Body of Stars by Laura Walter (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📕

She didn’t seem moved by my concern. “The right future found me,” she said. “I can help people, especially young girls, as an interpreter. And in any case, motherhood was never my dream.”

“I guess.” A note of doubt had crept into my voice.

“You know,” Julia went on, “I learned a long time ago that I could live the life that best suited me, not anyone else. One day you might learn that, too.”

I felt insulted, though I wasn’t sure why. “I already know what I’m going to be. A psychologist.”

“Of course. I only mean that sometimes, our true abilities surprise us. Like your brother and his gift for interpretation. No one could have predicted that.”

“Maybe, but he’s still a boy. There’s no use teaching him in the long run.”

“He has real talent, Celeste. You might be surprised.”

But I saw no surprises in the future. Not even for me, someone who was a mediocre reader of markings at best.

“Here,” Julia said. “I’ll show you.”

She came around to my side of the desk and propped her left foot on the edge of my chair. She rolled up the bottom of her pants leg to show me her ankle, which was encircled by a set of markings like a bracelet. I held in a gasp.

“Oh, Julia.” I leaned in closer. I was looking at a constellation that spelled misfortune. “What exactly does it mean?”

“Look at the variations.” She pointed to the tiny markings orbiting a set of larger ones, the pale markings joined up with the darker. “That many variables make specific predictions almost impossible. All I can determine from Mapping the Future is that this pattern indicates future loss.” She looked at me. “The first time your brother saw this, he sat down for a good long look. He couldn’t figure it out—this kind of prediction needs time to come to light—but he’s smart, with excellent instincts, and he’s not intimidated by a challenge. He’s a natural, Celeste.”

“But he’s still a boy. He has no future in interpretation.”

“I trust him, and I trust that he’ll find a way. That’s what matters.” She covered her ankle and removed her foot from my chair. “You’re a lot like Miles, you know. Once he sets his mind on something, that’s it. From what I hear, you’re the same about your future career.” She peered at me. “If I may, what attracts you to the field of psychology?”

I looked away, thinking. People didn’t generally ask me why I wanted to be a psychologist. Whenever teachers or my friends’ parents learned what I wanted to become, they usually just smiled as if I’d said something amusing. Sometimes they’d make a joke about psychoanalysis, like how they should be careful about what they said around me lest I uncover their secrets.

“I knew a psychologist once,” I said. My voice was tentative. “She was my mother’s friend. This was a long time ago; I was very young. When we went to her house, she’d let me play with her impression cards.”

“I remember those. They were once quite popular. Each card had a different image, just a simple line drawing in ink—is that right?”

“And only two colors: red and black.” I nodded. “I loved those cards. My mother’s friend explained it all to me, how she gave them to patients and asked what they saw in the images. Everyone had a different answer, she told me, because it wasn’t about the image so much as what each person projected onto it. I found that fascinating—that our minds work so differently, and that we reveal the psyche merely by describing what we see in a picture.”

Julia was watching me closely. “When you put it like that, it sounds like you’re talking about the art of interpretation.”

“It’s not the same at all,” I said quickly. “The skill in interpretation is in figuring out what the prediction means. Like the marking on your ankle—it refers to one set future, even if that future is unknowable to us right now. But psychology is more open-ended.” I paused. “I like the thought of choices. Of there being a larger puzzle with more than one answer.”

“That makes sense. Still, everything you say suggests that you could make a great interpreter, too. Just like Miles.”

It would always come back to interpretation for Julia. She and my brother both saw the world in the same way: as one long stretch of predictions just waiting to be understood.

Slowly, I stood. “I should go. My friends are waiting, and Cassandra’s mother is expecting us.”

“Of course.” Julia stood, too. “If you girls would like an escort back to your neighborhood, I’d be happy to walk with you.”

I shook my head, letting Julia know we’d promised Cassandra’s mother that we’d stick together, and that we weren’t afraid. It seemed important to say those words to Julia, to stress our courage. As if by convincing her we were strong and clever and safe, I could also convince myself.

*   *   *

My friends and I left and made quick progress through the streets, crossing under the arch and passing into the heart of downtown: the courthouse, the old stone church with the crooked cemetery stones, the bank headquarters displaying my father’s ad. I noticed a flurry of activity around the bank, a gathering of men, and on instinct I froze.

“It’s okay,” Marie said. “They’re not here for us.”

I looked again. One of the men held a ladder against the wall while another climbed. I was still standing there, gaping, as the first corner of my father’s banner came loose and flipped over itself. Then the entire top half went slack.

“Come on, Celeste,” Cassandra said. “We don’t need to watch this.” She and Marie gently pulled me away and placed me between them, like I was the one who needed protection.

They told me not to look back, but I did anyway. I watched my father’s advertisement crumple. I watched the beautiful face cave in on itself, watched the torso stand bare and alone until