Chapter 37: Becca

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"Nothing," Ronan says, and I can tell that he means it. "I just want to understand how you figured it out. I know you knew; you were so confident about it. Like you could see what was going to happen before it actually did." He looks at me curiously. "How?"

I look back at him, fighting hard to keep my face blank. "I didn't know anything. It was just a lucky guess."

"Luck," he repeats. He lets out a breathy laugh. "Luck is four-leaf clovers and rabbit feet. This isn't luck. And this isn't the first time you've done something like this, either. When we were playing Capture the Flag, you knew that Clancey was the one who was going to find the flag. That's why you hid it in a beehive, right?"

"Hornets' nest," I correct him. "And I'm telling you, that was just dumb luck."

He narrows his eyes, and I can tell he doesn't believe me. "No, that was something more than luck. I don't know if you're just really good at making predictions, or if there's something else going on, but you have to admit it— this is getting a little freaky. Like, Sixth Sense freaky. So, are you gonna tell me the truth, or do I have to figure it out for myself? Because I can. And I will. But I'd prefer to hear it from you."

If anyone else had told me they could figure out my deepest, darkest secret, I would've said they were crazy. But I don't say this to Ronan, because the scary thing is I actually believe him. He wasn't making a threat— he was making a promise. And I don't doubt that he'd be able to make good on that promise. There's something knowing about him. Something aware.

My Abuela warned me never to tell my parents about my abilities. But she never warned me against telling my friends.

I'm exhausted from trudging through the weeks at Lightlake like some sort of one-woman army. I'm tired of being angry, and I'm angry about being tired. There are so many secrets bottled up inside of me that if I don't let a few out, I'm going to explode, just like how everyone— the counselors, the Director, even Finn— expects me to. They all think I'm some hothead incapable of making a reasonable decision. And maybe they're right. But right now, I really want to prove them wrong.

"You can't tell anyone else," I begin, in the steadiest voice I can muster up. "I'm serious. This isn't just a who-kissed-who kind of secret. It's the real deal."

"I won't say a word," Ronan assures me. He mimics zipping up his lips and throwing away the key. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I'm being serious, Ronan. You can't tell a soul."

"I know, I won't. I already did the whole oath thing— what else do you want from me?"

"I want your sincerity, jackass."

He sighs loudly. "Becca, I swear on Dairy Queen that I won't spill your secret. And that's about as sincere as I'm going to get."

I stare at him. He stares back, his black eyes barely visible through the gloom.

"If you breathe a word of this to anyone I'll make sure you never taste a Blizzard again," I tell him. "I'm sincere about that, too."

"Okay. Now that we've both agreed we're not liars, can we stop threatening each other and start telling our secrets instead? We've only got—" He glances at my watch, the glowing display easily visible in the dark. "Two minutes left."

I suck in a breath of cold air. It's time for— what would my Abuela call it? An acto de fe.

I've never been one for small talk, so I just blurt it out. "I'm a psychic. It's not magic or anything silly like that, but I can... see things. Things that have already happened, and some that haven't. My Abu- grandmother says that it's a gift. She calls me a curandera."

Ronan doesn't question this. He just asks, (completely butchering the Spanish pronunciation) "What's a curandera?"

"It's like the Spanish word for psychic, or healer. But it's all nonsense. I don't believe her, and whenever she brings it up it drives my parents crazy. This isn't a gift. It's just... the way it is. For me. It's who I am.

Ronan's gaze is indiscernible. And then, after a long pause, he says, "Read my future."

"What?"

"You said that you can see things that haven't happened yet. So, read my future."

My cheeks flush hot with frustration. "I knew it. You don't believe me, do you? You think this is all one big joke."

"You can't seriously expect me to believe you're a psychic, Becca. That's crazy."

"It's not crazy. It's the truth."

"If it's so true, then why don't you read my future?" Ronan holds out his hands like he expects me to start reading his palms, right here, right now. He's grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "I'm sure you'll see some very exciting things."

I glare at him. "This is why I don't tell people. For this very reason."

"Which reason? Because they won't believe you, or they'll ask for their fortune?"

"Both! Also, it doesn't work like that. It's not like a switch that I can turn on and off whenever I want— I can't just stare at the lines on your palms and tell you when you're going to die. It's not that simple."

