said, thinking out loud. Scrambled eggs were too average, too common, and this was a guy who liked to be a little bit different. Not too different, though, which ruled out poachedat least in a place like this. Sunny-side up would have been too messy for him; over hard wouldnt be messy enough.