Page 5

Plan: foiled.

“Just bring some cash for a tip. Ten dollars is good. What do you think, mama? Are you excited?”

Even though San Diego is all about morning rituals, sun salutations, and renowned psychics, I’ve been slow to dip my toe into the woo-woo world.

Don’t get me wrong. I love living in a place known for its good energy.

But the fact that the person who bags my groceries says “Good vibes” instead of “Thanks, have a nice day” is enough of an adjustment for me coming from a city that will smash your car windows out if you park in someone else’s shoveled out spot during winter.

I fully intend to graciously thank her for her thoughtful gift, then explain how this really isn’t my thing, but suddenly I become completely distracted by something else entirely. My hands start to itch like crazy. They feel on fire. I scratch at them feverishly like a dog with fleas.

Yas notices and asks, “What’s going on, mama?”

“I don’t know. My palms are super itchy. I wonder if I’m allergic to cinnamon? Or maybe your Abuelita caught wind that you ordered her signature coffee drink with a milk alternative and now she’s cursed me so I can’t pick up the cup and take another sip,” I joke.

“Itchy palms, you say? Stop scratching!” Yas exclaims as she bats my fingers away. “My Abuelita always said that means money is in your future. Embrace the burn. It will pay off.”

I’ve about had it with Abuelita Sarita’s old wives’ tales as I open the desk drawer looking for a loose Benadryl or tube of cortisone cream.

As I do, a shockwave flutters through the top of my head.

My whole body shivers in momentary pain.

Is this what a brain aneurysm feels like? First the palms, now my head.

Am I dying?

I resolve that if it’s my time to go, I better turn around in my chair and face the ocean one last time before I depart this earth.

But as quickly as the pain comes, it goes.

I put my fingers to my temples and close my eyes to make sure I’m good.

All the while, I notice my palms return to normal as well.

“Maybe you should lay off the caffeine for now,” Yas suggests, pulling the café con leche away from me.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” I concur, remembering I already had a date with my French press this morning.

Yas digs around in her purse and pulls out something the size of a tube of Chapstick.

“Here. Breathe this in,” she directs me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Just inhale. Deep breaths,” she says.

I do, and the scent of peppermint fills my nostrils. I sneeze.

“You okay now?”

“I think so.”

“Essential oils fix everything,” she insists. I want to roll my eyes, but fear that might set off another headache.

Just then, a small gaggle of young professionals who look like they’ve never stepped foot into a yoga studio pass behind Yas and into the room without stopping by the desk.

“Who are all these people? And why are they wearing turtlenecks?” she asks, as if the nerds are attempting to preboard a plane without the right credentials.

“It’s some engineering company who reached out about a team-building exercise. Gavin gave them a group discount. It’s fine. They’re already checked in.”

“But…why are they wearing turtlenecks?”

“Not sure. My guess? They’re out of their element. I mean, does it look like any of them have ever heard the word ‘namaste’?”

“Nah-Imma-stay away from those freaks,” Yas riffs. “And let me tell you, I do not miss that corporate bullshit. Not for one second. In fact, I better get my booty into that room if I want my spot.”

Yas always lays her mat third from the right, second row. I’m surprised that she hasn’t resorted to taping off her section of the floor, she’s so particular about where she practices.

“Get it, girl,” I say as I stick out my hand to give her a high five.

When our palms connect, the sharp pain returns. It begins at the top of my head and splinters down both sides to my ears, resulting in a ringing sensation that nearly knocks me off my feet.

“Agh!” I involuntarily exclaim as I close my eyes and clamp down on Yasmin’s hand like I’m breathing through a contraction.

This time, the pain is accompanied by a vision.

A vision of Yasmin. A vision of Yasmin laying on her mat in her usual spot.

A vision of Yasmin laying on her mat in her usual spot and then all of a sudden…

I let go of Yas’ hand and the vision stops, like I pressed the off button on the remote control.

“Okay. You’re officially scaring me,” she says as I open my eyes. “Do you think you’re having a stroke? Because peppermint oil won’t cut it if so. Even I can admit that.”

“I’m fine,” I reassure her. She doesn’t believe me. “Honestly, I’m fine .” I double down.

Yas cocks her head at me, not quite confident that I’ve got my mine on straight. I flick my wrists at her as if to shoo her into the classroom; I don’t want her to miss out on her spot because she was tending to my weird, fleeting headache.