"Oh, c'mon Becca. If you're going to claim that you're a psychic, the least you can do is try to prove it."

Ronan flashes me another infuriating grin. I glare at him even harder, but then, grudgingly, I grab his hands. (They're cold, but it works better like this— if I'm touching the person who wants to know. The physical connection makes my visions clearer, somehow.) "I can't promise that this will work."

"Of course," Ronan says, in that infuriatingly cocky voice.

For a few seconds, I can't help but wonder what I'm doing. This is insane. So, so insane. I never should've agreed to look into Ronan's future. There's nothing right about what I'm doing; nothing right at all. Maybe I'll lie and say I can't see anything. Maybe I'll just make something up—

But I haven't even finished my thought when a series of images flash before my eyes: brown, curly hair. A river. Ice cream? The crumpled hood of a Cadillac. The black surface of the lake, and Ronan reaching for the wheel of the motorboat-

You fucking killed him! Did you see that? Did you?

Something sparks between our palms, and Ronan curses and yanks his hands away. "Holy shit, Becca!" he exclaims. "What was that?"

"I- I- don't know," I mutter. "My visions aren't usually that vivid— maybe that's what caused the shock? I'm not sure. It's never happened before. But do you believe me now?"

Ronan is rubbing his hands together vigorously, trying to massage the pain away. "I don't know. It could've been static electricity. Your hair is frizzy enough."

"If you're going to keep being a jerk, I'm going inside."

"Woah, I didn't mean any offense," he says quickly. "Maybe you can... try again?"

"No! I already told you, that's not how it works! Didn't you learn your lesson when I fucking shocked you?"

Ronan shrugs, and for a second, I'm so frustrated that I make the mistake of pushing his hands away— but the second our skin touches, I see. This vision isn't like the other- this one is clear.

"Becca, what's wrong?" he asks, reading the shock on my face.

"Your friend," I begin slowly, trying to piece together the flashes of images that I saw, "Their last name is Rivers? No, Brooks."

I know that this is right, because Ronan's face suddenly turns pale, and he takes a small step back, bumping his spine against the cabin wall. The blurry image of a Superman comic book flashes before my eyes, but I blink it away. "He's important to you, isn't he?"

Ronan doesn't question this. He just asks, in a wary voice, "How do you know that name?"

"I already told you how. I know things, Ronan. I know you."

His eyes look so black. Like the vacuum of space itself. They look angry, but not at me. "I've only told one person at this camp about Jesse. You shouldn't know who he is. That's not possible."

"Lots of things are possible."

"That doesn't even make—" Ronan's eyes squint shut, and then he pinches two fingers down on the bridge of his nose. "You know what? Fuck it. Just tell me the rest of what you saw."

So, I close my eyes, and try to recall the flurry of motion that darted across my eyes only moments earlier. "I saw... a telephone. You're talking to your friend. But it's not good- you're angry at something. I see blood, too. Lots of blood."

Ronan's eyes fly open. I can see fear in their dark depths. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know if the blood and the telephone are connected or not. But I think... I think it means that something bad is going to happen between the two of you. You can't make that phone call. There will be consequences."

"What kind of consequences?"

"Bad ones. Long ones."

Ronan holds his hands out again. "Do it again. I want to know more."

I take his hands in mine, but this time, I don't see anything except the rain crashing down around us. "There's nothing else. That's it."

"Don't lie, Becca."

"I'm not lying. I don't see anything else, and that's the truth."

Ronan turns his head away from me. "Whatever. Fine. Thanks for... trying, I guess."

"Look— I'm sorry, Ronan. This is why I don't tell people about what I can do. It... freaks them out. Makes them scared."

"I'm not scared," he says tightly.

"Fine. You're not. But you can't overthink this too much, right? It's only a vision. Sometimes I interpret things wrong. I make mistakes. It's not an exact science, so just— don't worry about it."

"You said that you knew me."

"What?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"No, tell me. I want to understand."

"Just forget about it," Ronan says. And just like that, he's wearing that easy, casual smile again, the one that always drives Finn insane— but now, I know it's nothing more than a feigned mask. "Why don't we head back inside?" he says, more to himself than me. "I think our seven minutes is up."

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