From Bad to Wurst by Maddy Hunter Page A

energy, the animation. Introverts lack the firecracker spark that’s always twinkling in an extrovert’s eyes.”
    Hetty jutted her chin into the air in a defensive gesture and coaxed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You make introverts sound like duds. We’re not duds. We’re simply more cerebral and less vocal than other folks, which seems to be highly underrated in some circles.” She glared at the seatbacks in front of her again.
    â€œI’m not knocking introverts,” chuckled Zola. “What I’m saying metaphorically is that if you’re a leopard, I can identify you by your spots.”
    Clairvoyants seemed to have a much better grasp of symbolic speech than either Catholics or Lutherans.
    Hetty shot a look across the aisle at me. “So what’s Emily?”
    Zola leaned forward, winking at me as she cracked a smile. “Big-time extrovert. I’m surprised you even have to ask. Can you see the vitality in her eyes? That’s what I’m talking about.”
    Zola might call it vitality. I called it acute ocular bleariness due to lack of sleep.
    Otis angled around in his seat, his cheeks flushed beneath his Santa Claus beard. “Is it true you read Astrid’s fortune before she died?”
    â€œI tried, but—” she paused. “There was too much noise and not enough time, so…I couldn’t tell her anything. I suggested we try again later when we weren’t standing in the middle of the city plaza.”
    Gilbert craned his neck to peer over his seatback. “If you were a real psychic, wouldn’t you have known there’d never be a later for her?”
    â€œReal psychics aren’t in the business of frightening people. You might find this surprising, but if I’d sensed she was going to die, I wouldn’t have told her. I may be many things, but I’m not heartless.”
    â€œHow about you show us what you’ve got?” suggested Otis. “Do your fortunetelling routine with Gil right here.”
    â€œI don’t want my fortune told,” protested Gilbert, looking as if he’s just been slapped.
    â€œC’mon, Gil.” Otis egged him on. “Be a sport.”
    â€œ You be a sport. I don’t want her messing with my personal karma.”
    Otis’s booming voice took on an edge. “Got something to hide?”
    A vibe so toxic passed between the two men that I swore I heard the hiss of a light saber slashing through the air.
    â€œIf you’re so gung-ho to see Zola in action, you be the guinea pig,” spat Gilbert. He scrunched up his nostrils and sniffed, a gesture that seemed to autocorrect the position of his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
    Zola looked from one man to the other. “Any takers? I’m anxious to get back up on my horse after my epic fail yesterday, so I’ll be more than happy to oblige. What do you say, Otis?”
    â€œMe?” His Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably. “Nah. Not my thing.”
    â€œWhy not?” taunted Gilbert. “Got something to hide?”
    Zzzzzzzt went the tension between the two musicians again.
    Zola turned to Hetty. “How ’bout you? Are you game?”
    â€œNo!” Hetty looked more terrified than a shopaholic whose credit cards were about to be shredded. “Why should I let you dig into my life when the guys aren’t man enough to let you dig into theirs? But why doesn’t that surprise me? Par for the course for them.” The look she fired at Gilbert and Otis caused their expressions to stiffen with what could only be described as extreme discomfort.
    â€œI’ll volunteer,” offered Mom, breaking into the conversation with bubbly enthusiasm. “Maybe she can tell me where I am.”
    Zola tossed me a look across the aisle. “Are you all right with that?”
    â€œGo for it.” Mom had nothing to lose, actually. If the reading turned out to be