Glimpsed Read online

  I’m needed. Elsewhere.

  My new Cindy appears in record time. Less than seventy-two hours after Carmen’s triumph, I’m walking down the math-and-science hall after Poms practice when I happen to see a girl bent over a textbook, all alone in Chem Lab A. Her hair is in a haphazard ponytail, and she picks at her face absentmindedly while she reads.

  And I get hit with a glimpse. I stop and put my hand on the lockers to steady myself as the here and now spins away.

  The girl is rocking a deep-red sari, standing in line with three other girls in formal dresses on the track that rims the JLHS football field. Vice Principal Martinez says, “Vindhya Chandramouli,” into a microphone before placing a silver-and-rhinestone tiara on her silky black hair. The crowd in the bleachers goes wild—cheering, pounding feet, banging cymbals.… Vindhya perches carefully in the back of the VW Bug convertible and waves regally as the car makes a lazy path along the track.

  The glimpse dissolves as quickly as it came. I blink the present back into focus: this hallway, these lockers, Chem Lab A, Tuesday. The girl—Vindhya.

  A familiar feeling of purpose and power sends my shoulders back and my chin up, as my personal problems fade into the background. There’s a Cindy in need. That’s what matters now.

  I tap lightly on the open door as I step into the room. She glances up, sees me, and pinches her eyebrows together like my presence is suspicious. I offer a smile. “Whatcha reading?”

  She tilts the book up so I can see the title: Talking to Humans: Coding for Dynamic User Interface.

  “Looks riveting.” No hint of irony creeps into my voice.

  She glances around—looking for an exit? Reinforcements? Then she retreats back into her coding book.

  Still smiling, I pull up a stool at the lab table, facing her. “I don’t think we’ve really met. I’m Charity.” I raise my eyebrows, inviting a response.

  She clears her throat. “Vindhya.”

  The next part is always a bit touch-and-go. How does one broach the subject of secret dreams and deepest wishes—of life as you know it doing a sudden 180—without inducing panic or sounding like a wacko? The rip-off-the-Band-Aid method is my fallback. I’m a cut-to-the-chase kind of girl. “Would you like to be homecoming queen this year?”

  She fumbles the book. “What?”

  I say it again, word for word. Standard procedure for a first client meeting—lots of repetition. Lots of disbelief.

  Vindhya laughs—one strained, unamused Ha. “Yeah. Right.”

  I resist the urge to respond but don’t break eye contact. Sometimes an uncomfortably long pause is the thing that really draws people out.

  After said pause she says, “Like I would even want to participate in the homecoming court thing. It’s objectifying and… and shallow.”

  She hesitated. Even if I hadn’t glimpsed her true desire, I would know she’s fronting. She’s in denial now. Unruffled, I nod. “Yeah, it is shallow. But still…” I sigh. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to see the smart girl wearing the crown for once? Instead of the girls who play to every patriarchal, beauty-over-brains, pretty-princess stereotype?” Okay, that might have been a stretch. Last year’s HQ ran track and got into Pepperdine. But sometimes you’ve gotta sell it.

  Vindhya’s back straightens and her eyes flash. “How would that ever happen in a million lifetimes?”

  “It’s in you, Vindhya. I see it. And I’ll help you, if you’ll let me. Under one condition—no one can ever know I was involved.”

  Vindhya’s eyes go wider and wider as I speak. When I pause for her response, she blinks twice rapidly and glances around the room again—maybe looking for a hidden camera. “Is this a joke?”

  “No joke. No strings. Just a legit, onetime offer.” I hold out my hand to her. “What do you say, Vindhya? Do you want to be queen?”

  She’s vibrating a little now. I hope she doesn’t pass out. That has happened a couple of times, and it’s just so awkward. Thankfully she stays lucid and I… I wait with my hand in the space between us.

  In case you’re wondering, I won’t nudge her to agree to anything. It would be wrong to nudge clients into something that is going to change the course of their entire life. Besides, the effects of nudging are short-lived—usually only a couple minutes—so not very useful in swaying major life decisions.

  She stares at me for another long moment. Finally releasing her death grip on the textbook, she reaches out in slow motion to seal the deal. As our hands meet, she mutters, “But… why are you doing this?”

