by K. C. Archer
“Interesting.” He nodded. “And the last time you took your meds?”
Teddy calculated. “A little over forty-eight hours ago.”
“Any seizures since then?”
“No.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Sort of . . . seasick.” She described her current symptoms, watching as he recorded them on a notepad.
“So your current discomfort is primarily physical? Nothing mental? Do you feel disoriented? Sometimes that’s an effect of stopping medications cold turkey.”
“I matriculated into a school for psychics, so, yeah, I feel disoriented.”
He didn’t smile. “And since then—no flashes of insight, no sudden knowing, no psychic impressions of any kind?”
Teddy thought back to the image of Molly at the computer. Had that been a flash of insight? It had lasted only a second.
“Psychic abilities manifest differently in different people.” He frowned as he flipped through the rest of her questionnaire. “There’s nothing here about your genetic history.”
“I’m adopted.”
“Ah.” He scrawled a note in her file and closed it, tossing it on his desk. “Unfortunate.”
Teddy stiffened. “What’s unfortunate about being raised by two people who want you around?”
He stood and crossed the room. She heard a rustling of paper as he rummaged through a medical supply cabinet. “I meant unfortunate from a research point of view. It’s difficult to categorically establish a genetic link to psychic ability if we don’t have that information.”
“You think my biological parents were psychic?”
“These abilities tend to run in families. It’s possible that your birth parents were psychic. But the abilities can also manifest in individuals who have no history at all.”
She knew how lucky she was. She’d been raised by parents who were kind and almost relentlessly supportive. Though she didn’t really get their sense of humor and they didn’t get hers (her parents didn’t think Monty Python was funny—who doesn’t think Monty Python is funny?), they loved her and she loved them back.
She’d read once—probably in some guidance-counselor-approved leaflet that her parents had brought home—that many adopted children created elaborate explanations about their biological parents. She had imagined them as world adventurers, zoologists, even corporate executives. But the thought of them being psychic—and perhaps having passed that astonishing trait on to her—was thrilling. It didn’t provide any concrete answers, but it was something.
“So that’s what all these tests are for?”
“We’re trying to gather enough information to prove that a gene marker even exists.” Dr. Eversley returned with a metal tray full of empty vials, rubber stoppers, hypodermic needles, and gauze pads.
Teddy eyed the tray. “Since I don’t know my family history—” she began.
“Doesn’t matter. That’s secondary information.” He swabbed a spot in the crook of her arm. “The research that Hollis Whitfield sponsors makes this team a leader in the human genome field.”
He tied the tourniquet and then slid a needle into her vein. Teddy looked up at the ceiling.
Yesterday Clint Corbett had explained that the Whitfield Institute was a public-private partnership. She’d assumed that meant everything was split down the middle. So the scientific research belonged to Whitfield, while the public-service-bound psychics benefited the government. She supposed that made sense, but she couldn’t help wondering why a nonpsychic billionaire would be interested in psychic research?
“So we’re just science experiments?”
“The more we know about the science of psychicness, the more we can help everyone, psychic or not,” Dr. Eversley said.
“Whitfield’s research—is it public? Published in a medical journal or something?”
“Public?” Dr. Eversley chuckled. “The lab is as high-security as you can get. No one goes in or out without clearance. Don’t worry, the information we collect is perfectly secure.” He withdrew the needle and stoppered the vial, then labeled it, placed it in a numbered slot in a refrigerated cabinet, and locked its door.
“That’s it,” he said, applying a small bandage to her arm. “You’re free to go.”
Teddy stood, but Dr. Eversley stopped her at the door. “One more thing. I’m recommending that you postpone your psychic-ability exam until tomorrow. That will give the epilepsy meds another twenty-four hours to completely vacate your system.”
Teddy’s head felt like it was filled with concrete—she didn’t feel like she could pass an IQ test, let alone a psychic-ability exam. She could have hugged him.
