Winding my way around the stack of candles molded to fit dishes shaped like fish and seaweed, I once again returned to the Art Stuff, which was—at this place—stacked on shelves against the wall on the left side of the store.
Biting my fingernails, I looked down, then up, down, up, then froze. I flared my nostrils to sniff. I smelled something orange. And Goddamnit, I smelled something cream!
There, sitting so innocently beside the bottles and bottles of Charmin’ Cherry, was a new scent, a new scent called “Sherbet Shake.” There were tiny blue bottles—thin and rectangular—that housed the Sherbert Shake seaside sparkle aloe body gel and those nozzle-headed bottles of glitter splash, bright orange and thick with glitter. There were lotions and nail polishes and a sun care kit, all in this scent that, in layman’s terms, was creamsicle.
“Mom, mom!” I screamed as I ran, almost knocking over the display of sunless tanners. She barely looked up from the room sprays. In her hand she shook a bottle of Nutmeg.
“Do you think this would help the bathroom problem?” she asked, fingers laced with coupons.
“Mom!” I cried again. My mouth was seeping with a smile.
“What?” she asked, absentmindedly setting the Nutmeg room spray down.
“I’m psychic!” I cheered.
“What?”
“I…am psychic.”
“Uh huh,” she said, returning to the room sprays.
“No really! I seriously am! Last year I said the new flavors of Art Stuff would be cherry and creamsicle, and they were.”
“That’s interesting.”
She just didn’t seem to understand. I mean, first I would be predicting Bath and Body Works Scents, then maybe I’d throw around a few horse races, rack up some cash with the Super Bowl, and then….the fate of the world would be in my hands. I’d have the power to do anything because everyone would fear me, respect me, wanna get in the sack with me. I mean, I’d be a freaking scientific marvel!
Over the past few years, however, my psychicness’s gone in and out. Sometimes I’ll estimate a High of 70 with a small chance of showers, and it will snow like the dickens. Sometimes, I’ll try to figure out who Aaron is going to give the last rose to on The Bachelor, and it will wind up being the skinny blonde bitch. And sometimes I’ll think I know the answer to a question on a biology quiz, but I’ll be far from choosing the correct answer, D. Meiosis. At other times, though, I’ll end up writing a fictional story, and then it’ll come completely true (and I’m talking about even replicated dialogue here).
So maybe my abilities won’t always be there for me, maybe it’s a once-in-a-while type of thing. But I do know one thing at least. I’ve got two vanity drawers filled with glittery Art Stuff, and I don’t really think it takes an oracle to guess that my knees will never, ever be dry.
finis