  I give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Because I’m your fairy godmother.”

  2 The Art of the Meet-Cute

  It’s time to see Memom.

  There’s no time to shower after Poms practice on Wednesday. Not if I’m going to drive forty-five minutes to the retirement home, have dinner with Memom, and do my trig homework before I pass out tonight. So I go for the Euro-shower on the run. I head out of the gym, scrubbing my armpit with a wet wipe. But right as I’m about to push open the door, it swings away from me. My momentum sends me stumbling forward, arms flailing.

  My hand holding the stinky-armpit wet wipe connects with someone’s face.

  He throws his arms out in self-defense and grazes my boob.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” he sputters.

  “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” I say at the same time.

  I right myself and hide the wet wipe behind my back. Like maybe he won’t notice he just tasted it.

  “Wow. Okay,” the guy says, avoiding eye contact. He takes off rectangular glasses, cleans the smears off on the hem of his T-shirt (which says A RESCUE ATTEMPT WOULD BE ILLOGICAL, by the way), and puts them back on. He rubs at the pink spot by his nose where I accidentally clobbered him. Then he pushes his hand through his mass of brown curls, as if to smooth them down. But it has the opposite effect. They spring back even more chaotic, which is kind of… cute. In fact, his whole look screams “adorkable.” I’m a fan.

  Finally he looks at me and pulls a face that’s a cocktail of confusion, recognition, and suspicion.

  Confusion I get. I’m feeling it too. And recognition makes sense. Even though JLHS is too big to know everyone, he’s probably seen me perform with the Poms at basketball and football games. But suspicion seems a little uncalled for. Does he think I smashed a dirty wipe in his face on purpose? I smile apologetically, hoping to demonstrate that I’m a non-jerk. “Sorry about that,” I say one more time. I duck my head to make my wink less obvious as I nudge a little positivity his way—just a faint Charity’s cool to make this less awkward. My fingertips barely tingle.

  He blinks at me, looking even more confused. As if the positive thought about me is creating a does not compute error in his brain.

  So that backfired.

  I give up and point toward the hallway. “Excuse me.”

  He steps to the side with a sweeping arm gesture that is so gallant it’s dorky. I maneuver past him and continue my advance down the hall. Two seconds later I register his voice behind me say, “Uh, Carmen? Can I ask you something?”

  Aw. Our newly minted princess has an admirer. Sweet boy was probably waiting outside Poms practice so he can ask her to homecoming. I hope she says yes. That would be adorable.

  I’m alternately grinning about Carmen and cringing about the collision when I get outside. I drop my wipe in the trash can, dig a deodorant out of my gym bag, and swipe it under my arms. Then I climb into my Honda Fit and drive.

  * * *

  Memom is shrinking. Every time I see her, she’s just a bit smaller. It makes me feel guilty for not making time to come more often. But with the fairy godmother gig on top of school and Poms—it’s exhausting. Somehow two months have slipped past without a visit.

  But when I get a new client, I have to see Memom right away. I mean, she’s the only other fairy godmother I know, as well as my actual grandmother. She’s my mentor.

  Today she’s leaning into some classic old-lady stereotypes. She’s wea
ring a polyester floral-print shirt-and-pants set, and she has on ridiculously large octagonal sunglasses. We’re sipping tea on the balcony of her assisted-living one-bedroom apartment.

  She waves her hands impatiently. “So? What happened after the tryout?”

  “She’s living the dream, of course. She’s doing what she loves, dancing till she drops. Goofy guys are throwing themselves at her.”

  “Ah.” Memom sighs contentedly. Then she brightens again. “And? Someone else flashed you already?”

  “That means something else, Memom.”

  She blows her lips out, like, Don’t bother me with trifles.

  So I say, “I’ve got nine days with this one. She’s going to be homecoming queen.”

  “Nine days?!” Memom spills tea on her polyester blouse. “You can’t be serious!”

  “I know, right? Six weeks is my old record.”

  Memom looks exasperated. “Even six weeks is too fast. We’ve talked about this. We’re working with real people, not paper dolls. People need time to change. You can’t rush transformations.”

  I throw my hands up, maybe a little too dramatically. “What am I supposed to do? I glimpsed it.”

