She stared at me, her mouth half-open. “Um.”

“You know, Butch? To take you to the STD clinic?” I motioned to the guy, who was waiting nearby.

She looked over my shoulder at him for a moment, then said, “Um. Four?”

“Cool.” I looked over my shoulder. Idiot was meandering away.

Her eyes widened. “What was that all about? Was he … did you …”

“He was going to ask for your number.”

“Oh. Really?” She pressed her lips together, flustered. “Well, I could have just told him no.”

“I know that’s hard for you.”

“No it’s not. It’s—” She wrinkled her nose. “What do you know about me, anyway?” She got even redder as she thought about it. “You know a lot about me, don’t you?”

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“What else do you know about me?” She seemed sort of angry. “No, forget it. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“You’re angry?”

She shrugged. “It’s not your fault, is it? But it’s really weird.” Then she smiled. “You are right. It is hard for me to say no sometimes. When I like someone. But I could have said no to that guy. He’s not really my type.”

“He looked a little like that kind of boyfriend your friends back home expect you to have, though. You know, the one that talksa like dis.” I did the “Delicioso!” fingertip kiss.

She thought for a second. “You’re right. Maybe I should try to get him back.” Then she leaned over the counter and said to me, “Four is when my shift ends.”

“I’ll be here.” I tried to be nonchalant, but then I thought of the birthmark again and knocked over the condiment tray. Taryn just shook her head as if to say, “I don’t want to know.”

She was right. She didn’t.

Since it was six hours until her shift ended, I could have biked back home. I should have. Nan was disabled and could have used my help. Instead, I spent a good chunk of the time aimlessly meandering down the boardwalk, taking in all the sights. Sure, I was a local, but the truth was I hadn’t been to the Heights since the idea of cotton candy sounded good, which was years ago. The farthest I ever ventured up there was to the Seaside Park Beach Patrol headquarters, which was right on the border between the two towns. Here, though, the crazy people and steady clicking of the big wheels and the whir of rides combined with the scent of saltwater taffy and pizza to make it virtually impossible to hear the You Wills.

Now I worked extra hard to hear them. Something was making me cling to them. Of course it was Taryn. I strained to hear the You Wills, which led me to a stand in the corner of the boardwalk that was raffling off ugly dollar-store stuffed dogs. I blew eight dollars trying to win one by throwing darts before I realized I was a sucker, since I already knew what was going to happen. What the hell would I do with a stuffed dog, anyway?

By the time I returned it was 4:05. I’d timed it perfectly. I didn’t want to appear too overeager by showing up early or right on time. So I figured five minutes late was good, even though I spent those five minutes staring at the clock on the boardwalk and watching the seconds tick away. When I got there, she was sitting outside the stand, hat removed, tapping her foot and looking anxious. “You’re late,” she said.

“Sorry.”

She grabbed me by the wrist and immediately the You Wills stopped. A gust of air flooded my lungs at that second because I gasped and choked a little. She led me toward her grandmother’s booth. “You don’t get it. My grandmother starts working at five, but she always arrives early. And she can’t know we’re here.”

With my mind calm, I could really concentrate on her for the first time. She had little crinkles around her eyes and freckles over the bridge of her nose. I realized I’d already had the map of those freckles committed to memory—a dark one under her left eye, a constellation of three at the side of her nose. She didn’t wear any makeup and her hair was in a ponytail, but she still managed to look beautiful. She always would, even when she was older.

“Why are you staring?” she asked, sounding annoyed. I probably would be, too, if someone was studying me as closely as I was looking at her.

“Nothing. Um, why? I thought your grandmother and I really hit it off that last time.”

She smirked, then jabbed her finger at the tiny sign that said: ABSOLUTELY NO REVERSALS. “That’s why.”

“But what does it mean?” I asked again, as she lifted the velvet curtain and pulled me inside. This was right from my vision. The room was barely the size of a closet, with a small table in the center, a crystal ball atop it. Everything was dark velvet, hot and cramped, like the inside of a coffin. The stench of incense was so strong I had to swallow again and again to keep from gagging.

Taryn reached under the table and pulled out an old book. “This,” she said, “is the Book of Touch.”

I stared at it. It wasn’t anything remarkable. It was small with a simple black leather cover, kind of like one of the ancient Bibles Nan kept by her bedside. “What is it for?”

“I’ll show you.”

At first I thought it was a how-to manual for massage or something, but I wasn’t lucky enough to have Taryn wanting me to give her a backrub. Not yet, anyway. She hurried to a small dusty bookshelf and slid her hand behind a picture of a man who looked about a thousand years old. She pulled out a key. “That’s my grandfather,” she said, motioning with her chin as she turned the book on its side, revealing a half-rusted lock. “He’s dead.”

“Nice.”

She shrugged. “He didn’t speak English.”

She put the key in the lock and it clicked open. For a moment I could have sworn the temperature in the tent dropped, but that was probably just the result of watching too many episodes of Scooby-Doo. Taryn opened the book to the first thick, yellowing page and motioned me over. “Each page is a Touch.”

I watched her flip through. The book must have been crazy old, because it smelled moldy and almost every page was mostly blank, with just a few foreign words in bold print and a signature on it. The ones that were full had an ornate, slanting gold script that was somewhat faded or smudged. But I couldn’t make a thing out. “That’s not English.”

“Duh. Hungarian.”

“What does it say?”

“It tells you what to say to perform the Touch. First you have to sign on the page. It’s like a contract. And then once the Touch is performed, the words of the spell fade—look.” She opened to a page that was blank except for a heading and a signature, Ernesto Pugilini, at the very bottom. “This Touch has already been performed.”

“What the hell is a Touch?”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s like a spell.” She stared at the page. “And this one is … Paws of the Bear. Ernesto received unnatural strength.”

My jaw just hung there. “Wait. You can read Hungarian?”

“Duh. Isn’t that what I just did?”

“Okay. So you’re telling me that this book can make someone—strong? Or whatever? Give me a break.” I studied her face. It was completely serious. “You don’t believe in that crap, do you?”

“Um, of course.” She stared at me. “Wow. Didn’t think I’d have to convince you.”

“Okay. Prove it.”

I was already getting that feeling, as if the You Wills were saying, Great thing to ask, Captain Obvious. She flipped through a few pages and turned the book around to face me. It was an almost blank page, I guessed from a Touch that had already been performed, or whatever. Under the heading I saw a very familiar signature. A name I’d seen signed on every absentee excuse I’d ever brought to school, usually after a bad bout of cycling. Moira Cross.

Taryn pointed at the heading in Hungarian. “This one says Sight of the Eagle,” she said. “Three guesses what that will do.”