Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always by Elissa Janine Hoole Page B

tender-looking flesh. It looks like a fist hit him, not a branch. Does the fist belong to someone in our youth group?
    The moment they’re out the door, I log into the family computer in the kitchen and pull up one of the blogging sites I researched at school today. I type in the name I chose—Divinia Starr—and settle on a theme that has a dark blue background with little gold stars all over it. The blog set-up is easy compared to the crap I’ve been doing with the stupid newspaper, and now I’m ready to start. But how?
    I guess I need to do some readings, so it’ll look like there are already people who need my help. I set Mom’s timer for one hour, which is plenty of time to get everything hidden away before everyone gets back from church, and then I go into my room for the cards, trying to think of the kind of problem or question a person might ask about.
    Eric’s standing there when I get back, looking at the screen. Reading my profile. “ Divinia? ” He makes those stupid air quotes when he says it. “Cass, what is this? Divinia Starr?” He lowers his voice. “The tarot? You aren’t seriously doing this, are you?”
    I shrug. “I’m making something up.”
    His eyes stray from my face to the cards in my hands. “Can I see them?” He bites his lip when I hand the cards over. “Not going to burn me, are they?” His smile is too thin to show his dimples. Eric has two of them, twin divots that make it almost impossible to keep a straight face when he grins at you. I only have one dimple, on my right cheek, which just makes me look lopsided.
    He slides the cards out in a little fan, face down, and looks at them. “Did you do that one reading you mentioned, then?” He says it so nonchalantly, like I was going to ask the tarot whether I should have a sandwich or cereal for a snack.
    I nod. I can’t take my eyes away from his face, from that awful bruise. “Who did that to you?”
    “Ran into a branch.” He flips over a card. The Ace of Swords. “Is this a good one?”
    “Bullshit.” I take out the guidebook. “It’s obvious, Eric.”
    “Obviously good?”
    “Obviously punched.” I tap the book. “ Strength, power, victory, love. Good things. Now tell me who did it.”
    He inhales slowly, flipping the card away toward the computer desk. “I don’t like this, Cass, these cards.”
    “Come on, Eric. I know you. You believe in God, and I get that, but you can’t convince me you believe in everything Pastor Fordham says. You can’t believe there’s such a thing as—”
    “Dark magic?” Even his thin attempt at a smile disappears. “I don’t know, Cass. I mean sure, obviously there are things I have to question, things about the Bible I can’t believe, but that’s because there’s a good reason not to believe. Stuff like this, though … these cards. This is messed-up stuff. It may not be sorcery like they say, but I can still see plenty of good reasons to avoid them.”
    I think about the reading I did, all those pictures of sunshine and rainbows and happy families. Right. I reach up and jab my finger into his cheek, which is purple and swollen. He doesn’t flinch. “I saw the car. I saw what they did.”
    “It was nothing,” he says, brushing my hand away. “I wish you’d stop.”
    “Stop what? Stop caring? Stop wondering which asshole punched my brother in the face and pissed all over his boyfriend’s car?”
    He sets the deck on the edge of the computer desk and shakes his head. “Stop messing with these cards,” he says. “Stop trying to be someone you’re not.” He walks all the way down the hallway without looking back.
    I remember his cards; I think of his face. And then I sit back down, double-check the time, and type up my very first reading.

18. Your first crush …
    English class is different now. My finger tingles where I scrubbed off Darin’s smiley face, and even though I know it’s only my imagination, I keep running the tip of my thumb across it. I’m