The Incredible Adventures of Cinnamon Girl by Melissa Keil Page B

!’
    He grabs Tia’s hand and hauls her into his arms. ‘Like, when we’re ancient, it’ll be this story that we bore our grandkids with!’
    Tia giggles hesitantly. ‘Petey, maybe your grandkids will be more interested in hearing about life with electricity and, you know, deodorant and stuff.’
    Random Randal wanders off, and my friends close in on his space. I tug Grady’s phone out from the back pocket of his jeans – only before I can snap a photo, out of nowhere, I’m enveloped by this sweeping sense of ending that makes my breath stick somewhere behind my tongue. Grady seems to realise that I am having a freak-out, cos the hand that’s resting lightly on my waist tightens around me.
    ‘Alba?’ he whispers. ‘What’s the matter?’
    I look up at him and I try to smile, but I just know it comes out all wavy and wrong.
    The first time the six of us hung out here together was just after year-eight graduation. Grady and I got totally sugar-highed on green jelly and spent the night making beer-coaster hats for all of Mr Grey’s ducks on the walls. It was the first time Eddie worked up the courage to have more than a monosyllabic conversation with me. It was the first time Petey shyly asked Tia to dance, though it would take him years to make another move. It was the first time Caroline kissed a boy – I remember that she left him in the carpark as she pulled me and Tia aside to give us a report of how gross it was.
    Maybe the earth will continue to spin, and the stars won’t implode for a bazillion more years, but I know, with a certainty my stupid brain has done its best to ignore, that this moment – right here, with the people I love most – is not going to last.
    My back is to the door, my cheek resting against Grady’s arm. But I’m suddenly trapped in one of those tingly moments, like the hairs on the back of my neck know something the rest of my brain hasn’t caught up on. The atmosphere in the pub has changed, too; there’s a weird hushy hum beneath the babble.
    ‘Oh. My. God,’ Caroline says. She grabs Grady’s arm from my side and points both their hands in the direction of the door.
    I spin around, and almost fall sideways off my heels.
    The crowds near the entrance have parted, allowing a man into the pub. He’s of mid-height and medium build, unremarkable except that all pairs of eyes near the door have glued themselves to him.
    He’s wearing pinstripe pants, and suspenders over a shirt the colour of rain-sky. He glances around, nonchalant, like he’s just a regular who’s popped in for a pot-and-parma. Then he saunters to the bar, seemingly unaware of the kerfuffle following in his wake. I can tell he’s trying his best to appear nondescript.
    But the bald head and Fu Manchu? He may as well have walked into the pub wearing a spandex onesie, or a Batsuit.
    ‘I don’t believe it,’ I whisper.
    Daniel appears beside us. ‘Well. This is unexpected,’ he says cheerfully.
    ‘Fecking. Hell,’ Eddie says. ‘It’s Original fecking Ned.’

The arrival of the psychic has the same effect on Eden Valley as the Joker setting up shop in Gotham. Someone starts a Twitter account for Ned’s moustache, and by Sunday morning, it has twelve thousand followers. His moustache seems to be preoccupied with Beyoncé and Doctor Who . I decide to stay away from the internet for a while.
    The news people, who seem to be springing forth like so many anonymous comic-book henchmen, forget about stalking us locals and begin stalking Ned Zebidiah instead. Though he’s been all over the place since his dodge TV broadcast, Original Ned refuses to grant a single interview. He parks his caravan on the outskirts of the Valley and rarely appears in town. For a guy who should be relishing the attention, Ned looks put out by the fuss. I catch a glimpse of him Monday morning as he’s hurrying past the bakery, and I could swear he looks terrified.
    I don’t know what’s going on with me. Since that night at