As more and more people file in, I manage to get all fifteen attendees checked in with just a few clicks of a mouse and with five minutes to spare.

With the rush out of the way, I think back on the vision I had of Yas in the room.

What was I going to see happen to her if the vision didn’t just abruptly end the way it did?

I want to say nothing and let this bizarre moment live in the past, but the inexplicable head pain drudged up a general feeling of doom and I can’t shake my sense of worry about her safety.

I think about the last time I was in the studio doing my routine cleaning.

Did I notice anything off? What could go wrong?

When I really think hard about the makeup of the room, it dawns on me.

I shoot up from my chair and beeline it to the classroom.

I push the door open so hard it flies back on the spring just as fast and slams behind me.

“Yas, you have to move,” I say, interrupting her from an eyes-closed meditative state. My voice, definitely not at a yoga whisper.

“I’m not moving. This is my spot. You know that, Moonie.”

My heart starts palpitating like I’m driving a hundred miles an hour on the freeway.

“No, for real. You have to move. Like, right now.”

“What? Why?” Yas sits up—there’s an irritation in her voice.

“Just, please, get out of the way now!”

Finally, I resort to grabbing her arm and yanking her off her mat. We make it about three feet away before the ceiling tile above her crashes down, breaking into several pieces on the floor. Those in the room gasp and a few even scream.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask the room as I run to grab a broom we keep in the corner. No one really answers me.

I can’t help but think about the visiting yogis who are here for their team-building event. Their relaxing hour of Vinyasa has started off more like…slightly terrifying. Maybe if I sweep fast enough, I can restore some order—or at least prevent a full refund.

“Need a hand there?” one of the newbs asks. His European accent is almost as distracting as the fact that the ceiling just fell down.

“No, no,” I say. “I’ve got it. Let me just sweep up and then class can resume.”

“No it can’t,” he says.

“Why not? It’s just a little…debris.”

“Well, for one, I just heard the instructor say, ‘Fuck this,’ under her breath before grabbing her things and leaving,” he says.

At that, I look to the front of the room and notice the teacher is in fact gone. Great.

“And for another, that’s a sign of a serious structural issue.”

Without having to ask, the man has inadvertently identified himself as a member of the engineer group.

“It’s just a little water damage. I’ve seen this in my mom’s condo before.”

“You wish it was water damage.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask taken aback by his smugness.

“Water damage could be an easy fix. This? Doubtful. But we’ll have to see what the City Inspector says. Give him a call.”

“City Inspector? That seems excessive.”

“We have every major city’s CI on speed dial. Either you can call him, or I will. Regardless…class is over everyone!” the man shouts as he faces the rest of the room. “Pack it up! It’s not safe here. Go on, go home, all.”

“Excuse me,” I say, tapping the man’s shoulder. “You’re not in charge.”

The man turns around and shows me the screen of his iPhone before putting it back to his ear. The contact name said “San Diego CI.”

“Yeah, Frank? It’s Ollie Zetterlind.”

Ollie Zetterlind turns his back on me for a second time as he walks away to field the call. Just then, a panicked Gavin enters the room.

“What happened, Moonie?”

“I don’t know, but…keep your eye on that guy,” I say, pointing to the rat. “He’s tattling on us to the City Inspector right now.”

“I’ve got it,” says Gavin as he takes the broom from my hand. “Go home for the day. I’ll get in touch with you later with an update.”

Broomless and helpless, I make my way toward Yas who is still sitting on the floor catching her breath in her own little world.

“Are you hurt?” I ask her.

“No, just in shock.”

“Me too,” I say. “I can’t believe that happened.”

“I can’t believe you knew it was going to happen. How is that possible?”

“I didn’t know it was going to happen. I just...had a feeling.”

“A bad feeling. Specifically about me. Sitting in this exact spot. Regarding that particular ceiling tile. That’s awfully… coincidental , don’t you think?”

This is a trap. I know Yas doesn’t believe in coincidences.

I say nothing more for the moment, as I look around in the room. No one is still here other than Gavin and the engineers, and neither of them can hear this conversation. So when I know it’s just the two of us, I confess something that sounds really crazy.

“When our hands touched at the desk…I saw the future.”