Believe Me

By H. S. Stone

What if you could see into the future, but no one believed you?

When Cassie was six years old, she discovered that she had the gift of prophecy. But with that gift came a curse. No one believed her predictions.

Ten years later, Cassie doesn’t bother telling anyone about her powers. Not even her best friend believes in what she can do. Cassie is content living the life of a normal teenager until she meets Ryan, a new boy in school. She uses her powers to try to win him over, but her prophecies about their relationship eventually take a more dangerous turn. Are her visions of the future doomed to come to pass, or can she change their fates?

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. S. Stone
• Release date: May 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370675739

H. S. Stone

Even before he could read, H.S. Stone wanted to write a book. Fascinated by the stories that seemed to leap from his kindergarten teacher's books, he went home and wrote his own book, with illustrations and bound by staples. Of course, since he didn't know how to read or write yet, the book was full of gibberish. Undaunted, H.S. eventually mastered the ABC's and continued to write throughout his grade school years, adolescence, and into adulthood. His publications include novels aimed at Young Adult and Middle Grade readers as well as several short stories. He currently lives with his family in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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Believe Me

by

H.S. Stone

Published by H.S. Stone

Copyright © 2017 H.S. Stone

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Cassandra cried, and curs'd th' unhappy hour;

Foretold our fate; but, by the god's decree,

All heard, and none believ'd the prophecy.

The Aeneid by Virgil

Chapter 1

I could tell from the way Debra bounced into the locker room what she was going to say.

Oh my God, Cassie! You’re not going to believe it. I got an A on the math test! She squealed loudly enough to turn the heads of the other girls around us. Then she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tightly against her body. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind, but I had already disrobed and stood by my locker clad only in my underwear.

Debra let go and said, Thank you so much for your help.

You’re welcome. I knew you could do it. I busied myself with pulling up the shorts of my PE uniform.

You were the only one. She still smiled like she had no cares in the world, and I feared that she would try to hug me again, so I shoved my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and lifted it above my head. To my relief, Debra turned to her locker and began to change as well.

Debra didn’t need to tell me how well she did on her test because I already knew. It wasn’t the hours I spent tutoring her in algebra that gave me confidence. It was because I knew. I always knew what would happen in the future. Last night, I told Debra that she’d ace the test, but she didn’t believe me.

Nobody believed my prophecies. Ever.

Still, I was happy for my best friend. Math was never her strong suit, but after her grade slipped to a C-, she asked me for help. I gladly offered to tutor her, but she also worked her butt off. She spent her evenings studying and rarely went out except on the weekends. For Debra, that was something. She deserved her A.

I finished putting on my PE uniform, threw my school clothes into my locker, and secured it. I waited for Debra to do the same. We then headed out to the gym, where the coach waited for the rest of the class to line up before starting our warm up exercises.

Buoyed by the euphoria of her math test, Debra was especially enthusiastic in PE. She counted out her jumping jacks with a vigor that she rarely exhibited. When we ran laps, I struggled to keep up with her despite the fact that we usually ran at the same speed. At one point, the coach even singled out her effort, which improved her disposition even more.

Math was Debra’s kryptonite, but history was one of mine, and I had a history test coming up that I didn’t want to think about. Like her, I worked hard on my weak subjects, but I didn’t have a tutor to help me. She wasn’t a history whiz in the way that math came easily to me. Nevertheless, I hung onto a B in the class. I hoped that my grade wouldn’t slip after today’s test.

I considered using my powers to foresee my test grade, but I was afraid to. I’d rather find out along with everyone else in class. It was unfortunate that I didn’t have the power to pluck exam answers out of thin air. I’d take that over the ability to see the future any day.

With the dreaded history test occupying my mind, PE passed quickly. Before I wanted it to, the bell rang to signal that it was time for us to change back to our school clothes.

Debra and I later parted ways as she headed to a different class, leaving me to face history by myself.

Mrs. Alvarez, the history teacher, was at the door when I arrived. As I slipped past her, she eyed me like a security guard scrutinizing someone carrying a suspicious package. She was a stickler for punctuality and locked the door to her classroom as soon as the bell rang. Fortunately, her room was near the gym, so I didn’t have to worry about being late.

The bell rang and, predictably, Mrs. Alvarez closed the door. Before she could turn the lock, however, someone knocked. The class snickered. Whoever was on the other side of the door had an embarrassing lecture in store.

Opening the door, Mrs. Alvarez said, How many times have I –

She stopped in midsentence, her face scrunched in confusion. I had never seen the boy who stood outside the room, and apparently, neither had she.

Sorry, the boy said. I got lost. Today’s my first day at this school. He handed her a sheet of paper.

Mrs. Alvarez scanned the page. Find a seat. There’s one in the back over there. She pointed to an empty seat at the back of the first row.

The boy walked quickly to his assigned desk and sat down. He was Asian, either Chinese or Korean, with short dark hair and eyes that matched his hair color. He wore a black jacket over a plain gray T-shirt and jeans.

Facing the rest of us, Mrs. Alvarez read off the paper, This is Ryan Wong. Welcome him to our class. A few murmurs of welcome peppered the air. I’ll give you a syllabus and textbook to read through, Ryan. For the rest of you, we still have a test today.

The groans that met her statement were significantly louder than the greetings for the new student.

Mrs. Alvarez picked up a stack of papers from her desk and passed them out to us. Like her other tests, this one consisted of an intimidating number of pages. I leafed through them, counting twenty-two questions that I needed to answer in less than an hour.

