Improbable Futures by Kami García Page B

girl nods without taking her eyes off me.
    I have her.
    I can tell her anything now and she’ll believe me. If I were my mother, I would weave a tale of a bright future, ticking off the number of children she and her boyfriend will have by counting the lines on the edge of her hand. I try to imagine it for her, but I’m not my mother.
    The knot in my stomach tightens, born from fear and shame. The pressure and pain build, splintering into a thousand shards of glass that tear apart my insides. There’s only one way to stop the pain.
    I have to release it one tiny shard—one vicious fortune—at a time.
    “Enjoy what little time you have left,” I say. “You won’t be together by the next waxing moon.”
    “I don’t—” The girl shakes her head, confused.
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Her boyfriend sounds angry, but I can tell he’s afraid. Fear is the easiest emotion to read.
    I cover the ball with a scarf, as if I can’t bear to look at it myself. “I’m so sorry. The eye never lies.”
    I don’t need any help with that .
    “But we’re getting engaged,” the girl pleads. “Right, Tony?” The tears are falling now, leaving pale streaks in the foundation that’s too dark for her natural complexion. “It has to be a mistake.”
    I don’t respond. At this point, silence is more powerful than anything I can say.
    Tony stands up, knocking over the chair. He pulls the girl out of her seat, his knuckles white as he grips her hand. “This is a load of crap. You can’t see the future! We’re getting married. Aren’t we, Heather?”
    Heather nods, but I see the doubt spreading across her features. Tony doesn’t take his eyes off me as they back out of the trailer. He reaches the door and pauses for a second, offering me the chance to take it all back—to see another future for the two of them. When I don’t, he slams his hand against the door, sending it flying open.
    I lift the scarf off the ball, polishing it so I’ll be able to read the unfortunate future of the next person who steps inside.
    I don’t know how many people I see tonight. A woman with the cheap blond dye job and the pink lipstick smudge on her cigarette who wanted to know if her boyfriend was cheating—he was. An old man who had gambled away his life savings asked if he was ever going to win big at the races—of course he would. Two bad breakups on the horizon for the drunken girls showing too much cleavage, an unwanted visitor for the quiet brunette in the red sweater, and a few promises of impending bad news. There were more, but I forget most of them five minutes after they leave the trailer.
    That’s the way it is when you see twenty or thirty people every day for two weeks straight, until you pack up and head for the next town.
    It’s always the same. Only the fast-food joints change.
    The carnival is winding down. It gets quiet, the whir of the rides and the rhythm of the screams from the midway fading into a loop of eighties heavy metal songs. My line started thinning around eleven. But if Van Halen isn’t blaring from the speakers, it’s midnight by now.
    Enough tears for one night.
    As I make my way back to the trailer I share with my mom, I see the familiar orange glow of a cigarette in the darkness. I know exactly who it belongs to. I also know he’s waiting for me.
    Big John steps out of the shadows and into the lights of the midway. The rides aren’t running anymore, but the neon bulbs of the Scrambler are still flashing. I look down at him because he’s half my height. Big John is a dwarf, but his nickname isn’t a joke. This is a fence-to-fence operation, which means he owns everything here—the rides we work, the trailers we sleep in, and the food we eat. He owns us too, and he’s an evil bastard. He calls himself Big John to remind everyone that he owns us and his stature doesn’t affect his ability to hurt us.
    I should know.
    “You little bitch,” he hisses between gritted teeth. “You