Mind Games (Mind Games, #1)(12)

“What’s wrong?” I ask, out of breath. “What happened?”

She looks up, but she’s smiling. Why is she crying and smiling at the same time?

“I’m not the only one,” she says. “Fia, it’s not just me! Clarice can do it, too. Clarice sees things before they happen. And she’s going to help me learn to do it better, to control it. Oh, I knew this school was the right choice.” She stands and holds her hands out for a hug and I stumble forward, letting her wrap me up because I never stay away when she wants me close. “Think about it, Fia. If I had known how to control it before, I could have seen Mom and Dad earlier, I could have understood what I was seeing, I could have…” I know what she saw because she’s told me so many times, crying in the middle of the night.

She saw their lives smashed out of them. She still blames herself because she saw the accident and didn’t change it. (She didn’t change it. I am here because—no, stop.)

Maybe this school is the best thing that ever happened to her; she can figure out how to deal with what she sees. But why do I still feel so wrong when she’s so happy and hopeful? No. It’s my job to take care of her. If staying here is what she needs, I’ll stay.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I turn to see what Annie’s eyes can’t. Ms. Robertson is standing, perfectly silent in the doorway, watching me.

It’s been two weeks since the window was nailed shut. Bars were installed on all the windows, on all the floors. The administration said it was because of an attempted break-in.

Every day Annie chatters to me about what she learned, how smart Clarice is, what an amazing coincidence it is that she’d end up with the one person in the world who could understand her. I do not smile because with Annie I don’t have to, but I lie when we are together.

Now I am sitting in class.

I am not doing any of my assignments.

I sit perfectly still and straight, and I do not work, and I do not answer questions, and they do not do anything to me. There is no detention. There are no threats. Except in self-defense, where my instructor hits me and hits me until I finally block and hit back.

I am riddled with bruises under my stiff white shirt that smells of bleach and makes me miss my mom with an ache I didn’t think I could feel anymore.

I do not tell Annie. I cannot tell Annie. Annie is happy, and I have to let her be happy. It is my job to make sure Annie is happy.

I glare at Ms. Robertson, standing in the front detailing the upcoming ski trip; I still blame her for the nailed-shut window, though I have no reason to.

Then I have an idea. Maybe Clarice isn’t a coincidence. This school is wrong, I know it is. I want to know why, because if I know why, then maybe it won’t make me feel sick all the time. If there’s a reason why it’s wrong, then I am not crazy for feeling this way. (I’m not crazy, I’m not.) I lean back in my chair, stare straight at Ms. Robertson’s forehead, and think, I have a knife in my shoe. I have a knife in my shoe. I have a knife in my shoe, and I am going to pull it out and stab Eden. I am going to stab her until she screams. I have a knife in my shoe. I’m going to stab Eden. Right now.

Ms. Robertson sprints down the row and rips me out of my chair, knocking me to the ground; my head slams against the floor. She pins me, it’s not hard—I am all elbows and knees and I am only thirteen. She yanks off one of my shoes and then the other, breathing hard. My face is smashed into the tile. I can’t see anything. I can’t move.

My teacher swears. “What—why would you—Eden! How is Sofia feeling right now?”

“I don’t know! How can I—”

“Just tell me how she’s feeling right now!”

“She’s—she was totally calm before you grabbed her. And now it’s like, I don’t know, like she’s laughing inside, but she’s also really scared.” Eden sounds scared, too, having to admit that she knows this.

Ms. Robertson stands up, and I roll over onto my back, tears streaming down my cheeks from the pain in my head, but Eden’s right—I’m laughing.

I laugh and laugh and laugh, and I think about stabbing Ms. Robertson with the knife I don’t have in my shoe. Lighting this whole room on fire with the matches I don’t have in my pocket. Hanging myself in my room with the rope I don’t have in my closet.

This place is wrong, I think at her, and I know.

“Very clever,” Ms. Robertson says, with that lie of a smile. “It would appear you’re ready for the advanced placement track.”





ANNIE

Monday Afternoon


SHE SHOULD BE BACK BY NOW. WHY ISN’T SHE BACK? I need to hear her, to figure out if she’s okay. She’ll lie to me, of course, but I still need to hear her.

It’s my fault. Again. Either I see things and I can’t stop them, or I cause them because I see them wrong. I will be the death of my entire family. I’ve already destroyed Fia by dragging her to this school with me. I can’t kill her, too.

I walk to the door and out into the hall. Someone stands up immediately—Darren, by the sounds of it. He has a particular way of exhaling whenever he has to actually do something.

“Can I help you, Miss Annabelle?”

“Why yes, Darren, you can! There’s a window at the end of the hallway, right?”