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that ever resembled a cow or a pig, and the silicone fetus isn’t the devil’s spawn. That’s why my mom and I, in our belled skirts and bare feet, are so important.
    Fortune-tellers are the reason people ignore the rest of the cons at a carnival. We’re the one thing they actually believe in. Even the nonbelievers. They climb into the trailer, part the silk curtains, and tell you how they know everything you’re about to tell them is a lie. Until you tell them the one thing they want to hear. The thing that makes them believers.
    We’re the ultimate grifters.
    Because after we reveal the secrets your future holds, we go back to our trailers, take off the hoop earrings, and throw those bell-covered skirts on the floor until tomorrow.
    When I get to the trailer with “Fortune-Teller” written on the side in cheap pink paint, there’s already a line outside it. Good. Let them wait .
    It only makes them hungrier for the crap I feed them when they get inside. I push past the couple standing at the base of the steps watching me expectantly. “Follow me.”
    Let the games begin .
    I scoop up my skirt and climb the makeshift stairs, a splinter cutting into the bottom of my foot. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. The tiny sliver of wood is like all the other painful things inside me that I will never be able to dig out.
    I close the door behind my customers and turn the knob on the glass oil lamps, bathing the room in dim reddish-yellow light. The walls are lined in colorful silk fabrics my mother artfully attached with a staple gun. More fabric is draped from the ceiling, twisting above the small table where my glass ball waits to decide their fate.
    The two of them are holding hands, giggling and whispering. “What do you think she’s going to say?” the girl asks.
    “That I’ll love you for the rest of my life,” he says.
    I steal a glance. They aren’t much older than me, but I know right away the girl is nothing like me. She’s happy.
    “Please take a seat.” I gesture to the chairs in front of the shimmering un-crystal ball. “What is it you desire to know this evening?”
    They sit down, hands still tangled together. “Aren’t you a little young to be a fortune-teller?” the guy asks.
    Of course I am .
    I should be in school, holding hands with a boy, picking out a dress for some stupid dance. But that was never the future my mother saw in her own crystal ball.
    “I come from a long line of mystics and my gift manifested early.” I pause, as if the ridiculous way I’m speaking isn’t dramatic enough. “Which means I’m very powerful. I assure you that whatever your futures hold, I will see it here.” I wave my hand over the ball with a flourish.
    The girl leans forward in her seat expectantly. She has long, wavy black hair just like mine. “What do you see?”
    I don’t see anything, because I’m staring into a hunk of glass I bought online for thirty bucks. But I can’t tell her that; I have to say something profound. Something that will change her life—at least for a few days.
    I frown, the muscles in my face tightening in mock concern.
    “What’s wrong?” The girl’s posture changes, stiffening to mirror mine.
    “I cannot get an accurate read.”
    “You saw something.” Her boyfriend is watching me carefully, aware that I’m hiding something. I can tell from his expression that he thinks it’s the truth. He’s half right. “Was it bad?”
    I look away. “I don’t want to say.”
    The girl inhales sharply and her boyfriend puts his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You have to tell us. Please.”
    “Are you absolutely sure you wish to know?” The question hangs between us, sucking the air out of the room.
    This is the moment.
    The one that determines whether or not I’ve played my part well enough—jingled those bells on my skirt with enough resolve. You have to give a moment like this space to breathe and time to take hold.
    The black-haired