Theoretically Speaking

Prologue

"In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But, in practice, there is." - Jan L.A. van de Snepscheut

Prologue

There was a thing about psychics. Something in the way those old ladies searched into their crystal balls, the way they aligned their tarot cards, reading messages alien to the average eye, delivering fates of doom. There was something about them that had always scared the living out of me and even at fifteen, the effect was not lost.

This was proven by my shaking hands as I entered the psychic’s tent at the carnival. I could have easily been mistaken for a dug addict on that day. A part of me expected fangs to slide down the psychic’s gums, for her eyes to glow, and for my body to go limp and fall to the ground. Or for a flick of her wrist to send me to some other realm where I would eventually meet my doom. Clearly I wasn’t very rational when psychics – or clairvoyants – were involved. Perhaps even more so than with clowns.

Claire, the Clairvoyant invited me to take a seat on the plump cushions across from her, where she sat behind a small table. As I forced my legs – which now felt like two heavy loads of steel – forward, I realized that it didn’t require a crystal ball for a psychic to be scary. All it required was the psychic itself, her crooked smile, her chipped tooth, and the eerie air that filled the tent.

But all that aside, I knew that a psychic could provide me with something I wanted, a key little component in my life plan: my future husband. Or to be precise, his identity. Which was why I’d mustered up my courage on that Saturday night and entered Claire’s tent at the carnival.

After a few minutes of idly sitting across from a questioning gaze, I managed to get past my nerves and look her in the eyes. They were bright blue and, if I squinted a little, a tad diluted. But what did I know. She offered me another smile.

“I don’t bite. Nor have I ever hurt a fly, Aeryn.” No, I imagined she ate them whole instead of drawing out their deaths. Practicality over pleasure.

Pushing this picture away, I let out a nervous laugh, which was more of a painful grunt than anything. It was drowned out by the music and shouts coming from outside, which I desperately wanted to return to. Instead, I was stuck with an old, gypsy-like lady who could easily kill me if need be. Gosh, sometimes I really needed to think through my plans a bit more.

“The tent isn’t locked,” Claire continued, her smile becoming friendlier. Or at least attempting to. “You have no reason to be afraid, but if you would rather leave, you may do so.” She extended a frail and wrinkled arm that was half-covered by her long, white robe, and motioned to the entrance of the large tent. Candles lined its perimeter, illuminating both of our faces. The swirling shapes on the tent shined brilliantly and I forced myself to relax. For a brief second, I did. I inhaled and concentrated on the deliciously sweet smell of cotton candy that filled even inside the tent. I could truly say that all thoughts of being tricked into entering a voodoo session at the carnival instead of a fortune-telling tent, and dying a gruesome death escaped my mind.

But the moment came to an end all too soon, and I forced myself to inhale through my nostrils, then discreetly exhale through my mouth. Just like the hot yoga teacher always instructed.

I was fifteen, not five. There were no monsters under the table in front of me waiting to attack. I’d come here to do something, and sometimes love required sacrifices. Such as the time I sprained my wrist getting a glimpse of our new – and gorgeous – neighbor.

“Are you ready?” Claire asked, her voice still calm and serene while her bright eyes were wide with excitement.

I blinked, and my heart pounded even louder in my chest. “I’d like to get a clue,” I finally said.

“About?” I tried to find the right way to phrase my next words, hoping to limit the amount of laughter it would no doubt generate. But if there was a way, I had yet to discover it.

“Um, I’d like to get a clue about who the guy I’ll end up with is. So…my soul mate. Or I guess my future husband. Who he is.” I frowned at how ridiculous I sounded. “Um…whatever works for you.”

Claire tipped her head towards me. “Any clue?” Her eyebrows rose. I nodded, though I was mentally praying for something useful. Something better than, ‘He is who he shall be.’

She smiled at me, a gleam appearing in her eyes. She ignored the crystal ball, the tarot cards and what looked like bamboo sticks on the table and slightly leaned forward. I found myself doing the same, eager to hear the one clue that would lead me to the guy of my dreams. My hands were shaking, my heart was ready to leap out of my chest and my body was sweating puddles – though this might have been due to the humidity that clung to the air. This is it, I thought. This is really it.

“He has a very strong aversion to tampons.”

I froze. Frowning, I replayed her words, blinked, then furrowed my brows. She must have been kidding. “He, um…what?”

“He has a very strong aversion to tampons,” she repeated just as calmly as before. “One that may even raise eyebrows.”

I took a deep – deep – breath, thanked her, promptly ignored her warning about falling headfirst into a pie and joined Brooke outside of the tent. While huffing about the ridiculous clue and how useless people like Claire were, I failed to see the clown emerging from the neighboring tent. It was just like when I was young: big and tall, scary but smiling, and always walking towards me.

Feeling the panic rise to my head, I grabbed Brooke’s arm and attempted to make a run for it. As I did, my feet managed to get tangled in what felt like a rope and before I knew it, I had fallen headfirst into the apple pie the clown had been offering us.

Maybe Claire The Clairvoyant wasn’t as full of crap as I’d first thought.

A few months after the carnival:

“Hey, I was thinking…” Charles trailed off, seeming unsure of what he was thinking.

I looked up from our Health poster, glue in one hand and a picture of a vagina in the other. “You were thinking?” I wanted nothing more than to finish the poster, go home and never take another Health class again.

Charles at last met my gaze. “Do you wanna go out? With me? On…a date? I mean…if you want to.”

I took a deep breath and tried to quickly organize my thoughts, which was definitely easier said than done. “This is gonna sound…um, a bit odd. But…” I braced myself for his reaction. Like a band-aid: rip it off as quickly as possible. “You don’t happen to…have some kind of, um, strong aversion to tampons…do you?” His previous nervousness which had been rather impossible to miss quickly disappeared and was replaced by complete shock.

Charles barely uttered a single word to me after this incident, something that didn’t surprise me all that much.

A year after the carnival:

“He asked me out,” I told Brooke, throwing my bag on the floor before throwing myself on her family’s oversized couch, ready to die.

She looked up from her computer, disbelief written on every inch of her face. “Aidan?” Her voice was barely audible. I nodded, though the halfhearted raise of my head couldn’t possibly qualify as a nod. “What did you say?” she almost squealed, somehow missing my lack of excitement over the situation.

I buried my face in a cushion, ready to drown my sorrows in a big bowl of self-pity. “I asked him if he had a strong aversion to tampons,” I mumbled.