clementine

chapter 46: clementine is 17 years old

The window in the upstairs room of the house on the end of the street is dark. This is my cue to make an appearance by the window.

Multicoloured fingernails grip the frame, wrenching it up. "I have something to show you." Clementine says.

I rest my bike behind a scratchy shrub, and swing one leg into her room, then the other, inhaling the familiar scent of old books. "What is it?"

She is wearing old flannel pyjama bottoms and a baggy white shirt, holding something behind her lower back. Her eyes are alight with a glint that is both familiar and not. Then, in her hand, she reveals...

"A deck of cards?" I raise an eyebrow, "What's so great about a deck of cards?"

She rolls her eyes. "It's not just a deck of cards."

"What, are they magical?" I laugh, but she shrugs as if the idea is completely reasonable.

"Kind of. I found them in my closet."

I stare at the deck in her hands, doubtful. "Closet cards?"

She ignores me. "Let me read yours." It is not a request. Clementine Ross does not see the need to ask permission. I hesitate a second too long. "It's not hard. You just have to sit there." She points to a spot on the bed, as if this is the only place she can get a signal from the magical cards. I give her a cynical look, but she widens her eyes in anticipation.

I give in, crawling into the centre of the lumpy mattress. When I slouch, she sits with her legs crossed, back straight. "Give me your hand."

I sigh, turning my palm up. With her multicoloured fingernails, she reaches out and puts the deck in my grip. She is very cold, and I am suddenly very clammy. What a strange thing it is, touching Clementine Ross for the first time.

"Shuffle." I shuffle. Eyes wander in boredom to the bedside table, where a silver chain has been discarded. Attached is a small pendant of a cross.

In my mind, an image flashes of silken robes and Pastor Ronald's hungry eyes. "Are you still in the choir?" I ask suddenly.

She gives me a quizzical stare, "Choir?"

"At the church." I remind her, remembering her face in the unlikely group of girls singing off key almost a year ago.

Her features suddenly harden, and her complexion turns a shade closer to green. My fingers stumble over the cards, malfunctioning at her heavy response. "That," Her voice is bitter, "Was not a choir."

At this, my hands cease all movement. I want to ask her if I had said something wrong, or why she went green at the memory of singing at the church.

"Keep shuffling." She commands instead.

There is a pause. "What are these cards supposed to tell me?" I ask, staring at the different pictures on each one. Some are... disturbing. Others make no sense at all.

"They're Tarot cards." In a voice that implies I should already know.

I meet her eyes. "Does that mean something?" I want to ask about the choir again. I don't.

She exhales in exasperation, then snatches the deck out of my hands. "They tell you things."

"What things?"

She gives me a hard look. One that says shut up, Sam. When I close my mouth, she begins laying out the cardboard images. Two in the centre, and then another four around those, in a circle.

"Okay." She says.

"Okay?"

Her yellow eyes contemplate the cards before her. "The eight of Swords. It means that you are currently feeling powerless. Like there's nothing you can do."

My heart speeds up. I don't like this. "The eight of what?"

She moves on to the other centre card. "The King of Cups means that you are repressing your emotions." Her gaze flickers up to me. "It might be helping or destroying you." Those are two very different things.

"Clementine –"

"You are afraid to face the reality of a situation."

I feel nauseous. I shouldn't have agreed to this.

"In the past," She pauses, looks up again, "You have suffered a great betrayal of trust. Or heartbreak."

How about both?

don't think don't think don't think don't think don't think

She seems to be getting both excited and worried. She holds up a card, eyes blazing. "Death."

"Death?" I choke.

"It symbolises a great change between your past and your future. A choice."

Before she can say any more, I rush, "I don't want to hear anything else. This is stupid." With one leap, I spring off the bed and onto the floorboards. My chest is heaving. Lungs on fire, fingers frozen.

Her eyes are pleading, "Sam, there's one card left."

"No." I refuse bluntly and make my way to the window. "I can't hear any more."