Harbinger

by Sara Etienne

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.

  Published by The Penguin Group.

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.

  Copyright © 2012 by Sara Wilson Etienne.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

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  Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Etienne, Sara Wilson. Harbinger / Sara Wilson Etienne. p. cm.

  Summary: In a near future in which the diminishing oil supply has led to mass rioting, sixteen-year-old Faye is sent to an educational facility for “delinquents and crazies,” where she is tormented by strange visions of a being sent to destroy the earth in order to save it. [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Nature—Effect of human beings on—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.E8525Har 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011013309

  ISBN 978-1-101-55981-9

  for tony.

  because you are my sky.

  my earth.

  my infinite sea.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  “Nay, are there not moods which shall find no expression unless there be men who dare to mix heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland together, or even to set the heads of beasts to the bodies of men, or to thrust the souls of men into the heart of rocks? Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.”

  —from The Celtic Twilight, by William Butler Yeats

  1

  MY NOSE PRICKLED with the stench of dead flowers and mildew. I wish I had allergies. Or asthma. Or the Black Plague. Anything to get me out of here.

  “Faye, I want you to think of Holbrook Academy not as a facility, but as a refuge.” Dr. Mordoch beamed at me from across her antique wooden desk. Her gray-blond ponytail swung in emphasis with her fervent words. “I built this school for teenagers like you, struggling to cope with reality. Sheep without a shepherd.”

  I’m a sheep? I glanced at Dad, wondering if he’d heard enough, but he looked dazzled by her little speech. My stomach flip-flopped.

  When he turned, his eyes had that glow they got whenever he came back from one of the Cooperative’s motivational sing-alongs. “I know this past year’s been hard on you . . .”

  I nodded at him, playing along. Baaaaaaa. I’d met my end of the bargain. I’d come here and “looked around.” Now I wanted to go home.

  Outside the lace-curtained window, the last of the light reflected off the silver generator buoys, collecting energy as they bobbed on the dark waves. A throng of oil rigs glowed against the gray horizon. Their great flames competed with the first few stars to shine through the smog.

  It must be, what? Seven? Seven thirty? I tried to sneak a look at Dad’s watch. The ferry left for the mainland at nine o’clock tonight, and I was going to be on it.

  “The turmoil in our world manifests itself in so many ways. Delusions, rebelliousness, suicidal behavior.” Dr. Mordoch looked pointedly at me, and I made the mistake of meeting her eyes. Though her face was calm, almost expressionless, her eyes were filled with . . . what?

  I held Dr. Mordoch’s gaze, and her agitated emotions swarmed into my head. They were desperate and fierce, stinging at me until they crystallized into a single, sharp thought: “At last.”

  A thousand bristling secrets hid behind Dr. Mordoch’s thought. What did she mean? “At last” what?

  Then she pulled her eyes away from mine, like someone yanking their hand off a hot stove. But in the moment before she looked away, I saw her eyes go wide with shock. It was so quick, no one else would’ve even noticed.

  But I did.

  Because that’s how it always happened. When I walked down the hallway at school, one by one, kids turned to face their lockers or their friends. Teachers shuddered when they called on me in class. Even the school counselor kept her eyes glued to her notebook during our sessions. As if people could feel their secrets leaking out to me.

  So usually I tried to be invisible. I’d keep my eyes down and exist in a universe of one. I’d learned early on that secrets were insidious things. And I had my own. Maybe the only reason people avoided my eyes was because they saw the wrongness inside me.

  Now, covering her own discomfort, Dr. Mordoch unlocked the polished wooden filing cabinet behind her. She caressed the folders as she pulled the drawer open, the file tabs making a flick-flick-flick sound against her hand. “See, Faye! These are all children I’ve been able to help here. What I’ve devoted my entire life to . . .”

  Dr. Mordoch rubbed her forehead, pausing for a moment. Then she was back in motion, moving to the last drawer. “Ah, here you are, Faye. I’ve kept this one a long time.”

  She spread the folder open on her enormous oak desk and took a seat in the equally massive chair. Her angular frame was so slight, she should’ve looked like a little kid playing office, but somehow she pulled it off. A queen ruling from her throne.

  “I only wish we’d had more time to work together when you were a child. You were such a special patient to me. Of course things were simpler then. Just me, in that tiny office.” She laughed—a tight, little huff from her nose that pulled her mouth down. “But now, at Holbrook, I have the facilities to really help you, Faye. We have a chance to pick up where we left off.”