* * *
Outside, Teddy walked across a large campus green, back toward the central courtyard. The grass was cut so she could see the straight lines left by the mower, razor-sharp. Meditation Lawn, a sign read, Please Remove Shoes.
Teddy had tried meditating once before, after a humiliating loss at the poker table. It had been after she had been kicked out of the MGM but before she had been banned from New York, New York. She had sat cross-legged and everything, but she just couldn’t clear her mind.
She pulled out her schedule. She had an appointment in thirty minutes with Dr. Sands, the school psychiatrist. She wondered what she would confess to this stranger: that she was struggling with the symptoms of withdrawal; that she was puzzled by her birth parents’ genetic background; that she was scared she wouldn’t be able to hack it here.
Teddy took a deep breath. I can do this.
She took off her shoes and sat on the meditation lawn. She tried to ignore the pounding headache and the relentless nausea, tried to clear her mind. And promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Teddy arrived late to her next appointment. Again. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Dr. Sands, who welcomed Teddy back to Fort McDowell and ushered her into a comfortable chair upholstered in white damask. “I was trying to meditate, and I fell asleep.”
“It’s fine.” Dr. Sands, the kind of naturally elegant, soft-spoken woman who made Teddy feel sloppy, sat down in a similar chair and made a note on her clipboard.
Normally, Teddy didn’t care about being a little late or being judged for it. But she couldn’t help wondering if this was the kind of thing that could get her sent home and get her whole deal with Clint revoked. If she would have her kneecaps broken by one of Sergei’s men just because she fell asleep on a goddamn mediation lawn.
“It’s not going to count against me, is it?” Teddy asked. “I’m still trying to adjust to being off my meds and—”
“Apology accepted.” Dr. Sands put down the clipboard and smiled. It was a genuine smile, the kind that would put a normal person at ease. But Teddy wasn’t a normal person.
“I’m not usually like this,” Teddy said.
“Like what?”
“You know—overly apologetic.”
Dr. Sands sighed. “This isn’t that kind of session, Teddy. I’m tasked with assessing whether or not you’re a good candidate for Whitfield. I’m going to ask you some questions to get us started. Where were you living when you were recruited?”
“In an apartment. By myself.”
Dr. Sands held her pen above her clipboard, as if waiting for Teddy to elaborate.
This lady totally knows I live at home.
Why had she lied about it? Teddy hadn’t accounted for the fact that her whole life was probably spelled out in her file.
“It was in my parents’ garage,” Teddy added quickly, “but I had my own entrance. And I paid rent.”
When I didn’t gamble it away.
“Tell me a little bit about how you handle stress,” Dr. Sands said.
“I held my own against the best poker players in the world. You think I can’t handle the classes at Whitfield?”
“I didn’t say that.” Dr. Sands made another note. “Have you ever had a vision or a vivid or recurring dream?”
Teddy le
t out a breath, relieved that the conversation had changed direction. She thought of the dream that had awakened her that morning. “Sometimes I dream about a house,” she said.
“And how does it make you feel?”
It makes me feel safe.
“It’s familiar. Like I might have been there or something.”
Dr. Sands made another note.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“There are no wrong answers, Theodora.”
Teddy tried not to squirm, but something about these overstuffed chairs made her feel like she was about to be swallowed whole.
“Any other unexplained incidents? Moments when you felt like you could predict the outcome of a situation?”
Gambling.
“I sometimes know when people aren’t telling the truth,” Teddy said.
“And does that affect your relationships?”
She’d always known the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus were bogus. She’d never had a long-term boyfriend. She kept friends at arm’s length. Never mind the “Do I look okay in this dress?” question; the million other small lies that people told throughout the day were enough to drive her crazy. She could tell when her parents were disappointed in her, even when they said they weren’t. “How could it not?” Teddy said.
“And what happens when you know someone’s lying?”
