Page 5 of All Signs Point to Malibu

The to-do list is long, but there’s no party without guests, so I yank off the sports jersey and baseball cap, fix my blouse and hair, then open my social media app. Sitting straighter, excited expression in place, I go live to my VIP Only group.

“Hey, Exclusive Hustlers! I want to personally invite you all to an event this weekend at my place in Malibu. Open bar, food, live DJ, networking opportunities. And of course, a five-minute one-on-one with me! I’ll even give your business a boost with a personalized social media shout-out at the event. Details below. Remember, this is an exclusive VIP event so bring your member code for access at the gate.”

I log off and my cell phone chimes with a calendar reminder for the following day that reads: “Maple High Career Week.”

And then there’s that.

I’ve been turning down the invite to speak for years, but they keep asking because I’m a bit of an urban legend at my old high school since a pep rally junior year...

Jocks and cheerleaders were strutting around the hallways wearing the school’s colors, while in a bathroom stall I fought with the mascot costume. Finally free of the stuffed Teen Shark outfit, I discovered I’d finally started my period. At sixteen, I was a bit of a late bloomer. A mix of anxiety and excitement washed over me as I’d finally reached this milestone.

Entering the gym, where the cheerleaders were practicing for the pep rally, I approached Angela—a perky, popular senior who had been complaining about cramps earlier that day—and whispered in her ear. She looked annoyed but handed me a tampon from her shorts pocket. When our hands touched, our lifelines connected and that’s when I had my first glimpse...

...of a stunt gone wrong during the rally and Angela crashing hard onto the gymnasium floor.

I was freaked-out, unsure what had just happened or what to do about it. Obviously warning Angela would have committed me to social outcast status for the rest of my high school career and well, I was a mascot, so my popularity wasn’t exactly stellar already. But as the pep rally played out in real time, the glimpse replayed in my mind inside the overstuffed Teen Shark head, the nagging twisting in my gut gripping tighter and tighter.

Angela performed the stunt for real, and I ran onto the floor as she was tossed into the air and dived...

The mascot costume providing a soft crash mat for her fall.

The crowd cheered and Angela was grateful—though not as grateful as one would have suspected—for me saving her life.

After that, everything changed. I don’t know why or how I have this power, and I can’t see my own future, but I learned to use it to increase my own popularity by helping others achieve their goals. Now it’s turned into a lucrative career...as long as no one discovers my secret.

On a billboard promoting some life coaching conference at the ritziest hotel this side of California, Hailey Harris’s face is as big as her ego. Gridlocked traffic means I’ve been staring at it for a full four minutes. My hands grip the steering wheel and I rotate my neck, trying to ease the tension from seeing her too-bright smile. Those perfectly straight, white teeth have to be photoshopped.

“You know, if you took the last exit instead you would’ve shaved five minutes off the drive and wouldn’t have to see that billboard you love so much.” My football team’s star quarterback, Marcus Kent, is sitting in the passenger seat of my Jeep as we drive to practice, and he’s full of helpful advice.

“This way avoids the bottleneck on Main, where that tremor caused a crater in the middle of the street.” The morning’s earthquake had registered a six point seven on the Richter scale and wreaked havoc all over the coast. Local news has been about nothing else and scientists are saying it came out of nowhere. No warning. Which in my opinion should warrant some defunding to their research, but whatever.

“If you avoid Main altogether and take 3rd, that’s not a problem,” Marcus says.

“Didn’t you fail your road test last month?” The kid’s right, but he’s already too much of a smartass for me to admit it. “Let me do the driving, please.”

A loud crunch sounds and our bodies are jerked forward.

“What the...?” I glare into the rearview mirror to see some Beemer on my bumper. “You good?” I ask Marcus.

“Yeah.” He’s giving the guy the finger and I slap it down, then climb out of the Jeep. Heat waves drift up from the pavement as I walk to the back of the vehicle to inspect the damage.

The other driver, wearing an expensive suit, Rolex on one wrist climbs out. Great—a douchebag who’ll try to blame this collision on me.

Instead, he holds his hands up in defeat. “My bad. Sorry. That billboard.” He nods toward it. “Talk about distracted driving, amirite?”

Hailey Harris strikes again.

I notice that his car has taken the brunt of the damage with a dented bumper and army-green paint scratched into the sleek white finish. “We’re good,” I say.

“Holy shit, you’re Warren Mitchell,” the guy says, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. “You used to be a big deal.”

Used to be. I can feel Hailey smirking down at me from the billboard. “Nah, man, you got me confused with someone else,” I say then walk away and climb back into the Jeep. “That fucking billboard,” I mutter as I slam the door shut.

Marcus grins, lowering himself back through the sunroof. “You know, me and my boys could climb up the tower some night and give her a mustache or something,” he says, sliding lower in the seat.

Tempting.

I turn to him. “After that last stunt you and your boys pulled at that corner store, what did I say?”

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