I soon forgot about Ryan as my brain switched to recalling facts about the War of 1812 and its aftermath. For the next fifty minutes, all I heard was the scratching of pencils on paper. Thankfully, I was able to recall most of what I’d spent hours reading and re-reading from our textbook. Although I remembered enough facts to answer every question, I had a nagging feeling that there was more I should have written.

Regretfully, I wondered what my powers would’ve shown me if I had asked last night about my grade on this test. If I had learned that I’d get an A, would I be more relaxed now? What if I saw that I’d fail the test? Would I be more stressed out or less so because I had nothing to lose?

Questions like those always plagued my thoughts. It was another cursed side effect of my gift. In some ways, everyone else was fortunate in not knowing what lay in store for them.

A reminder that we had ten minutes remaining shook me out of my reverie. There was no point in spending more time pondering my abilities. I’d already done so countless times in the last ten years.

I put the finishing touches on the last paragraph, an explanation of how the conclusion of the War of 1812 swept in the Era of Good Feelings, when Mrs. Alvarez asked us to put our pencils down and to pass our test papers up to the front of the room.

It was a relief when the bell rang a few seconds later. My history ordeal was over. No matter how I did, at least I didn’t have to worry about it anymore.

Now I had to tackle the other subject I dreaded, English. Having history and English back to back was the worst part of my day, but once I got through them, a weight lifted from my shoulders, and the rest of the day was a breeze in comparison.

Because I sat in the corner of the history classroom farthest away from the door, I was one of the last students to leave. Mrs. Alvarez was already at her post by the doorway, daring any students in the next period to arrive late to her class.

Before I took two steps out of the room, a tap on my shoulder stopped me. I turned around, surprised by the sight of the new boy. His face bore the worried look of someone who was lost.

Excuse me, he said, showing me a printout of his class schedule. Can you tell me the quickest way to room 53?

Fifty-three? Are you looking for Mr. Beecher’s English class?

Yes. Are you in that class too?

Unfortunately, yes.

I’m sorry. He must have thought that I was complaining about him, not that I hated English.

No, I should be sorry. That came out wrong. I only said that because his class isn’t my favorite. I didn’t mention that history wasn’t either because Mrs. Alvarez was still within earshot.

He let out a breath and offered his hand. In that case, my name is Ryan Wong.

I shook it. His grip was firm but not crushing like some boys who wanted to impress me with how strong they were. Hi, I’m Cassie. Cassie Dawson.

Pleased to meet you, Cassie. Today’s my first day at this school.

So I heard. By the way, I advise you not to be late to Mrs. Alvarez’s class again. She hates it when students are late.

He turned back to watch our history teacher shepherding students into her classroom. Thanks for the tip. I’ll remember that.

Speaking of being late, we’d better get going.

I headed down the hall, and Ryan quickly caught up. To his credit, he didn’t try to engage in small talk as we walked. He didn’t try to impress me or throw in a lame pickup line or tell a stupid joke. He was so quiet that I had to check a couple of times to make sure that he was still following me.

Mr. Beecher’s room was on the same side of the school as our history class, so we made it with a minute to spare.

Here we are, I said.

Thanks, Cassie. Ryan smiled at me, and for the first time, I noticed how he looked close up. There weren’t many Asian students at our school, but we had a good mix of cultures so that Ryan’s ethnicity didn’t stand out. He was a few inches taller than me, and his skin was tan, not because of his race but because it looked like he used to live somewhere with more sun than we got in the Pacific Northwest.

I didn’t want to stare any longer and seem like a creep, so I told him, You’re welcome. Nice to have met you.

My desk was in the middle of the room, and as I eased into my seat, Sharon, the girl who sat behind me whispered, Who’s the new guy?

Ryan was talking to Mr. Beecher at the front of the room. They were both busy looking at paperwork, undoubtedly related to Ryan’s transfer to our school.

I turned my neck at a slight angle and spoke out of the corner of my mouth, His name’s Ryan, and today’s his first day at this school.

I saw you walking in with him. What’s the deal between you two?

Nothing. I just met him a few minutes ago.

So? Sharon was like that when it came to boys. For a high school junior, she was incredibly experienced in the realm of dating. It helped that she developed physically before the rest of us, and she dressed more like a fashion model than a high school student.

To the best of my knowledge, Sharon already had three boyfriends this school year, and we hadn’t yet reached November. In all three cases, she broke up with them as quickly as she fell in love with them, if love was ever involved in the first place. The only reason I knew was because she sat behind me, and she subjected me to her commentary about the boys in school, whether I wanted to hear it or not.

Mr. Beecher finished with the transfer paperwork, introduced Ryan to the class, and assigned him a seat two rows to the left of mine. All eyes followed him as he made his way to his desk. He smiled and waved to a few kids as he passed by them. His eyes locked on mine before he sat down, and I felt stares turn my way.

I should’ve prophesized whether I’d face embarrassment like this before I left home this morning, but how could I have known?

I heard a giggle behind me. I think he likes you, Cassie.

I turned my attention to the notebook on my desk. It was suddenly the most interesting object in the classroom.

Just in time, Mr. Beecher announced, "OK, everyone, we’ll now continue our discussion of Of Mice and Men."

I opened my notebook to the page where my last set of notes ended. Then I set my copy of the book next to it. Compared to other books I read for English, Of Mice and Men was relatively painless. At least I could understand it, which was more than I could say for the likes of The Canterbury Tales. Why we studied Middle English in a class meant for students who needed to know how to communicate in today’s English was beyond me.

Let’s start with Lennie’s puppy, our teacher said.

The silence that greeted him told me that I wasn’t the only person who couldn’t come up with anything interesting to say about