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flip out.”
    â€œSure, no problem.”
    â€œSeriously,” she said. “Promise me.”
    I nodded, surprised. “Okay. I promise.” A thought popped into my head—a nasty, disloyal thought—and I tried to push it away quickly. But it was too late. The thought wouldn’t leave, and I could tell already it was going to hang around and pollute everything with doubt and distrust and endless questions. What if Victoria wasn’t telekinetic at all? What if the real reason she didn’t want me to say anything was because her parents would laugh and wonder what I was talking about? What if this entire thing—Rick, the telekinesis, all of it—was just a big dramatic story?

Twelve
    Victoria’s dad walked in the front door just as we arrived at the bottom of the stairs. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Hello. You must be Cassidy.”
    â€œHi,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. Shyness isn’t a problem I usually have, but for some reason I was nervous about meeting Victoria’s parents.
    â€œWe’ve heard lots about you,” he said.
    I nodded and looked away. I don’t know why people say that. It always makes me uncomfortable, knowing that people have been talking about me.
    Victoria’s mom appeared in the doorway. “Oh, perfect timing. Dinner’s just out of the oven.” She nodded at me as she ushered us all into the dining room. “Hello, Cassidy. Good to meet you.”
    At my house, we usually ate in the kitchen. Even when Dad was home and we had proper dinners instead of take-out, we just sat around the kitchen table. And we didn’t set the table, exactly. I mean, obviously we used plates and forks and all that, but we usually got our own utensils or else someone plunked a pile of cutlery and maybe a roll of paper towels on the table.
    Victoria’s house couldn’t have been more different. The table was set with salad bowls and plates and cloth napkins, not to mention a bewildering variety of forks and spoons at each place. I sat down and hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself too badly.
    Victoria’s mother dished the salad and filled our glasses with water. Then she turned to me. “So, Cassidy,” she said, “tell us a bit about yourself.”
    I squirmed. “Not much to tell,” I said. I glanced around the room, hoping for inspiration, and my gaze fell on a pair of portrait-style photographs sitting on the sideboard. One was a toddler, a little girl with brown hair and a slightly anxious gummy smile. Victoria. The other was a boy around our age, with freckles and a wide grin. Rick, maybe?
    â€œUh, so how do you like it here?” I asked.
    â€œWell, it seems very nice. I’ve been pretty busy. I’m taking some classes at the college.” She smiled at me. “Computers, you know? I need to bring my skills up to date. It all changes so fast.”
    I nodded. Grownups always complained about that. “Who are the pictures of?” I asked, nodding toward the photographs.
    Victoria looked at me; then she looked down at her plate.
    Her dad shoveled a forkful of lettuce into his mouth and chewed silently. Her mom smiled again, but a little stiffly. “That’s Victoria, back when she was two. Cute, huh? And the other picture, the boy, that’s my stepson, Rick.”
    I couldn’t tell if there really was a sudden chill or if it was just my imagination.
    â€œWell,” Victoria’s mom said brightly, “I hope you like tofu and spinach casserole? It’s one of Victoria’s favorite meals.” She dished a pile of steaming green slop onto my plate. “Victoria tells me that your mother is an artist. That’s very interesting.”
    I nodded. People always said it was interesting when they totally couldn’t relate.
    â€œI was thinking about taking an art class,” she mused.
    Victoria’s dad raised his eyebrows. “And when exactly would