“She actually said you have psychic powers?” Christa yanked through my hair with a brush. “You are so lucky.”
I rolled my eyes, and then realized that Christa couldn’t see my face. I swiveled on the kitchen stool. “I’m not psychic. I just had an anxiety attack, or something.”
“I prefer the term psychic empath.” Christa turned my head to face forward. I stared out the sliding glass door into the field behind her house.
When I told Christa that Aunt Avril thought I had some kind of ability, she was quick to latch on to the idea that I was psychic, too. I had left out the part when Aunt Avril said Mrs. Saddlebury murdered her own husband. I still didn’t know what to think about that.
Before she’d taken me home, Aunt Avril had stopped by the Freedom Arms firearms company in the small town of Freedom. When she’d come back to the car fifteen minutes later, she’d been carrying a heavy bag, which she’d gingerly placed in the backseat.
“You bought a gun?” I’d asked.
“The .454 Casull is one of the most powerful handguns out there.” Aunt Avril had winked at me. “I bought insurance.”
One of Christa’s brothers ran through the kitchen, chasing his little sister with a dinosaur. She shrieked and ran outside, with her brother “roaring” after her. The strumming of a banjo reached us from the living room. It didn’t actually sound like a song, more like twangy screeching.
Christa raised her voice over the chaos. “That’s so cool! Did your aunt really ‘see’ what happened at the crime scene?”
I pictured Aunt Avril sweeping the air with her hands. “I think she did.”
The music stopped. Christa’s brother Josh came into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Pulling out a brick of cheese, he crossed to the table and watched us, breaking off chunks of the cheese and loudly chomping them down.
“Going out?” Josh asked.
“Out? Just to dance class.” Christa took the hairpins from her mouth and smirked. “It’s a girl thing, Josh. Leave us alone.”
“Hey, don’t get so uptight. It’s not my fault you don’t have anywhere to go out to.” He made no attempt to leave the room. Breaking off a piece of cheese, he offered it to me.
“Thanks, but I ate an apple.”
Josh shrugged.
When Christa saw that Josh had no intentions of leaving, she ignored him, twisting a braid with one hand and securing it with a pin. “There, that looks bea-utiful.”
I touched my hair. Christa had attached loops of braids all over my scalp. Sometimes she came up with neat hairstyles, but this time I looked like a Swedish milkmaid.
“If you want, I could do Christa’s hair tomorrow.” Josh winked at me. “That way you won’t have to be embarrassed to go to school looking like that.” His own head of hair needed a trim. It curled over his ears and at the edges of his neck.
I grinned.
Josh ducked as Christa threw her brush at him. She missed and hit the tabletop. Undeterred, she grabbed it and chucked it again as he ran from the room, still holding the brick of cheese. The banjo complained once more.
“Brothers are such a pain. Be glad that yours can’t talk yet.”
“I don’t know which is worse, being teased or changing diapers. I think it’s a toss-up.”
I moved over to the counter and looked at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Braids crisscrossed my head. Yep, milkmaid, I thought. “I think it looks nice,” I said.