  Dr. Mordoch might have fond memories of me, but I didn’t remember her at all. Before last week, I hadn’t
even known we’d lived in Maine. My parents told me we’d moved away when I was six, but there were no pictures of me collecting shells or playing in tide pools. Nothing from our life before Pittsburgh.

  She smoothed the file flat and sifted through the stack of pages. “Here we are.” She slid a single sheet across the desk. “Your schedule.”

  I shouldn’t have a schedule. I’m not even registered here. Dad smiled at me. Was it a “let’s humor her” smile or a “just take one more step into that infinite pit of doom” one?

  The schedule started at 6:30 a.m. and went till 10:00 p.m., each hour neatly color-coded and labeled. The yellow blocks were classes. My eyes went straight to Art and Life. What would they study at an “academy” full of delinquents and crazies? The fine art of finger painting?

  There was also Coastal Biology and English Literature. At least this place was making an effort to sound like a real school.

  The blue blocks were a little more revealing. Each of them was marked “Mandatory,” and they had names like Socialization, Private Guidance, and Free Time. How do you make free time mandatory?

  Say something. My jaw tightened, and my tongue felt clumsy in my mouth. Tell her. I took an uneven breath and managed to squeeze the words out.

  “Thanks, but we’re just here to look around.”

  Dr. Mordoch came over and sat right next to me, her breath smelling like stale coffee and licorice.

  “Buddha once said, ‘No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.’” She leaned in close, like we were at a sleepover, whispering in her singsong voice. “Won’t you walk the path with me, Faye?”

  I shook my head, looking to my dad. Trying to figure out what was going on. But he wouldn’t meet my eyes either.

  “You’re staying with us,” Dr. Mordoch said bluntly, reaching out to pat my hand.

  I pulled away, my fingers rasping against her sandpaper skin. Even though the room was sweltering, I broke out in a cold sweat.

  Shivering, I waited for Dad to correct her. But he didn’t.

  A drop of water fell from the ceiling, making a wet splotch on my schedule. Then another drop fell. And another. This is how it always started. I pretended I didn’t see anything, keeping my eyes glued on Dad’s down-turned face.

  “Your father’s brought you here because he cares about you. He wants you to get better. To be better. Don’t you want to be better, Faye?”

  Better than what, Dad?

  Finally he looked up, but not at me. His eyes locked on the headmistress, and she nodded at him encouragingly. “Dr. Mordoch thinks she can help you . . .”

  The steady drip-drip-drip of water made it hard to concentrate on his words. I closed my eyes, hoping it would go away. No, no, not now.

  “. . . we’ve tried everything, honey. The Cooperative’s worried . . .” He cleared his throat and started again. “We’re all worried about your antisocial behavior. Not to mention the nightmares and insomnia . . . You have no idea what your mom and I have been going through trying to help you.”

  What they’ve been going through? Water flooded in under Dr. Mordoch’s closed door.

  Dad went for my hand this time, but I didn’t want his pity. “And after your episode on the school roof, well . . .”

  My episode. “Panic attacks,” my school counselor called them. I don’t know what she thought happened to me during one of my “attacks,” but not this. Who would even believe me if I told them? This wasn’t panic, this was madness.

  But right now, I needed to act as normal as possible, and I was willing to try anything. What was that mantra the counselor taught me? Fear is an illusion. I’m in control of . . . of my own reality. Fear is an illusion. I’m in control—

  My boots squished in the icy blue waves foaming across the floor. I tucked my legs up under me.

  I’m in control—

  I could smell the tang of the ocean as it gushed in around the edges of the office windows. Tangled ropes of emerald seaweed coiled around my knees.

  I’m in control of—

  Did he think I liked being the freak who started screaming when she fell asleep in class? The girl no one would even look at? The windows smashed open and the ocean burst through in a silver tide of foam and froth. The sea came just for me.

  As the water rose up around my neck, all I could say was “Don’t leave me here.”

  Dad cleared his throat and looked away, fumbling in his pockets like he was searching for his keys.

  Water crept over my lips. It trickled into my ears. My schedule floated past me on a swelling wave. I tipped back my head to gulp the last sliver of air above the surface.

  Dad’s jaw moved up and down in a string of muffled words.

  Then Dr. Mordoch’s. Then Dad’s. But all I could hear was the steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the blood pulsing in my ears. Clutching at my smooth leather chair, I tried to tether myself to reality. My lungs burned, and my hair billowed in a cloud around my head.

  They both peered down at me.

  What if I just floated up and let the water carry me away? I loosened one hand from the chair. My body felt lighter, almost free.

  Dad leaned over me, worry creasing his forehead.

