Warfare Center in Newport, Rhode Island, completely decimating an entire city. More people died than in Pearl Harbor and 9-11 combined.
Dad mumbles something about learning our lesson, then turns a page. “Looks like there was a close call last night on the Golden Gate Bridge.”
A glob of white falls off my knife.
He clucks his tongue. “What can be so bad in this world that would prompt a fourteen-year-old girl to try and kill herself?”
I grab the paper out of Dad’s hand.
Both of his feet come to the floor. “Tess!”
But I am not apologetic. I’m too busy ravishing the paper, looking for a picture. And there she is. April Yodel. Fourteen years old. The same girl from last night’s dream. The same girl being taunted by the man I wrestled off the bridge. Apparently, authorities reached her before she could jump.
“Honey?” Mom pulls down the paper and looks me in the face. “Are you okay?”
Dad stands from his chair. “You’re as white as a sheet, kiddo.”
I hand the paper back to Dad with icy fingers, my body trembling like an earthquake.
“Tess, you’re scaring us.” Mom cups my forehead like she used to do when I was little, and the worst life had to offer was a fever. “Sweetie, you’re as clammy as can be.”
First Dr. Chang and that nurse at a fetal modification clinic and now this girl—April Yodel. What is going on? What is happening to me? I clap my hand over my mouth, then turn around and run up the stairs. I am going to be sick.
*
Mom tries to convince me stay home from school, but I insist on going. I do not want to sit at home by myself. I cannot give myself too much time to think about any of this. The more I can keep my brain occupied, the better. And despite my slipping sanity, I want to see Luka. I want to work with him today in History.
So I take two Excedrin and I force myself to eat some crackers. Still, my hands shake like I have Parkinson’s. Pete stares at them the entire drive to school, like he doesn’t trust me behind the wheel. He turned sixteen last week. Maybe he should drive. As soon as I get to my locker, Leela descends with a bagful of questions. Someone told her the news.
You are partners with Luka?
You were talking outside the main locker bay?
What were you talking about?
How are you not more excited?
When I don’t answer coherently, she asks if I’m okay. I nod, focusing all my attention on getting to class and sitting down. Sitting down will be good.
We arrive before Luka. I rest my head in the crook of my arm and take deep, calming breaths. I don’t let myself think about the dream or that girl. Instead, I focus on breathing. I tell myself I am a normal teenager with a normal crush on the cute boy in school. Then I smell fabric softener and wintergreen and any hope for calming breaths swooshes away. Luka has taken the seat to my left, his hair so messy it looks as if he spent the morning raking his hands through it. Only he’s Luka, so he pulls it off. He glances at me, his jaw tight, something intense flashing in his eyes when ours connect. He looks like he’s going to say something or ask something, but I curl my fingers around the back of my neck and let my hair fall like a curtain between us.
The bell rings.
Mr. Lotsam writes on the white board, the tip of his dry erase marker squeak, squeak, squeaking as he does. Newport. 16 Years. And that’s when I see it. Darkness at first, like a mysterious shadow in the middle of the room, expanding and blackening, until all of a sudden, it’s the same figure from last night’s dream. The skeletal, frightening man with white, unseeing eyes. His mouth stretches into a sinister smile and without warning, he lunges at me.
I suck in a sharp, loud breath, close my eyes, and rear back in my chair—so forcefully I slam into the wall behind me. When my eyes pop open, the man is gone. My heart flutters like the wings of a hummingbird.
Leela stares. Luka stares. I’m pretty sure every single person
Dad mumbles something about learning our lesson, then turns a page. “Looks like there was a close call last night on the Golden Gate Bridge.”
A glob of white falls off my knife.
He clucks his tongue. “What can be so bad in this world that would prompt a fourteen-year-old girl to try and kill herself?”
I grab the paper out of Dad’s hand.
Both of his feet come to the floor. “Tess!”
But I am not apologetic. I’m too busy ravishing the paper, looking for a picture. And there she is. April Yodel. Fourteen years old. The same girl from last night’s dream. The same girl being taunted by the man I wrestled off the bridge. Apparently, authorities reached her before she could jump.
“Honey?” Mom pulls down the paper and looks me in the face. “Are you okay?”
Dad stands from his chair. “You’re as white as a sheet, kiddo.”
I hand the paper back to Dad with icy fingers, my body trembling like an earthquake.
“Tess, you’re scaring us.” Mom cups my forehead like she used to do when I was little, and the worst life had to offer was a fever. “Sweetie, you’re as clammy as can be.”
First Dr. Chang and that nurse at a fetal modification clinic and now this girl—April Yodel. What is going on? What is happening to me? I clap my hand over my mouth, then turn around and run up the stairs. I am going to be sick.
*
Mom tries to convince me stay home from school, but I insist on going. I do not want to sit at home by myself. I cannot give myself too much time to think about any of this. The more I can keep my brain occupied, the better. And despite my slipping sanity, I want to see Luka. I want to work with him today in History.
So I take two Excedrin and I force myself to eat some crackers. Still, my hands shake like I have Parkinson’s. Pete stares at them the entire drive to school, like he doesn’t trust me behind the wheel. He turned sixteen last week. Maybe he should drive. As soon as I get to my locker, Leela descends with a bagful of questions. Someone told her the news.
You are partners with Luka?
You were talking outside the main locker bay?
What were you talking about?
How are you not more excited?
When I don’t answer coherently, she asks if I’m okay. I nod, focusing all my attention on getting to class and sitting down. Sitting down will be good.
We arrive before Luka. I rest my head in the crook of my arm and take deep, calming breaths. I don’t let myself think about the dream or that girl. Instead, I focus on breathing. I tell myself I am a normal teenager with a normal crush on the cute boy in school. Then I smell fabric softener and wintergreen and any hope for calming breaths swooshes away. Luka has taken the seat to my left, his hair so messy it looks as if he spent the morning raking his hands through it. Only he’s Luka, so he pulls it off. He glances at me, his jaw tight, something intense flashing in his eyes when ours connect. He looks like he’s going to say something or ask something, but I curl my fingers around the back of my neck and let my hair fall like a curtain between us.
The bell rings.
Mr. Lotsam writes on the white board, the tip of his dry erase marker squeak, squeak, squeaking as he does. Newport. 16 Years. And that’s when I see it. Darkness at first, like a mysterious shadow in the middle of the room, expanding and blackening, until all of a sudden, it’s the same figure from last night’s dream. The skeletal, frightening man with white, unseeing eyes. His mouth stretches into a sinister smile and without warning, he lunges at me.
I suck in a sharp, loud breath, close my eyes, and rear back in my chair—so forcefully I slam into the wall behind me. When my eyes pop open, the man is gone. My heart flutters like the wings of a hummingbird.
Leela stares. Luka stares. I’m pretty sure every single person
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