The Evolution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer #2)(31)

“Indeed,” he said, studying the book. He turned it over, then started reading the summary on the back. “‘Part gothic novel, part psychological mystery, part metafiction, part satire, part case study of totalitarian thought, Memoirs explores early psychological theories of double consciousness, blah blah blah, predestination theory, blah blah blah—James Hogg’s masterpiece is a psychological study of the power of evil, a terrifying picture of the devil’s subtle conquest of a self-righteous man.’” He made a face. “Where’d you find this?”

“In the garage. It looked interesting.”

“Yes, you’re clearly riveted.” He stood up and handed it back to me. “But that’s not what you should be reading.”

“No?”

“No. Don’t move.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a minute later, carrying a book. He handed it to me.

I made a face as I read the title out loud. “One Thousand Obscure Words on the SAT?”

“Better get cracking,” my brother said. “They’re only a couple of months away.”

“Are you serious? I was just pulled out of school.”

“Temporarily. For health reasons. Which, by the way, is how Dad got the principal to change your F in Spanish to an Incomplete, so this Horizons thing is not a total loss. You can start your SAT prep now and take them in June, just in case you want to retake in October.”

I said nothing. Things like grades and SATs seemed utterly alien compared to my current problems. And I hated that we could talk so easily—so normally—about books and school and anything but what was really going on with me. I watched my brother write, the words flowing from his pen without hesitation. Give Daniel an abstract problem, and he can solve it in seconds.

Which gave me an idea.

“You know,” I said slowly, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

He lifted his eyebrows. Put his notebook down.

“Don’t move,” I told him, then bolted to my room. I grabbed a notebook and a pen off of my desk and ran back to the living room. I couldn’t tell my brother about my real problems because my brother didn’t believe they were real.

But if I told him they weren’t real, maybe he could actually help.





20





I WALKED BACK INTO THE LIVING ROOM AND GLANCED out the enormous picture window. Still no sign of Noah’s car. Good. He’d never go for this.

I sat down on the couch and positioned the spiral notebook conspicuously on my lap. “So,” I said to my brother casually, “At Horizons, they gave us this assignment,” I started, my lie beginning to develop. “To, uh, fictionalize our . . . problems.” That sounded about right. “They said writing is cathartic.” Mom’s favorite word.

My brother broke into a smile. “That sounds . . . fun?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Okay, so maybe fun’s the wrong word.”

“ ‘Stupid’ would be more appropriate,” I said, adding an eye roll. “They want us to work things out in a safe, creative space. I don’t know.”

My brother nodded slowly. “It makes sense. Sort of like puppet therapy for little kids.”

“I don’t know what that is, and I’m glad.”

Daniel chuckled. “Mom told me about it once—the therapist uses a puppet to indirectly address the kid’s feelings in an impersonal way; the child transfers her feelings to the puppet. Your assignment sounds like the teen version.”

Sure. “Exactly. So, now I have to write this story thing about me but not me, and I need help.”

“It would be my utmost pleasure.” Daniel hunched forward and rubbed his hands together. He was into it. “So. What’s your premise?”

Where to begin? “Well . . . something weird is happening to this girl. . . .”

Daniel placed his hand in his chin and glanced up at the ceiling. “Fairly standard,” he said. “And familiar.” He grinned.

“And she doesn’t know what it is.”

“Okay. Is it something supernatural weird, or something normal weird?”

“Supernatural weird,” I said, without hesitation.

“How old is she?”

“A teenager.”

“Right, of course,” he said with a wink. “Does anyone else know what’s happening to her?”

Just Noah, but he was as lost in this as I was. And everyone else I tried to tell didn’t believe me. “She’s told other people, but no one believes her,” I said.

Daniel nodded sagely. “The Cassandra effect. Cursed by Apollo with prophetic visions that always came true, but were never believed by anyone else.”

Close enough. “Right.”

“So everyone thinks your ‘protagonist’ is crazy,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers.

Everyone does seem to. “Pretty much.”

A smile appeared on Daniel’s lips. “But she’s an unreliable narrator who happens to be telling the truth?”

Seems that way. “Yep.”

“Okay,” he said. “So what’s really happening to you—I mean, her?”

“She doesn’t know, but she has to find out.”