  “Maybe it’s supposed to be for homecoming next year.”

  “No way. That’s forever from now.” It comes out a little whiny.

  “You young people are always in too much of a hurry.”

  “Whatever. Don’t act like you know any other young people.”

  She giggles. Then she sobers up and looks at me pointedly. “In 1979, one guy flashed me, and I spent eighteen months working him over.”

  I yell-laugh-choke, “OMG, Memom! Don’t say ‘flash.’ ”

  She waves me off again. “The point is, it’s best to take your time. Baby steps—that’s all people can really handle. One small change. Let it sink in. Then another change.”

  I shrug, unmoved. “I hear you, Memom. But this one’s a quickie.”

  She smacks my hand. “Don’t say quickie.” Then, with a grin and a twinkle in her eye, she winks at me pointedly.

  I feel a little ping in my subconscious and roll my eyes. Whatever gene mutation enables us to send nudges also makes us impervious to them. “Memom, seriously? You know it’s not going to work.”

  She shrugs, unabashed. “One of these days I might get you.”

  “Aren’t you the one who told me to never, ever use the nudges except to help a Cindy?”

  She scrunches her wrinkled face with a petulant humph.

  “You need a hobby.”

  “I need a Cindy.” She pouts a little, not unlike a three-year-old.

  Is this what I’m going to be like in fifty years? Just me and my quirks, swathed in polyester, living for the next glimpse? I love her, but the idea is pretty demoralizing. I drop my head into my hand with a sigh.

  She rises creakily from the table. “I have Little Darlings. I’ll get some.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her how nasty Little Darlings are. Mix together one part sawdust, two parts lard, and a boatload of sugar, wrap the whole thing in cellophane and let it cure for ten years, and you’ve got Little Darlings. Memom thinks I love them because I used to scarf them when I was like four.

  I take the first one my fingers make contact with and begin to pick the plasticky faux-chocolate coating off. Memom says, “You’re being careful, right?”

  “Of course. I’m always careful.”

  She scoffs, “You’re a teenager. You don’t even know what ‘careful’ means.”

  “Well, you’re an old lady. If you ever knew, you’ve forgotten.” I nibble a corner of the peeled Little Darling.

  She snorts. “Secrets are hard to keep. Even back in my day. Now with the TikTok and the Instant-Grams—”

  “Instagram.”

  “You can’t give anything away. That’s all I’m saying. You can’t put yourself out there like other girls.”

  Like I don’t know that. As if my whole life isn’t about making sure people don’t get too close. I say, “Memom, I’m so black ops it’s ridonculous.”

  “For Pete’s sakes. Use real words.” This from the woman who just said “Instant-Grams.” I roll my eyes.

  And now I can’t put it off any longer. I take a big, squishy bite of the Little Darling while Memom beams at me.

  While I gag the Little Darling down, Memom and I talk about Hope. Only a couple more months until we’re all together for Thanksgiving and she’s home from Thailand for good. Memom points out that Hope will be off doing her final semester of vet school after that, but I choose to focus on the fact that she’ll be 7,900 miles closer than she is now.

  Finally, I tell Memom I have to leave. Trig is calling my name. As she shuffle-walks me to the door, she suddenly tugs my elbow. “How’s my Katie?”

  That would be my mom. Memom’s daughter. She prefers Kate, actually. No one but Memom calls her Katie. I try to sound bright and happy, but it comes out a tiny bit forced. “She’s great. Super busy. You know.”

  Memom grunts. “Always saving the world, that one. Tell her that I’d like to see her before I’m dead.”

  I kiss her cheek. “You can’t die. Not ever. But I’ll tell her.”

  * * *

  Later that night, when my brain needs a break from equations, I text Sean Slater: In the market for a badass campaign manager for homecoming court. Will you do it?

  While I wait for him to respond, I check to see if my dad is online. He’s not. But it’s after midnight in DC, so he’s probably sleeping. You might be wondering what the deal is with my dad. Here it is in a nutshell: He’s an environmental lawyer. He worked a bajillion hours a week when I was a kid, so I have almost no memories of actually doing actual things with him. Two weeks after Hope left for college, he and Mom realized they wanted to save the world more than they wanted to be married. He lives in DC now, lobbying Congress for better environmental laws on behalf of the Sustainable Policy Institute. I see him on holidays. Sometimes.

