Prologue
They say I’m special. Maybe I am. Probably they’re full of crap. Supposedly, I have a “gift,” but that’s a word used by people who don’t have to live with something like “a gift.” If they did, they’d call me by my real name: freak. See, jumping into other people’s heads is about as fun as taking a microscopic look at the plaque on their teeth. Trust me, they pretty much agree. It’s why I can’t get close to anyone. It’s why I’m a nineteen-year-old loner whose own mother can’t stand her presence and whose father… never mind. It’s also why when Madison Academy promised to help, I believed them. I had to believe someone, and they used words like empathy and empowerment and other fancy Es that make glossy brochures particularly attractive to a girl more acquainted with the Fs. (“Fuck you, freak!”) Besides, if you saw the place, you would’ve believed the fairytale too. Who doesn’t want to pretend to be a princess after a lifetime as an ogre? Pretending was easy. I’ve been pretending my entire life.
And then I met Daniel.
Chapter 1: Stranger
Beautiful. Beautiful, and incredibly terrifying.
I force myself to breathe as I scan the vast Victorian mansion for the second straight minute. At some point, bravery becomes stupidity, and my reaction to the shaggy vines doesn’t bode well for bravery. They look appealing in the welcome packet. In person, they’re more like furry snakes. I’m not a fan of snakes, particularly giant, wall-climbing ones.
“You don’t have to do this,” my mother says, interrupting my sudden obsession with eighteenth century landscaping.
“I could fit in here,” I say, shifting in my seat. I’ve repeated it to myself so many times over the last couple of months, I’m even starting to believe it.
She lets out an audible breath. “I’m sorry things turned out this way. It’s not what I wanted for you.”
Here we go again. I squint my eyes back at the snakes to keep from rolling them. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, but maybe if…”
If, if. That magical word people use to pretend to fix shit.
At least we’re reciting from a familiar script. One last run-through for old time’s sake?
“I belong here. We both know this is my only shot.” I don’t say the rest, the part about what happens if Madison doesn’t work out. We’ve lived it, lost, and now I’m here trying to quell the panic of last chances.
When I glance back from the wall-serpents, she’s wearing the pained expression she has every time we try to talk. It’s one of the main reasons we don’t.
“Bec, I know…”
Cue hesitant pause.
Cue apologetic look.
Cue… nothing.
Yeah, we never get past this part.
I manage a sad smile as I turn back to her one last time. I don’t hate her. I even kind of understand. You’re a freak, Rebecca Carson. What’s a mother supposed to do with that?
“We’re doing the right thing, Mom.”
She searches my face for a long moment—then does something new. Yes, she reaches out, fingers extended toward my cheek as if… See? There it is again. If. As if a mother could touch her child without fear. Her fingers curl into a fist inches from my face.
She blinks and drops her hand back to her lap. “I hope so. Have them call if you need a ride home.”
Awkward goodbyes complete, I feel only relief in the lobby. The air smells old, but not the kind of old in your neighbor’s creepy backroom where she stores the oatmeal and laundry detergent. More like a library. A well-kept kind of old crawling with secrets I’m already dying to explore. That’s another symptom of freakdom—curiosity—and I have to force myself to refocus on the task at hand: finding the director. Things get sticky when I give my imagination too much freedom. My mom says it’ll get me in trouble one day. Then again, she also says that about my lack of ironing skills, and so far I’ve survived that landmine. Fingers crossed.
You’d think they’d plaster big signs for an important place like a director’s office, but they’ve clearly spent their sign budget on framing things instead. I scan a few and learn Connecticut gives awards for being awesome, all ex-presidents have thesame handshake-smile, and you can spell “honor” in more ways than I thought. I also learn someone made a killing designing embossed seals which is strangely comforting. Embossed seals mean I’m in good hands. It means I’m special, not a freak. That maybe Madison Academy is a promise that will finally be kept.
“I’m looking for Director Clausen,” I say to a guard at the security desk. It’s normal that the main entrance is supervised by a security desk instead of a reception desk, right? Right. Just like the intercom and triple door lock to get in was normal. Never know when the school will lift off into space and require a full-on airlock.
You’re overthinking this, Rebecca. Stop being you for once.
“Name?”
“Rebecca Carson.”
