The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball Read Free Page A

called Ye Olde Metaphysical Shoppe (yes, its real name) and whenever Megan Crowley does something really mean, Lindsay goes there and blows her entire allowance on whatever the crazy lady behind the counter says will help. Samantha and I are both convinced that Lindsay and Lindsay alone is keeping Ye Olde Metaphysical Shoppe from filing for ye olde bankruptcy. But hey, whatever works.
    Lindsay opens up the paper bag and pulls out a small doll made from what appears to be old dishrags. It has blond hair made from yellow string, it’s wearing a badly sewn, miniature replica of a GCHS cheerleading uniform, and its eyes have been sewn shut with black thread in the shape of small x ’s. “What is that?” I take it from her and turn it over in my hands.
    â€œIt’s a voodoo doll,” Lindsay answers excitedly. “Of Megan. I sewed her eyes shut so that she can’t see me coming. And now,” she pulls a small pin cushion out of the paper bag and removes a sewing needle from it, “I’m going to stick this in her mouth, so that her tongue will hurt whenever she’s about to say something mean.” She pushes the needle through the doll’s red lips, and it emerges out the back of its head. “There,” she says, smiling with satisfaction. “Take that, biyatch.”
    Samantha and I both laugh.
    â€œOkay, really, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell her. “Please tell me that you don’t really think that this is going to work.”
    Lindsay lets out a heavy sigh, as if I’m the one who needs to be reasoned with. “You’re so closed-minded,” she says. “Why can’t you just accept that there are things in this world that aren’t concrete? Veronica says that people like you are just threatened by the idea that you can’t control everything.” (Veronica being the crazy lady behind the counter who, apparently, has received her Ph.D. in armchair psychology.)
    â€œI’m not threatened,” I tell her. “I’m logical. And sane. You should try sanity some time. It feels pretty nice.”
    Lindsay pretends not to hear me, gazing into the x ’s where the doll’s eyes used to be.
    â€œLet me see that,” Samantha says, reaching out for the doll. She takes the pin out and sticks it through the top of the doll’s head. “Oooh,” she says, in a falsetto, Megan Crowley voice. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a brain, or that might have hurt!”
    Lindsay and I giggle. Samantha tosses the doll back to Lindsay, who carefully removes the needle and puts it back through the doll’s mouth.
    â€œLindsay, you should talk to my mom. She’s becoming more and more like you every day,” Samantha says, flopping down on my bed. “Seriously, did I tell you? She just started seeing a psychic. Madame Gillaux. She does readings for all of these celebrities and socialites, and my mom flies her down from New York every other week. Because, you know, why give your money to starving children in Africa when you can spend it in so many other, more important ways? Anyway, last week, Madam Gillaux said she saw a baby in our family’s future, and my mom totally freaked out and made me go to the gynecologist, and now I’m on the pill.” Samantha tosses her hair back. For a second, she seems a lot older than sixteen.
    â€œReally?” Lindsay asks, laughing. “But you don’t even have a boyfriend.”
    â€œThank you, Lindsay, for reminding me,” Samantha groans. “But don’t worry. I will. Aiden is going to see the light and dump that fleabag slut of his one of these days. And when he does, I will be ready. And, thanks to Mommy Dearest, protected from unwanted pregnancies.”
    I shake my head. Aiden Tranter is a somewhat popular junior—emphasis on “somewhat.” In my opinion the only reason that Samantha is even