  Since Dad’s not online, I check in on my sister. It’s a thirteen-hour time difference to Thailand, so she should be starting her day about now. I message her: How’s Bernice?

  She doesn’t respond. Maybe she’s traipsing around the jungle already.

  Finally, my phone shwoops Sean’s incoming text: Seriously? Are you running for HQ?

  I text: Nope. Cindy. Say yes.

  Sean: I’m busy. SMU audition coming up.

  Me: Come on, it’s in nine days.

  Sean: That’s not enough time! Prom maybe. Homecoming no.

  Me: Impossible for lesser men. I need the Sean magic.

  Sean: What part of *SMU audition* are you not getting?

  I want to shoot back: What part of *nine days to transform a Cindy* are you not getting? Instead, I press my finger between my eyebrows and take a Zen breath, trying to decide the best way to persuade him. I can’t nudge him. Remember, decisions based on a minute’s worth of thoughts or feelings don’t stick. Besides, I have to have a direct line of sight to nudge. But no worries. There’s always good old-fashioned guilt-tripping.

  I text: You owe me.

  Twelve interminable seconds later, Sean writes: Fine.

  I lean back with a sigh of relief. Playing that card was a crappy thing to do, and I feel genuinely bad about it. But I can handle a little cognitive dissonance if it helps Vindhya. Sean knows better than anyone how far I’ll go for a Cindy.

  Once upon a time, Sean Slater was miserable, lonely, angry, and adrift. For good reasons. In eighth grade it leaked that he was in a ballet class. Riverside East Middle School turned into Lord of the Flies. Those of us who weren’t part of the tormenting could only keep our heads down and try to stay out of the way. I did try to nudge the bullies, but I couldn’t be everywhere. And besides, the more emotional I am, the worse my aim is. Nudging requires a calm, cool psyche. At thirteen, with exactly one Cindy on my résumé, my parents’ divorce in full bloom, my sister away at college for the first time, and facing a gang
of rabid pubescent trolls… let’s just say I wasn’t the picture of fairy godmother levelheadedness that I am today.

  Anyway, where was I? Right—the cannibal island that was eighth grade. Sean ended up quitting ballet. Then he quit school. He finished junior high online.

  When high school started, Sean was back. But he was a silent, skittish version of his former self. Then one day that spring, I got a glimpse. I saw him wearing tights and dancing onstage in front of the whole school—leaping and twirling with grace and power and passion. Loving it. Owning it.

  So I offered him my services. And he accepted. After what felt like a hundred hours of heart-to-hearts, Sean decided to go back to ballet. I didn’t pressure him or nudge him or anything, just listened to him talk about everything he had walled up inside. And when he had talked himself out, he decided he wasn’t going to let other people define him. His mom ugly cried, she was so happy. After that she drove him an hour three times a week to dance in secret, which was still sad. But he started to stand taller and laugh more. He started to be himself again.

  It was magical.

  Meanwhile, I went on a no-holds-barred campaign to change the tide of public opinion in Sean’s favor. I started subtle—slipping things into conversations like, “Did you know that the guy who played Spider-Man was trained in ballet?” Pretty soon I was blowing up social media with video clips of ripped men doing jetés and pas de deux. I covered my locker in a poster of Roberto Bolle and kissed it twenty-six times a day. I bought tickets to a ballet and bragged for weeks about how lucky I was to get the seats. And, of course, I sent all kinds of little pro-ballet nudges to anyone who would hold still long enough to receive one. I spent most of sophomore year with my arms and legs tingling.

  By the time I was finished with JLHS, not only had my classmates forgotten they had ever tormented a boy for dancing, but classical ballet had become The Thing.

  Midway through that year, Sean came up to me and announced he was signing up for the spring talent show. And he did. And he crushed it, exactly like I had glimpsed. He was an instant sensation. After that I did a standard-protocol fade-out. I created as much emotional distance as possible. But with Sean, for whatever reason—maybe because I gave him a whole year of my life—I couldn’t quite cut all ties. Don’t get me wrong… we’re not actually friends. Let’s call him a colleague.