Page 28 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Is that a quote fromRuPaul’s Drag Race?

“I sincerely hope you aren’t planning to leave my store without this book. I’ve been waiting a long time for someone like you to come through these doors in search of this.”

She proceeds to blow a visible layer of dust off the tattered cover as she hands the hardcover copy my way:Understanding Your Powers: A Day-to-Day Manual for Navigating Future Visions.

“No thank you,” I say like I’m refusing communion as I hand the copy back to Angeline.

She shakes her head and puts her hands up, as if she’salsorefusing communion.

“Please take it back, Angeline,” I not-so-humbly request. “I’mnotbuying this one.”

“You don’t have to buy it,” she insists. “I won’t charge you for it. You can just take it.”

“It’s not about the money. I just…don’t need it and I’m not getting it,” I double down.

“Respectfully, I disagree. Youdoneed this book. We all have magic inside of us. You though, you havewaymore than I ever will—hence why it’s called a gift. Sweetie, you have the kind of magic that can truly connect with the world and invite all sorts of new opportunities into your life and the lives of those around you,” she continues. “What a great responsibility! And with that responsibility, youneedan understanding of this power.”

I fan through the pages of the book. As I do, I see big chapter titles saying things such as,So You Can See the Future: Now What?”

“With your gift, you’re going to do big things. Trust me.”

I stare at her longer than I should before thumbing through the pages once more. A new batch of headlines catch my eye:UsingExexveeito Advance Your Career, Finding Love withExexveei, Using Your Gift to Help Others,and my personal favorite,Claiming the Life You Deserve: How to Wind Up Exactly Where You’re Meant to Be.

“Make some magic happen,Moonie. Master your craft,” Angeline urges.

Girls my age don’t spend their time ‘mastering the art of practical magic.’ They work on perfecting their smoky eye makeup routine.

There’s another stare down between the two us followed by an unofficial vow of silence. I’m the one to break it when I finally say: “Fine. I’ll take it.”

9

Chapter Nine

I leave Angeline’s store feeling like I should have brought bigger sunglasses and a headscarf to disguise myself as I make my way back to sea level, back to daylight. If I were a famous person, this would be the last place I would want to be seen: leaving some underground freak lair with a book about colorful little rocks and another about, oh,being some super-fucking-natural anomaly. Have I mentioned there’s a third book in my bag entitledHow to Hear Your Angels,which is essentially a self-help book about how to be pen pals with spirits?

I realize I’m one step away from writing letters to Santa Claus at this point, but Angeline convinced me that getting in the zone, setting an intention, and writing whatever pops into my head is a great way to build the muscle connected to my gift. That said, I told her I doubted I could relax enough to seriously do the exercises in that book. She then gave me the number of a weed gummy dealer who is willing to do a Roscoe Village run and told me to give it a go after I pop a couple. Status: waiting for hisVenmohandle.

Along with my new crystals and accompanying literature, Angeline tossed in a pack of tarot cards I’ll probably never touch as well as an astrology guide. She also gave me her personal cell phone number and told me to put her on speed dial. At least all of this woo-woo crap was packaged up in a black liquor store-style plastic bag so as to conceal my purchases from the general public. Bonus? The bag matches my outfit.

Once street level, my phone buzzes with an incoming text from Nora asking me if I’m still alive. I frantically text back that I am, hoping she hasn’t checked the tracker she made me install on my phone once I started watching her kids again. The last thing I need is for her to know I was at some place called “The Energy Shoppe” and then grill me about it later.

“Shit, sorry!” I say to the stranger I T-Bone while my head is glued to my phone screen. I know how obnoxious it is when people can’t be bothered to look up when they walk. I’m almost more embarrassed that I’m one of them, than I am to be...whatever Esther and Angeline think I am.

“No worries,”says the guy. Immediately, I am taken back to OB where that slogan is said a thousand times a day.

“Are you okay?” I ask, noticing I clobbered him hard enough that both of us dropped our shopping bags. Coincidentally, we were both rocking black plastic bags. However, his is most definitely from a new liquor store advertising its grand opening up the block with large signage and a ton of unmissable balloons. I make a mental note to check it out. Maybe some absinthe would pair well with my book about writing love letters to my angels.

“Yup,” he assures me, as he adjusts his navy blue baseball cap back into place and pushes up his aviator sunglasses. JakeGyllenhaal? I briefly wonder. He hands me my bag off the sidewalk and grabs his. He continues on without so much as a hearty Midwestern,“Ope!”

A few steps later, the sound of a woman sobbing behind me is next to catch my attention. I turn and see someonea little older than I am,who is audibly dry heaving while in a full-length taxi-cab-yellow trench coat (Yaswould look amazing in that,btw) paired with a hot pink beret (howEmily in Parisof her, I think as I wonder if itcomes in black). Whoever she is, she presents like an unmissable lighthouse among these streets flooded with twenty-somethings and their social mediaaccounts. Lighthouse she may be, but the only thing being saved in these murky waters is pictures of her to everyone’s camera rolls. While people stop, stare, and snap, I decide tointervene.

“Hey, are you okay?” I keep my voice to just slightly above a whisper.

“Does itlooklike I’m okay?”

“Are you bleeding? Point to where it hurts,” the nanny in me instructs.

“What? No, I’m not bleeding. Physically I’m fine. Emotionally I’mwrecked,” she clarifies.

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