‘Sure you do.’ The assorted possessors of the gift all seamlessly ceased channelling and progressed to making elaborate hand movements over their crystal balls, earrings chiming. ‘Hmm… I see a boy… a dark boy…’
‘Has he got a cowlick? And an opening for a hand?’ asked Juno. If their strange client hadn’t been too young for that kind of thing, the fortune-tellers would’ve fancied they heard something like sarcasm. They always changed tack.
‘I see a far-away place… yes, far away…’
‘Well, not for us or the Martins!’ declared Juno. ‘We all gotta be here on my thirteenth birthday so Mr Martin can come through our door as Sinterklaas again! That’s what I wanna know about! And you’re a phony!’ And with that Juno’d storm out. But she only ever stormed as far as the entrance to the tent, where she loudly demanded her nickel back. Without fail the men in top hats and embroidered waistcoats who did the door for these tents were mighty keen on giving it back to her real quick. Somehow, though, they couldn’t shut Juno up. By that stage an interested crowd had formed every time. It always contained a couple folks who thought that slipping one over on dizzy adults was one thing but taking advantage of a helpless kid quite another, and made it known that they thought that way. Fortune-teller’s tents had a habit of shutting halfway through the Sunday of the fair in Hastings-Sunrise, and being gone by early Thanksgiving morning. Eventually, the fall before Juno’s eleventh birthday, there was no fortune-teller at the fair.