The Problem With Crazy by Lauren McKellar Page A

with a scratched yellow border framing it. I’d never seen a psychic before. I had no reason to expect anything. Yet, for some reason, I knew I certainly didn’t expect this.
    “I was wondering if I could see-the-psychic.” In the rush to get the words out of my mouth they all tumbled together, like vegetables clattering into a bowl. I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights and ran a hand across my brow. It was hot. Really hot. Sweat, from being in this alleyway where the fresh air no longer seemed to flow, covered me.
    “What sort of a reading would you like?”
    A woman stepped out from behind the curtain, the owner of the mysterious unidentified yet young-sounding voice. She had black hair, the kind of midnight black that almost gleams blue. It was pulled back in a long ponytail, little tendrils falling to either side.
    She wore faded denim jeans and a lemon-coloured T-shirt. Tiny purple shoes covered in sequins adorned her suspiciously small feet. Lines grazed her face, creases around her eyes and her cheeks. Her eyes were intimidating hazel-grey whirlpools of mystery. Or maybe I was just drunk.
    Either way, she looked nothing like the sort of fortune-teller I’d imagined.
    “A … a normal one?” I asked. Mainly because the alternative, turning to run, seemed like a foolish idea. What if she chased me? Or cursed me? Or … worse?
    I had no idea what worse would be, mind you. But I knew I didn’t want it.
    “I do crystal ball, tarot, tea leaves, or palm reading.” The woman sighed and tapped one of her tiny, delicately-shod feet. “Palm reading is the cheapest.” She shot out the words like being cheap was a crime.
    “Which one works best?”
    “They all tell you different things.” She swatted her hair back over her shoulder. “Personally, I prefer the tarot. I find it gives a more accurate reading.”
    “Tarot, then,” I said. I didn’t want her to feel like I was wasting her time.
    The woman turned and strutted behind the curtain, flicking it out behind her so it billowed in her wake. I stood there, riveted to the spot. Was I supposed to go, too? I didn’t suppose she’d read me out here in the alleyway, but she’d hardly invited me to come with.
    I swallowed and took a few steps forward, then gingerly peeled back the curtain to look at the dark shadows behind it.
    There was a room, a tiny, little box where Gypsy Rose obviously worked. It was dark, with light coming in dancing shadows from two candles jammed into a rusted candelabrum on a table in the corner. The scent of musk came floating up to assault my nostrils and I tried not to sneeze. The perfume and lack of air created a stifling, heady mix.
    A small card table was set up in the middle, two chairs parked on either side of it, one containing Gypsy Rose’s small frame. To the left, a huge bookshelf, crammed full of thick books, thin books, old books with deeply creased spines, and new books with crisp binding, was on display. To my right was a small chest of drawers with a crystal ball on top. The bottom drawer was slightly ajar, and I could see it was stuffed full of papers and other junk, all folded and wadded up.
    “Never you mind about that.” Gypsy Rose slammed the drawer shut with her foot. I sank into the empty seat, placed my hands on the table and looked her, as close to the eye as I could stand without actually meeting her gaze. I didn’t want her to yell at me again. But I also didn’t want to have to look at her, in case that got me in trouble, too.
    “Now, let me see here.” The woman reached over to the top drawer of the table and pulled it open. She retrieved a pack of cards, larger than your normal playing cards, and laid them on the table in front of her.
    “I’m going to start shuffling these cards, and you need to tell me when to stop,” Gypsy Rose instructed me. She moved the cards about in her hands, rifling through the deck.
    “Stop,” I said, after a few seconds of finger-fidgeting nerves.
    “Okay,