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to see you have none as Hollywood actress.”
    “Gee, thanks,” I said, a flush warming my face.
    “You don’t have looks for Hollywood actress,” she added, in case I wasn’t insulted enough.
    “Okay, then.” I patted my mouth with a yellowed linen napkin. “Thank you very much for the—”
    “Sit, sit,” she said, only she pronounced it “Zit, zit,” and I, who’d been preparing to make a run for it, zat.
    As she smiled, remnants of dimples flashed in her sunken cheeks.
    “There are reasons to be touchy, but truth should not be one of them.”
    I didn’t disguise rolling my eyes; if she were going to continue to cut me down, I wasn’t going to censor my reactions.
    “And what if I don’t believe that what you’re saying is the truth?”
    “In general, or as a predictor of the future?”
    “Take your pick,” I said.
    A low guttural laugh crawled up her throat.
    “I like you, I am seeing that,” she said, nodding. “But it is of no concern to me whether or not you think I am fraud.”
    “I didn’t say you were a fraud.”
    “In so many words, yes. And I was saying nothing against you, only against Hollywood. You are pretty in your own way, and you could have the acting talent of Sarah Bernhardt, but if you are not pretty in their way, forget about it.”
    “I’ve seen actresses who look like me in the movies,” I said, defensively.
    “Yes, tending to markets or laundromats. Or on that M*A*S*H show.” She shook her head. “Not for you. You are too big a star.”
    I came very close to doing a spit take. As it was, I coughed and sputtered and felt tea warm my sinuses.
    “Sorry. I just thought I heard you say I was ‘too big a star.’”
    The old woman smiled, understanding that I was not confused but only wanted to hear her repeat what she’d just said.
    “You heard correctly. And now you are thinking, ‘Oh, maybe I judged Madame’s abilities a little harshly,’ yes?”
    “No,” I said, causing her to snort again. “But, well . . . what do you mean?”
    Madame Pepper’s bracelets jangled as she arranged them on her wrist.
    “Maybe you should hire grammar teacher.” She wiggled her awning of eyebrows. “To spell it out for you.”
    A NY KID WHO LOOKS A LITTLE DIFFERENT gets called names—when I was in the first grade, a big red-faced sixth grader raced over to me on the playground and with chubby hands on his hips asked, “Hey, what are you—a gook or something?”
    Occasionally subject to names like Chink, Jap, or Slant Eye, I’d usually ignore them—at least outwardly—but didn’t when a boy sitting next to me in seventh grade science asked me if I was related to Charlie Chan.
    “Yes, I Charlie Chan,” I said in an over-the-top Asian accent, “and you Number One Stupid Shit Head.”
    The boy gaped at me, and it was obvious from his wounded expression that my response to his slight joke was way out of line.
    “Geez, I just—”
    “Stupid Stupid Shit Head,” I hissed, before sleepy Mr. Sonneborg looked up from his desk, swiveling his head trying to detect the noisemakers.
    Now the word star had been used by a Hollywood fortune-teller in regards to me, and as I alternately skipped and ran back to my apartment, a maniacal giggle burbled in my chest. Madame Pepper was right in thinking I thought her a charlatan, but still, even a charlatan can’t be wrong all the time.

9
    “ L OOK AT MY GOOSEFLESH!” said the woman next to me, offering for view her textured forearm.
    “Yes, it is cool in here,” said Chip, the freckled game show coordinator. “Research shows it keeps the energy up.”
    “If we freeze to death,” said a man behind me, “won’t that bring the energy down?”
    “All right, people,” said Chip, “let’s try to forget about the temperature. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”
    He led the small group of contestants into a room furnished like a den with vending machines.
    “This is the greenroom. This is where you’ll take