Burning Emerald by Jaime Reed

was enough to choke a horse. The woman couldn’t stand me, but her contempt was exacerbated by her belief that I harbored bad juju, which made her visit blissfully brief.
    Dad brought the twins with him as well, dishing out a mouth-watering treat for Lilith. She loved the pure, concentrated energy children produced, which my siblings owned in abundance. I watched the six-year-olds nap in one of their brief breaks from anarchy. Kyle curled up in the chair in the corner, snoring with his mouth open. Kenya leaned on her brother, wearing a Princess Tiana costume that she refused to take off, a stubbornness I would’ve never gotten away with growing up. Dad was getting soft with his old age.
    I didn’t get to see my brother and sister as often as I should. Much like this meeting, they mysteriously fell asleep after the first hug. This strange occurrence only Lilith and I could explain, and our silence added another brick to the growing wall between Dad and me. Though Lilith recognized Dad’s presence, with the right amount of concentration I could use her “powers of persuasion” to cool his temper. It had gotten me out of binds before; why fix what isn’t broken?
    â€œI think it’s a bit strange that so many ‘accidents’ are happening in Williamsburg.” Dad strolled in front of my bed and continued his cross-examination. “First one of your classmates, then your mother, your coworker, and now this. A lot of odd events this past summer, and they all occurred right around the same time you started seeing that boy.”
    Here we go. Dad had some serious Angus beef with my boyfriend, and he needed to get over it. Gathering what little strength I had, I sat up straight. “Daddy, don’t blame Caleb. We’re all victims in this.”
    He swept a meaty hand across his bald head. “All I know is that something happened to you, something strange. Not just your eye color—which the doctors still can’t explain, by the way—but your whole demeanor. You’re like a different person.” He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a folded pamphlet. “Samara, there’s a psychologist in Alexandria who specializes in abnormal cases of post-traumatic stress,” he began, waiting for my reaction.
    I didn’t say a word, but stared at the worn brochure in his hand and wondered how long he’d been holding on to it.
    â€œI know you think you’re fine, but it’s clear that you’re not. When I met your friend Nadine, the first thing I noticed about her were her eyes. And you have the exact same pair. The mind is a powerful thing, baby girl, and I believe that your change is a physical sign of your grief. Now this specialist handles all sorts of anomalies: women who miscarry but still have all the effects of pregnancy, twins who share physical symptoms of their siblings, people who claim to have stigmata, and so on. Now these sessions are completely confidential and ... just think about it, okay?”
    â€œWhat if I can’t be fixed, Dad? Are you gonna have me committed like Grandpa tried to do? I don’t want any more tests, blood work, or pills thrown at me. I just want to be normal. So please, just let me.”
    Fear and disappointment gripped his face for a moment. I wasn’t sure what had caused that look, my secrecy or my quantum leap into adulthood, but he seemed to think I was a stranger.
    He glanced back and forth between me and his other two children as if comparing our differences, not in complexion, but age. The twins had just started first grade and I was about to graduate, a lengthy gap that Dad had trouble measuring. He’d never looked as resigned as he did in that instant, demoted from his proud station as protector and provider.
    I reached out and pulled him closer. His big body covered what little room was available on the bed. His hands dwarfed mine as dark brown fingers enclosed them. He had a way