Picasso's Promise

Episode 45| It's in the Cards

PICASSO'S POV

A common thing one of my friends would say, without much warning, was that he only spoke three language. Bullshit, money, and English. And for me, that was all I could imagine coming out of this so called psychic's mouth.

The storefront was empty - apart from a single round table and three chairs. It was almost as if she had been waiting for us and knew we were coming - but I wasn't going to give her that much credit. Her hair was wrapped up in a cloth, purple and blue, and she had a similar hue on her eyelids - barely blending out the shades properly.

To be fair, I wasn't into makeup - but I knew what it was not suppose to look like. And on her, it looked chalky, flat, and completely unnecessary. She was a lovely looking woman, dressed in form fitting attire that hugged her body in the right places. If she was really related to Sydney, then I believed it based on her face alone.

"Come sit, sit please," she ordered to us, skipping a greeting entirely. "What can I do for you my love?"

"Are you Yara Webster?"

Sydney didn't wait to play off why she was here with a lie, she went straight to the point, stunning both me and the psychic. The woman gave out an audible laugh, instead of a gasp. "No one has called me by that name in years."

"You don't go by that anymore?"

"I go by Madame Monroe."

"Of course you fucking do," I huffed under my breath - too low for anyone to hear me. I cleared my throat, prepared to say something loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's cut to the chase. Do we have to pay you if we were to ask you a few questions?"

She pushed her glasses down her nose, peering at me as though I'd sprouted a second head. "You want to ask me questions? That usually never happens unless it's the IRS coming by." She waited a beat. "You're not the Feds, are you?"

"No, we're not, we're teenagers," Sydney said, "I don't think the IRS employees hires high schoolers."

"You could be undercover cops," she offered, looking more concerned than before. "I swear I don't sell herbs anymore. Or magic mushrooms. If that's what you're here for-"

"No, no, that's not why we're here," Sydney interjected. "We're here to ask about my father. I wanted to know if you knew anything about either Fredrick Webster, or my mother. He was married to a woman named Laura Webster."

"Darling," she let out a yawn, "You're going to have to forgive me. But I don't do family reunions well. You either have to ask for a card reading, or you can get on out of here."

"That's not why we came here though," she said, "How about this? We both do a card reading and you answer a few questions for me afterwards. What's that gotta be? Sixty bucks for the both of us?"

"Make it seventy-five," she suggested, "and we have a deal."

"Seventy," I said flatly, "That's our final offer."

"Fine," Madame Monroe puffed, clapping her hands together. "Who want's to go first?"

"I will," I said ahead of Sydney. "Let's see what bullshit you've got cooking up for me."

"Picasso," Sydney shooed at me, hitting my arm. But it didn't stop me from going on.

"What are you going to predict? My death?"

"Don't speak that into existence," Sydney warned, touching my arm in a way that made me think she was a believer of card readings and looking at tea leaves insides of the bottom of a cup. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

That, and that alone, made me shut my playful nature up. I didn't want to cause her anxiety - even if it was about a hypothetical situation. Grabbing her hand, I walked to the table, sat down, and placed both of our intertwined fingers over my knee.

In more ways than one, Sydney appeared relaxed after I did that. Our hands didn't move from that spot for the entire duration of time that we were there. I made sure of it.

Madame Monroe brought out a stack of cards and asked me to touch the deck. She then shuffled them again, asked me to pull one out, and she set it faced down in front of me. She added three more cards, making me touch each one before placing it ahead of the two of us.

She ordered me to flip over one of the cards - whichever one I wanted, it didn't matter, she said. She closed her eyes after I flipped it over. Collecting herself, she pressed her lips into a straight line. "You have good fortune coming your way."

"Vague as fuck," was what I wanted to say, but I stopped myself from forming the words and shouting it out at this fraud. What I did say, instead, was: "I already know that's going to happen."

She had no clue that Sydney was about to inherit her home again. No doubt, she's going to want to start going back to school in Malibu. The fear of having to lose her to some jock, flash through my thoughts, and I unintentionally tightened my hand around her fingers. She had to whisper that I was squeaking too tight for me to realize what I was doing. If the lady could predict my worries, then maybe she was on to something. I was worried I was going to lose Sydney to a different man.

Madame Monroe told me to flip another card, and in response, her face changed. She arched her brow and sucked on her top row of teeth in silence, thinking deeply before speaking. "You..."

"You what?" I barked, getting impatient. "Say it."

"You have danger in your future."

"What kind?" Sydney's spin straightened like an arrow. I rolled my eyes. "What does that mean?"

"Someone, I'm not sure who, but someone has a vengeance for you." 

I didn't move. I didn't even blink.

She was full of so much BS, I was half ready to walk out the door.

"I don't understand any of what you're saying," I uttered. 

Madame Monroe slid her glasses off completely. "Dear boy, you have a bounty on your head."

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