Some Sort of Crazy (Happy Crazy Love, #2)(2)
I asked myself that question a lot.
A lot.
“Come on, Nat. It’ll be fun!” Skylar thumped me on the back as I passed her. “Live a little, why don’t you! You’re always so f*cking sensible.”
“I’m not being sensible, I’m being hungry. But fine, whatever. I hope the psychic has a bathroom otherwise I see wet pants in my future.” Marching through the door, I followed Jillian up the narrow staircase beyond it. “It smells like cat pee in here,” I whispered. At least I tried to whisper, but I was still inebriated so it came out a little louder than intended, and Jillian shushed me.
At the top of the stairs were two doors. The one on the right said 2B, but the one on the left had a sign on it:
Madam Psuka
Psychic, Medium, Clairvoyant, Intuitive
Palm Readings, Dream Analysis, Spiritual Channeling, & Numerology
FIRST READING FREE*
*does not include Spiritual Channeling
Jillian sighed. “Fucking spirits. So expensive all the time.”
I laughed, crossing my legs at the ankle and squeezing my thighs together. “That’s it. No one make any jokes until I find a bathroom.”
“Do you think you pronounce that P in her name?” Skylar wondered. “Like, is it Madam Puh-suka?”
“No.” Jillian looked back at Skylar with what we call her You’re Dumb and I’m a Doctor face. “You don’t say puh-sychic, do you?” Suddenly she looked down at the big wet spot on her boob. “Shit. When did that happen?”
Moaning in agony even as I laughed, I bent my knees and cupped my crotch as Jillian knocked. “I’m going to wet myself. I’m totally puh-serious.”
Immediately the door opened and an acrid, smoky smell drifted into the hallway. The woman who’d opened the door looked nothing like what I’d imagined a psychic medium would look like—no purple turban or chunky gold jewelry or flouncy ruffled skirt. In fact, she looked more like an evening newscaster: blond helmet hair, too much makeup, horn-rimmed glasses. She was barefoot and wore jeans and a flowy black top.
“Velcome,” she said in a thick accent. At least she sounded like a medium. She looked at each of our faces as we tried to stop snickering and appear presentable, which wasn’t that easy since I was still holding my crotch, Jillian was trying to cover her left nipple, and Skylar hiccuped. “Hm. Three sisters.”
Skylar poked me in the back, as if she were impressed, but I thought we looked enough alike that anyone could tell we were related, even though Jillian was dark-haired and built more like our dad, tall and thin, while Skylar and I were blonde and curvy like our mom.
“I am Madam Psuka,” she said grandly, pronouncing the P. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Skylar poke Jillian in the shoulder. “Vould you like reading tonight?” Madam Psuka’s eyes narrowed. “I am getting verrrry strong energy from you.”
“Yes.” Skylar clapped her hands.
“Vonderful. Please to come in.” The woman stepped aside and we entered a small, dimly lit front room. I was about to ask vhere the bathroom vas when color and texture and warmth bombarded me. The walls were covered in tapestries, rugs, and blankets in every imaginable hue and pattern. The windows overlooking the street were covered in dozens of sheer jewel-toned scarves, several of which billowed in the early summer breeze. In front of them was a round table covered with a Moroccan print cloth with a chair on each side. The floor was covered by faded Persian rugs in tones of ruby and gold and coral, and large square pillows in royal blue, hot pink, lime green, and leopard print lined the walls. On every available surface not covered with books, and sometimes even on top of the books, candles glowed—most inside lanterns, but some in glass holders or simply set on a plate. From the ceiling hung swooping strands of beads and charms and other trinkets, criss crossing the room clothesline style, and in the two front corners were huge green plants. My eyeballs hurt.
“Wow,” said Skylar, turning in a slow circle. “This is amazing.”
“Thank you,” replied Madam Psuka, although the foreign way she pronounced the “th” sound made it sound more like tank you, which was highly appropriate tonight. She shut the door. “I am not here very long, but I try to make the space my own.”
“It’s beautiful,” Skylar gushed, then hiccuped. “I love all the colors and patterns together. Very bohemian.”
I made a face at Jillian and she wrinkled her nose. She and I had more understated taste than our fashionably trendy middle sister.
“What’s that smell?” Jillian asked.
“Is burning sage. I just finish smudging.” Madam Psuka sounded pleased with her puh-self.
“What’s smudging?”
“Is ancient practice used for clearing away negative energy and purifying a space. You are very lucky to be my first reading after is done.” She gestured toward the rug. “Please have seat.”
“Can I please use your bathroom?” I asked, fidgeting uncomfortably.
“Of course. Is right over there.” She pointed toward the small galley kitchen, and I found the bathroom right across from it. There was no door, just a curtain of beads, but at this point I didn’t care. After relieving myself of what seemed like fifty pints of pee for every ounce of vodka I’d consumed, I washed my hands and joined my sisters and Madam Psuka on the rug, where they were all sitting cross-legged in a circle like Story Time at the library.