“I feel . . . anxious.” Teddy swallowed. “As a kid, I hated that feeling. Medication helped. But I tried to, I guess, not put myself in situations where I’d feel that way.”
“So you didn’t have many close relationships before Whitfield? How do you think that will affect your ability to work with a partner?”
Teddy’s throat tightened. “Clint said that it wouldn’t be the same around psychics. And I haven’t felt like that since I arrived at Whitfield.”
Dr. Sands made a few more notes. “I think we’re done here.”
Done? Like done done?
Teddy had to make one last move in this game she suddenly found herself playing. She cleared her throat. “I can read a table. I know how to egg another player on in order to increase the pot. I know how to bet. I can feel it in my bones when it’s time to fold. And I know—” She ran her hands through her hair. “God, I know it’s not time to fold yet.”
Dr. Sands took her time placing her notepad on the table next to her. “It’s clear that the choices you’ve made have led you down a path that—” Dr. Sands frowned. “Well, it’s a path most parents wouldn’t be happy to see their child take. You’re impulsive, disdainful of authority, and have difficulty trusting others. I believe those behaviors grew from an instinct to protect yourself from getting hurt.” She looked up at the ceiling, and blinked. It was a trick she’d picked up somewhere, to stop tears from sliding down her face. “They’re learned behaviors, Teddy. So you can unlearn them. That, combined with Dean Corbett’s recommendation—”
Teddy swallowed. “Does this mean I passed?”
Dr. Sands looked amused. “There’s no passing or failing. There is simply gathering the information we need to decide if Whitfield is a good fit for you.”
Bet on me.
Teddy had to bite back the words. She waited in silence, her heart beating erratically, until Dr. Sands spoke again.
“I’m technically not at liberty to say whether or not I’ll recommend you for admission. But between us, I think you’ll find Whitfield a lot more comfortable than your parents’ garage.”
Teddy felt light, as if the shame she’d carried since Stanford—since before that, even—had finally loosened its grasp on her heart.
“Thank you,” she said, grabbing her jacket.
“Teddy,” Dr. Sands said, “you still have to pass the psychic-ability exam with Professor Corbett and Professor Dunn.”
“Oh, that.” Teddy swallowed. “Piece of cake.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SPEAKING OF CAKE, TEDDY WAS starving. She was pretty sure the Whitfield Institute wouldn’t serve cake—sugar probably did something to some receptor that interfered with psychic ability. Still, she headed over to Harris Hall to double-check.
Teddy spotted Jillian, Jeremy, and Molly, along with a few other now-familiar faces, at one of the dining hall’s long tables. No Pyro, she noted. Too bad.
Teddy surveyed the entrées. She could hardly believe she lived in a world without cake. She chose a microgreen salad and sat down next to the other first-year recruits.
“Well?” Jillian said, leaning forward. “How’d your test go?”
Teddy finished chewing something green that didn’t taste nearly as bad as she expected. “Good news,” she said, “I’m sane after all.”
“Not your psych exam. Your psych-ic exam.”
“Deferred until tomorrow morning.”
Jillian cocked her head. “Bummer.”
Teddy didn’t need to read Jillian’s mind to see that her roommate was dying to talk about her own exam. “Spill it,” Teddy said. “Did you nail it?”
Jillian grabbed Teddy’s arm, knocking the fork out of her hand. “God, I did! I was amazing.”
Jillian started at the beginning. First, Clint had brought in an orange tabby who communicated something about a dark, damp place she feared. After Jillian relayed this to Clint and Dunn, it was confirmed that the cat had been rescued from a drainage pipe. Next, Clint had introduced a very depressed golden retriever who had been a service dog for a blind woman who had died. The only thing Jillian got wrong was the timing—she told Dunn and Clint that the woman had passed two years ago, but in fact it had been eight moths.
“Dogs don’t really have an accurate sense of time passing,” Jillian said.
