Sage's Eyes by V.C. Andrews

shot out of the darker part of the forest, sailed over the lake close to the water, and then turned sharply and headed deeper into the forest.
    â€œWhy did they do that?” Uncle Wade asked me. “Why did they change direction so rapidly?” The tone of his question reminded me of a teacher testing to see whether his student really was paying attention or to see just how smart the student was.
    â€œThey saw their own image in the water and were frightened.”
    He smiled and nodded. “That’s exactly what you have to avoid, fearing yourself,” he said.
    â€œMy mother, more than my father, makes me afraid of myself,” I revealed. Right from childhood, I found I could always be more honest about my feelings with Uncle Wade. He never wore the cloak of tension that my parents wore whenever they were around me.
    He didn’t look shocked. “You’re still telling stories about things you imagine or remember, things that make no sense?”
    â€œNot as much, no. I know how much my mother hates that, but she’s constantly asking me now if I tell people things like I used to. I don’t. She doesn’t even want me to give my new friends advice.”
    â€œI thought that was what was troubling you. I sensed it throughout breakfast. She means well. They both do.”
    If they meant well, I wanted to ask, why did they keep so much about me and themselves secret?
    We followed a path to the edge of the water. The wind paused. The trees were still. The rippling in the surface of the lake diminished. It was the second week of October. More birds had gone south. There were almost no insects. Squirrels and rabbits looked more desperate about finding food. Some of the leaves had taken on more yellow and brown. The tips of winter’s fingers were grazing the surface of the world around us like a blind man feeling his way, exploring to findthe best path over which to bring in the colder winds and the flurries of snow.
    â€œWhat is it they’re really afraid of, Uncle Wade? What do they think I’ll do?” I asked, and immediately held my breath.
    Would I finally know?
    Did they deliberately send me out here to walk with him so he could tell me something they couldn’t tell me themselves?
    â€œJust what you’ve done, perhaps, sense your power, your abilities, and become arrogant. Arrogant people do bad things to others.”
    â€œMy power? What power?”
    He paused, lowered his chin, and raised his eyes. “Don’t try to fool a professional,” he said. “You know of what I speak.” He pointed to the center of his forehead. “The third eye.”
    â€œI’ve done nothing to cause them to think I was being arrogant,” I said. “I’m hardly a snob. It’s just the opposite. I practically tiptoe through the house. I rarely ask them any questions anymore.”
    â€œNo matter what you might think, they want only the best for you,” he said.
    We started around the lake. As we walked, I debated with myself about whether to confess having explored the files in my father’s office. Would he immediately tell my parents and reveal that I had lied to my mother?
    â€œRemember when you were here last time and you put that marble on the kitchen table?” I asked.
    â€œYes, one of my favorite ways to impress a small audience.”
    â€œYou just looked at it, moved your hand, and made it roll off the table.”
    â€œNow, you’re not going to ask me how I did that, are you?”
    â€œNo. Maybe I know. Maybe I’ve done it.”
    â€œOh, really,” he said, stopping and smiling. “In that case, how did I do it?”
    â€œOnce I saw that my father had left a file drawer open. I knew he always closed and locked that drawer.”
    â€œAnd?” he said.
    â€œI . . . was worried he might think I went into his private things, so I wished . . . I pictured the file drawer