Bo nods. “Swirl your cup three times counterclockwise.”
I do as Bo says and then turn my cup over onto a towel he’s laid out in front of me.
With both hands, he taps my cup a few times before flipping it over. He positions the handle toward me.
“Now,” he says, smiling, “let’s see what your future holds.”
I inhale in anticipation. This was good. Bo will clear everything up. It’s just been an off week, and my luck will be back in no time. Bo pushes up his glasses and analyzes my tea leaves lining the sides and base of the cup.
Hazel scoots closer to me and presses her cheek up against my shoulder to get a good look. I angle my head down toward her and catch an undercurrent of strawberries and sugar. Her scent blends with the lavender mint tea, and every single sweet note intoxicates me just as it did when she kissed me outside the bodega.
When she looks up at me, our lips are inches apart. It takes everyounce of self-control not to kiss her again right here, right now. I’ve already scared away one fortune teller.
“Just trying to get a better angle,” she clarifies, immediately righting herself.
I scoot over and tug her chair closer, so she has the better view.
Bo adjusts his glasses. “Okay, let’s see here. Closest to the rim, do you see those two triangles?” he says, describing the shapes formed on the side of my teacup. “The tips are facing each other, like a tilted hourglass.”
The loose leaves don’t look like anything but a random scattering of tea. Calling that left shape a triangle feels like a stretch, but I go along with it. “Am I gaining more time?” I ask hopefully. I could really use it at work.
“No, your time is running out,” Bo states.
“His time—like his life?” Hazel cuts in.
Bo chuckles. “Oh, sorry. I can see how that sounds, though that’s not incorrect. We’re all running out of time. This one generally relates to a countdown, a timeline. Something’s coming up for you, and you’re racing against the clock.”
Hazel looks over at me, her eyebrows pinched together. She knows exactly what I’m racing toward… and all the obstacles that have blocked my path this week alone.
Bo hovers his pointer finger over the middle of my cup. “Do you see two lines with tea leaves across, like a ladder?” He leans in closer and focuses his attention like he’s trying hard to analyze what he’s seeing. “In a couple of weeks, you might be advancing in your job. Climbing higher. Or, climbing down. Something like that. The shape is in the leaves and the white of the cup. This could be positive.”
“Could be?” I ask. “Which means it could also be negative?”
“I’d say 50/50,” Bo confirms. “You will be going somewhere.”
Perfect. A 50/50 fortune.
Bo wavers. “It’s not very distinct. Better to avoid ladders for a while in case this isn’t so metaphorical.”
With my job, that’s not going to be easy. I try not to think about theclimbing downaspect, but of course, my mind floods with all the recent events at the theater. If we don’t have the sets ready by the time previews start, I really could be climbing down from my first job as head carpenter.
I suppress this last thought and instead focus on the other 50 percent. I’m great at concentrating on the other 50 percent. The glass half full. If I can have the sets ready on schedule—no,aheadof schedule—that would only help my career. But not just me. Mrs. Walker, Richie, my crew, the cast, the creatives. This show means something to all of us.
“Let’s go with positive, then,” I say, forcing a smile.
“At the bottom of your cup, we have an airplane. You have travel coming up,” Bo says with more confidence than his first two predictions. “Some kind of adventure.”
An airplane. This feels like a good direction.
I attempt a joke. “I’m visiting my family soon. That is usually an adventure.”
Bo frowns. “The shape is depicted by the leaves themselves. That’s… not the best.”
“You sure that’s not a bird?” Hazel tries. “Though we haven’t had much luck with those lately.”
Worry creeps back in. “Right, like maybe the airplane wings are actually bird wings?” I try.
“Do either of you actually know what birds look like?” Bo asks.