“Of course,” Teddy said. “Otherwise we’d call them clocks.” She turned to Molly. “Tell me about your exam.”
“Draining,” Molly said.
“But you passed?”
“Clint already knew what I can do from last year. But he still put me through my paces.” Molly trailed off as if reliving something she wanted to forget. Teddy noticed Jeremy raising his arm as if to comfort Molly, then pulling it back when Dara appeared.
Teddy did what Jeremy apparently couldn’t: she put a hand on Molly’s shoulder. But concern for Molly was eclipsed by fear for herself. Clint had been serious about cuts. She glanced at the doorway, where she saw a group of first-year recruits saying their goodbyes. This same time tomorrow, she could be doing the same.
Dara slammed her lunch tray down next to Teddy’s. “Can you believe this?” she said, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. “It’s already happening.”
“What’s already happening?” Teddy asked, sneaking another look at the group by the doorway.
“The whole Misfits-Alphas thing.”
Teddy glanced around the table. She’d assumed Dara meant the students leaving campus. “What are you talking about?”
Dara sighed. “This upperclassman named Christine said it happens every year. It’s worse than high school. Whitfield Institute attracts two types of people. The Alphas, who think their psychic ability makes them vastly superior to everyone around them.” She tilted her chin toward the table to their left. Teddy noted a group of well-groomed recruits who looked like extras from an old episode of Gossip Girl.
“And the Misfits,” Dara continued. “People whose psychic gifts always made them feel like freaks.” Her lips curved upward. “Remind you of anyone?”
Teddy thought about it: so far, she’d met a free spirit with the ability to talk to pets; an emotionally unstable ex-CIA hacker; a bad boy with the ability to set fire to . . . anything. She took Christine’s point. These might not be the people she would choose as friends, but they were all she had.
“So what gift made you feel like a freak, Dara?” Jeremy asked.
“Death warnings,” Dara said. “I can tell when someone’s about to transition to the other side. Like about thirty percent of the time.”
There was a collective pause at the table.
Dara
smirked. “Don’t worry, none of you are about to drop dead in your tofu.” She took a bite of her bread and cultured butter. “I think.”
* * *
After lunch, the first-year recruits reported to the basement of Fort McDowell for their first tactical training session. Even though everyone was dressed exactly alike—navy cotton T-shirts printed with the Whitfield Institute logo, black sweatpants, black sneakers, and ankle-high black cotton socks—it wasn’t difficult to distinguish the groups Dara had labeled. The Alphas stood at the base of the bleachers, stretching and jumping, while the Misfits leaned against the wall. By now, their numbers had shrunk dramatically—from the thirty or so recruits Teddy had seen two days ago in the auditorium, twelve remained.
Pyro walked into the basement, late. Teddy stared. He wore a tight white T-shirt and basketball shorts, as if the uniform were beneath him.
Jillian nudged Teddy with her elbow. “Found something you like on the menu?”
“We ran into each other this morning in the, um, shower.”
Before Teddy could say more, Sergeant Rosemary Boyd marched into the gym, clipboard in hand. She stopped in the center of the track. “Recruits front and center!” she said.
The Alphas instinctively lined up in front of their superior.
“Guess subservience is in their DNA,” Teddy said to Jillian as she and the other Misfits made their way toward Boyd. Pyro took longer than the rest to fall into place, sidling up next to Teddy. “Nice uniform,” she whispered.
Boyd strode up and down the line, eying each of them. “It’s my responsibility to ensure that each of you graduates with the physical skills necessary to serve. I don’t care about your ‘special’ powers. If you aren’t able to jump a fence, you’re not qualified to protect this country.”
“Why jump a fence when you can just light it on fire?” Pyro said.
Boyd whipped her head toward him. “Name?”
“Lucas Costa.”
“Why aren’t you in uniform?”
Pyro shrugged. When Boyd looked down the line of recruits, he turned to Teddy. “Welcome to Shitfield,” he whispered.
