It's Just a Jump to the Left by Libba Bray Read Free Book Online Page B

the fortune-telling.
Every mornin’, every evenin’, ain’t we got fun?
    “Say, let’s summon a real spirit,” George challenges.
    A knot of excitement and unease twists in the hostess’s gut. The antiques dealer had cautioned against doing just this. He warned that spirits called forth must also be put back to rest by breaking the connection, saying good-bye. But he was out to make a buck with a story, and besides, it’s 1926—who believes in haunts and hobgoblins when there are motorcars and aeroplanes and the Cotton Club and men like Jake Marlowe making America first through industry?
    “Don’t tell me you’re scared.” George smirks. He has a cruel mouth. It makes him all the more desirable.
    “Scared of what?”
    “That we’ll run out of gin!” the boy in the fez jokes, and everyone laughs.
    George whispers low in her ear, “I’ll keep you safe.” His hand is on her back.
    Oh, surely this is the most glorious night in existence!
    “We summon now the spirit of this board to heed our call andtell us our fortunes true!” the hostess says with great intonation broken by giggles. “You must obey, spirit!”
    There is a moment’s pause, and then the planchette begins its slow migration across the scarred board’s gothic black alphabet, spelling out a word.
    H-E-L-L-O
    “That’s the spirit,” someone quips.
    “What is your name, o great spirit?” the hostess insists.
    The planchette moves quickly.
    N-A-U-G-H-T-Y-J-O-H-N
    George raises an eyebrow mischievously. “Say, I like the sound of that. What makes you so naughty, old sport?”
    Y-O-U-L-L-S-E-E
    “See what? What are you up to, o naughty one?”
    Stillness.
    “I want to dance! Let’s go uptown to the Moonglow,” one of the girls, a pouty drunk, slurs. “When’s the band comin’ back, anyway?”
    “In a minute. Don’t have kittens,” the hostess says with a smile and a laugh, but there’s warning in both. “Let’s try another question. Do you have any prophecy for us, Naughty John? Any fortune-telling?” She casts a sly glance at George.
    The scryer remains still.
    “Do tell us something else, won’t you?”
    Finally, there is movement on the board. “I… will… teach… you… fear,” the hostess reads aloud.
    “Sounds like the headmaster at Choate,” the boy in the fez teases. “How will you do that, old sport?”
    I-S-T-A-N-D-A-T-T-H-E-D-O-O-R-A-N-D-K-N-O-C-K
    I-A-M-T-H-E-B-E-A-S-T
    T-H-E-D-R-A-G-O-N-O-F-O-L-D
    “What does that mean?” the drunken girl whispers. She backs away slightly.
    “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s gibberish.” The hostess scolds her guest, but she feels afraid. She turns on the boy with the reputation for trouble. “You’re making it say that!”
    “I didn’t. I swear!” he says, crossing his heart with his index finger.
    “Why are you here, old sport?” George asks the board.
    The planchette moves so quickly they can barely keep up.
    I-H-O-L-D-T-H-E-K-E-Y-S-O-F-H-E-L-L-A-N-D-D-E-A-T-H
    W-R-A-T-H-I-S-C-O-M-E-A-R-M-A-G-E-D-D-O-N-B-A-B-Y-L-O-N-W-H-O-R-E
    “Stop it this instant!” the hostess shouts.
    W-H-O-R-E-W-H-O-R-E-W-H-O-R-E the piece repeats. The bright young things remove their fingers, but the piece continues to move.
    “Make it stop, make it stop!” one girl screeches, and even the jaded boys pale and move back.
    “Stop, spirit! I said stop!” the hostess shouts.
    The planchette falls still. The party guests glance at one another with wild eyes. In the other room, the band members return to their instruments and strike up a hot dance number.
    “Oh, hallelujah! Come on, baby. I’ll teach you to dance the Black Bottom.” The drunken girl struggles to her feet and pulls the boy in the fez after her.
    “Wait! We have to spell out good-bye on the board! That’s the proper ritual!” the hostess pleads as her guests desert her.
    George slips his arm around her waist. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Naughty John.”
    “Well, I…”
    “You know it was the old