  I let go and the cobalt waves buoyed me up. Taking me away from my dad, Dr. Mordoch, and, most of all, Holbrook.

  2

  “NO!” I FOUGHT AGAINST the hands crushing me into the floorboards. The office came back into focus bit by bit. After the saturated blue of the waves, it was like flicking through old black-and-white snapshots. A drab wall of ancient filing cabinets. Faded diplomas hung in elaborate frames. An overturned gray, leather armchair. And Dr. Mordoch’s blanched face hovering over me.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself. Stop it this instant!” Dr. Mordoch’s singsong voice was gone now, her tidy ponytail falling apart. She had me pinned to the floor with her full weight.

  “Talk to me, honey.” Dad knelt next to me, his forehead wrinkled. His scared eyes focused on where his hand touched my shoulder, practiced at avoiding mine. Even now. “I’m right here.”

  Dr. Mordoch had her knee planted on my chest. Despite her small size, I had a hard time pushing out the words. “What happened?”

  I remembered the water coming for me. And then, nothing.

  I’d never blacked out before. Dread squeezed my throat, making it hard to catch my breath. The hallucinations were getting worse. I had to find a way to control them, or at least hide them, or people really would think I was crazy. Then again, what could they do to me? Send me to Holbrook?

  I struggled to sit up, but Dr. Mordoch tightened her grip on my arms.

  “That’s enough.” Dad’s voice had that edge to it and I obeyed, letting the tension go out of my body. But his anger was directed at Dr. Mordoch. A tiny flare of hope caught in my chest.

  “Of course.” Dr. Mordoch released me with a concerned smile. She offered me a hand up, but I ignored it, letting Dad help me back into my chair. I ran my finger along a rip in the leather that hadn’t been there before, trying to think of the exact right thing to say. Maybe there was still a chance to change his mind.

  Dr. Mordoch must have thought so too, because she tucked her hair back into place and smoothed out her suit. Transforming back into the competent professional. “The biggest danger at times like this is the patient hurting themselves. You were right to bring her here. Faye needs someone to protect her from herself.”

  I didn’t want to be protected. As scary as the visions and nightmares were, they were mine. There was a vividness to that relentless ocean that was different from the dull roar of kids surging through my school. From the teachers blabbing on about vectors and tangents like everything was normal. Without my “episodes,” I was afraid I’d get lost in all the noise. Fade into the Formica and steel.

  “And the doctor says there are no physical reasons for Faye’s attacks?” Dr. Mordoch was talking about me like I wasn’t there. I stared at Dad, begging him
not to listen to her. Begging him not to leave me.

  But he ignored me. “No, he assures us that she’s perfectly healthy.”

  “Emotional pain reveals itself through dangerous, deviant patterns. It doesn’t matter whether it’s drug use or fighting or suicide attempts . . . They’re all cries for help. My school is here to answer those cries with open arms. This isn’t the same world you and I grew up in, Mr. Robson. It’s violent and ugly. Faye needs a sanctuary from all of that. She needs a trained staff around her twenty-four hours a day. She needs the compassion of other kids who are struggling to adjust. She needs Holbrook Academy.”

  Finally, Dad turned to me and I saw the question in his eyes. Like he was hunting for a reason to bring me back home. Remembering all those ordinary fathers and daughters I’d seen around the Cooperative, I tried to project a version of myself that he might want. A Faye my dad would tell dumb jokes to or have lunch with or at least want to look at. Someone he wouldn’t abandon here.

  “Okay.” He stood up, not finding whatever it was he was searching for. “Do what you have to do.”

  Down by the car, Dad pulled out a suitcase I’d never seen before. Betrayal finally cut through the numbness. This whole trip was a lie. My parents had always planned on leaving me at Holbrook.

  The huge fortress of a house rose up in front of me. A tumble of red stone and shingles growing out of the rocky ground. Towers and turrets climbed high into the humid night.

  Blinking, I grabbed the suitcase handle, already sticky with sweat. Dad’s face went blurry as I pushed back hot tears. The floodlights glinting behind him. Escaping into an old game, I thought about how I’d draw the colossal house.

  But there was something wrong with the building. It was off-center. Instead of facing the driveway like it should have, the house twisted away from us, its back corner sticking out over the ocean. I imagined my brush pen sweeping across the page of my sketchbook. Mentally, I squared off the awkward angle. Now, the intricately carved columns marched straight up to the great arched doorway engraved with the words Compass Rose. Then I straightened out the front path, so that it no longer had to twist around an enormous tree.