I’ve always had an affinity for the occult. The first time I had my palms read was in Key West. I entered a small booth covered by tapestries and smelling of incense. The psychic was a grandfatherly, Indian fellow, and I immediately felt that I could trust him. His long fingers grazed my palms as he sought out the meaning hidden within them. He told me I’ll live to be at least seventy-three and I don’t have to worry about drowning. Once, at a flea market, I entered a fortune-teller’s booth and I would have left immediately, had she not already collected her fee of twenty-five dollars, when I noticed her booth was decorated with myriad icons and crucifixes. Before she began the reading, she told me, “It doesn’t matter what kind of Christian you are, or what church you go to. God loves you just the same.” Apparently, my hands didn’t say anything about my Jewish upbringing. She informed me that a dark-haired man from my past would reappear in my future. This could have been any man I’d ever met, but I assumed it was the boyfriend I’d recently broken up with, and I acquired a piece of black obsidian to ward off his negative energy.

Sometimes the psychics’ predictions were right. Sometimes I found love, writer’s block was mercifully lifted, or I had a stroke of good luck. It’s not a good idea to argue with a medium, so I kept my mouth shut when they told me that the man of my dreams, my knight in shining armor, my Romeo was just beyond the horizon. Little did they know I was seeking Juliet.

There were only three “out” gay students at my high school, as far as anyone knew, so my friend Kayleigh and I spent hours speculating about who might be a closeted queer, who might be at least a little bi-curious, and more importantly, how I was going to get a female date to the prom. Our quest was fruitless on school grounds, so we decided to broaden our search, and Kayleigh decided the best place to do this was the Pulse, a gay bar.

After narrowly obtaining permission from our parents, we picked the perfect outfits and shoes—black pumps for Kayleigh, pink Converse high-tops for me. I didn’t expect my wallflowery nature, inability to buy drinks, or awkward dance moves to attract the ladies, so I tucked a flat, polished piece of rose quartz, the love stone, into my bra.

Walking into the Pulse was like landing on another planet. The lights were low and the music was so loud I could feel my already pounding heart racing. Men wore high heels and false eyelashes; the bartender seemed to be neither male nor female and sported a parrot-like mohawk. It was everything we’d dreamed and more.

Kayleigh and I were not of drinking age, so we sipped Cokes by the bar, fascinated by the dancers. Some were so drunk they could barely stand, while others seemed to have come straight from their auditions at Broadway. One girl in particular caught my attention. She wore a white t-shirt, khakis, and a fedora, and was dancing with some friends. Kayleigh urged me to go dance with her. Tentatively, I approached her. She had a pretty smile and was very drunk, but welcomed my company. She certainly didn’t look like the psychics I’d encountered before, but she’d be predicting my future later that night.

There was a patio for smokers behind the club, and it was quieter out there, so Kayleigh, the fedora-wearer, her friends, and I went outside to talk. Kayleigh and some of the other girls were chattering and smoking clove cigarettes. The fedora-clad girl turned to me and slurred, “Are you a new lesbian?”

I took this to mean “Have you recently come out?” and answered sheepishly, “Yeah… Is it that obvious?”

Slowly, she ran her eyes over me. I was wearing skinny jeans, my brother’s blue dress shirt with a pink cami underneath it, and a floral snap back. I’d done my best to look butch, but still maintain the femininity that I felt defined me. Clearly it wasn’t working. “The earrings give it away,” she said. “I’m Kola. What’s your sign?”

“I’m a Capricorn.”

“Me too! Is she your girlfriend?” She gestured at Kayleigh, who was engrossed in conversation with two other girls, and awkwardly holding an unlit cigarette.

“No. I don’t have one,” I said, giving my best attempt at a flirty smile.

She didn’t get the hint, or was mercifully ignoring my heavy-handed flirting and asked, “Ever had one?”

“No… but I’ve dated a lot of guys,” I admitted, reluctant to sound like I’d never even so much as kissed anyone. I would have been mortified had her next question been, “How do you know you like girls, anyway?”

Instead, she shouted, “She’s dated a lot of guys!” to her friends who were engrossed in a game of Gay or Not Gay. She shrieked with drunken laughter, grabbed me by the shoulders, and put her face so close to mine I could smell cigarettes and Jell-O shots. She looked straight into my eyes, as if she were trying to embed this idea deep with my psyche so that it would take root and become a foundation of my beliefs. Drunkenly, she said, “Girl, lemme tell you something. That girl, your first girlfriend, she’s gonna break your heart.”

I tried to laugh her comment off, but when the night had run its course and Kayleigh and I were driving home, I quietly fretted that Kola was some sort of Sapphic goddess who’d had a premonition of my future heartbreak. When I met Alyssa, my first girlfriend, Kola’s drunken warning flitted through my mind. It was only fitting that Alyssa was a budding Wiccan, a “witch” so to speak. Being the nice Jewish girl I am, I was reservedly intrigued by her practices, and we took many romantic trips to the metaphysical bookstore. Our relationship was great… until it wasn’t. When I broke up with her, my stress levels decreased significantly, but my heart remained intact, which only goes to show— psychics might be right sometimes, but never trust drunk lesbians.