Page 67 of Switch!

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The psychic fair is, so far, a massive disappointment. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I had fantasies about being approached by a mysterious stranger as soon as I walked into the convention center. Maybe they would address me as brethren or something equally cryptic and invite me to join the rest of my kind. Instead I feel self-conscious as I browse the various vendor booths, searching their tables for anything of use.

I can sense Jesse’s boredom, but his thoughts are mostly obscured now that I’m in control again. I’ve hijacked him for the entire day. Not that I had a choice. Jesse didn’t want to come to the fair, so I was basically forced to take over. That’s what I keep telling myself. It feels good to be in control again, like stretching my legs after a long road trip. So much so that I’m tempted to leave the fair and explore Seattle instead.

I resist the urge and focus on my goals. I’m here for two reasons: to learn more about myself, and to figure out if there is a way to help Caleb. I can’t give him back his body, but maybe I can restore his mind. With a crystal pendant? Or some scented oils? That’s what people are selling here along with dreamcatchers, decks of tarot cards, pewter dragons, and incense. What does any of this have to do with being psychic?

I gravitate toward book sellers instead. I check as many tables of contents and indexes as I can before the booth owners inevitably ask if I’m looking for anything in particular. “Have any books about body swapping?” I inquire each time. They always think about it and conclude that they don’t. I repeat this exchange until I’m confident I won’t find my answer written down.

My optimism spikes when I find a vendor who is selling spells. These come as small scrolls wrapped around candles or attached to sprigs of plants. The idea is to read the spell aloud, perform some action, and get whatever you were after. Love and wealth seem to be the most popular requests, judging from the offerings on display. I can feel Jesse’s skepticism, but he hasn’t experienced the weird events I have. If trading bodies is possible, maybe magic is too. I’m especially encouraged by the sign on display that reads,Custom spells available on request!

“How can I help you achieve your desires?” the vendor asks me after I’ve loitered in front of his table long enough.

“I’m interested in your custom spells,” I say. “Can they really be for anything?”

“Sure! What were you thinking?”

Where do I begin? I try to simplify my situation. “I know someone who is trapped in the wrong body, and that means he’s using a different brain, and so hethinksthat he’s someone else. Umm. I basically need to find a way of restoring his mind without him actually leaving that body.”

The man’s expression is blank. Then he blinks. “Yeah! I can do that.”

“Really?” I ask, sharing Jesse’s doubt now. “How would the spell work?”

“Magic is a manifestation of your willpower. All my spells do is help you focus it.”

“Oh. But beyond all the spiritual stuff, would the spell rewrite his physical brain so he can think like himself again? Or would it make it so the body he’s in doesn’t change his identity?” Like me. For whatever reason, I’ve been subject to different brains and haven’t lost sight of my true identity.

“Maybe a general health spell is what you need,” the vendor says, reaching for a section of his table.

“I don’t think that will be enough.”

“I see. In that case I can create the custom spell you would need for seventy-five dollars.”

We stare each other down. He feels like an opportunist. I’m starting to feel like a fool.

“Let me think about it,” I say before making a hasty retreat.

It appears I won’t be able to buy a quick solution to my problems, so I leave the shopping area and go to where the actual psychics are. I was too nervous to approach them before, but they might be my last hope. Much like the vendors, the psychics each have their own rented booth space, although walking down the rows is a different experience. Some have set up a simple table with chairs where they can sit with clients. Others have more elaborate arrangements—tents or other temporary shelters that provide privacy and ambiance.

I dismiss the fortune tellers. What’s the point in having my palm read when it doesn’t belong to me? I’ve never put much stock in astrology either, and I’m not sure what good tarot cards would do. I’m not concerned about the future. I want solutions for the mistakes of my past.

A sign catches my attention, so I slow in front of the booth to read it.

Gismonda Bernhardt: Spiritual healing, intuitive therapy, energy work.

This sounds promising. An elderly woman sits behind a table that is mostly empty except for a small selection of brochures and propped-up testimonials of happy customers. She’s watching me from behind black-rimmed glasses, the frames like two giant saucers. Covering her arms from wrist to elbow are bracelets made of beads in various sizes, materials, and colors. Behind her is a white gauzy tent that I assume is used for consultations, since the convention hall would be a terrible place to camp. The interior of the tent isn’t spectacular, from what I can see, including nothing more than two places to sit and a small table. Gismonda (if that’s really her name) doesn’t leap up to make a sale like so many of the others. Instead all she says is:

“I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

I make a show of browsing the information on her table, when really, I’m trying to find a way of phrasing my question that doesn’t sound crazy. I decide to start with the basics. “Have you ever heard of two people trading souls?”

Gismonda thinks before answering. “Youareyour soul. You can’t give that away or sell it, no matter what anyone tells you. Trading bodies though… That might be possible.”

“You’ve heard of that before?” I ask excitedly.

“No. Never.”