by K. C. Archer
Teddy didn’t have time for dreams about dogs this morning. “I’m sorry, Jillian,” she said as she grabbed her shower caddy and headed to the bathroom. “I can’t be late.”
* * *
Teddy’s dream stayed with her as she showered and dressed, as she ate breakfast with her friends, as she walked to Fort McDowell for the first Empathy 101 class with Clint.
The lullaby endlessly replayed in her head until the door slammed and Clint walked into the classroom. He threw his beat-up satchel on a large desk and sat down beside it, one leg casually swinging beneath him. He wore khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt, cuffs rolled up and collar unbuttoned. He appeared totally normal. Nothing the least bit psychic about him. In other classes, Teddy gossiped with her fellow Misfits until the teacher began a lecture. But here, the room stayed pin-drop quiet.
Teddy had tried to visualize her wall, like Clint had asked. She could choose steel like his, or sand like Molly’s, but neither felt right. Clint looked at her. She knew he could tell.
“Empathy. Let’s start with a definition.”
“Feeling sorry for someone,” Ben said without raising his hand.
Clint shook his head, leaning back on the desk. “I had a lot of different partners when I was a cop. But two of them stick out in my mind—and these were good cops, guys I liked and respected. One of them was dyslexic. He couldn’t turn in a report without me or his wife checking it over first for spelling mistakes. The other guy was color-blind. He’d lied to get the job; I don’t know how he even made it onto the force. But despite his false application, he was a great cop. I’m not dyslexic, and I’m not color-blind—but I understood their brains were wired differently than mine.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t work the other way around, did it?” Pyro called out.
Clint laughed. “Right. My psychic ability helped us close case after case, but they couldn’t understand that my brain was wired differently, too. Both of them requested a different partner within six months.”
Behind her, Teddy heard Ava Lareau clear her throat. “I’m sorry, Professor Corbett, but I don’t see what any of this has to do with empathy.”
“Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of others. To be able to put yourself in their place. Ultimately, it’s up to you if you disclose to your partner about your abilities, but if any of you is harboring some private fantasy that you’re going to jump into a position at the CIA, Homeland Security, or local law enforcement and be embraced because everyone there was just dying to have some hotshot psychic join their team and solve cases they’d been stumped on for years, you’re wrong.”
Clint stood up and pointed a single finger ceiling-ward. “So that’s number one,” he said. “You need to empathize with your colleagues. It has to be frustrating as hell to learn you arrested the wrong guy—or worse, let the right guy walk. Whether or not they realize you had extracognitive help, they’ll resent you for making them look like idiots. But it’s not about you, people, it really isn’t. Accept that and move on. That’s the kind of empathy you need to learn to keep your job.
“Number two,” Clint went on, “and this is more important: all of you have demonstrated an ability to psychically connect to another psychic. That’s good, but you need more than that when you’re dealing with a potential suspect. You need empathy. And I’m not talking about pulling that Officer Friendly bullshit where you cuddle up to someone and convince him to waive his constitutional rights. I mean getting to the core of another person’s feelings, thoughts, and motivations. Be ready to access that skill on a dime. Not just fast—instant. That’s the kind of empathy you need to be good at your job.”
Teddy glanced over at Molly, whose face looked white in the dim classroom. As an empath, she had no choice to feel—and Teddy knew she hated it.
“We’d all like to believe we’re good people,” Clint said. “But the truth is, empathy is a fragile reaction. In times of extreme stress, the psychological capacity that humans have to empathize with others is often eliminated. That’s why you’ll see people kicking others off lifeboats to save themselves. The only way to counter that is to diligently practice empathy every day. That’s the kind of empathy you need to be a good person.”
He asked the students to find a partner and share an experience during which they’d felt vulnerable. Molly tapped Teddy’s elbow, and Teddy nodded back.
Clint moved through the room as the class shuffled off into pairs. “As your partner is speaking, I want each of you to connect to your partner’s emotions. Actually feel them. Mine them for all you can get.”
Other students had claimed the more private corners, so Teddy and Molly found themselves squarely in the center of the classroom. They sat down cross-legged on the floor, facing each other, their spines straight.
“You first,” Molly said.
Teddy could talk about her birth parents, her so-called epilepsy, struggling to come to terms with her new psychic abilities. But she didn’t know how to put those experiences into words. They felt too raw, too new.
Instead, she described the time a few years ago when her best friend from high school had come back to Vegas to visit. Her friend had recently married; she was expecting a child soon. As Teddy talked, Molly voiced each of her varying emotions. The joy at seeing her old friend, the nostalgia while reminiscing over old times. Teddy’s pang of guilt at not being able to finish college, as her friend had done. Her mixture of envy and happiness at her friend’s description of married life.
Then it was Molly’s turn. She sat there for a few moments, as if trying to decide which part of her she was willing to share.
“I know it’s hard,” Teddy said. Which was bullshit, because she had taken the easy way out.
Molly shook her head. “It was hard to be a kid and just . . . feel everything all the time. Especially adults’ emotions. My dad had just died, and my mom was on her own. She was doing her best, but she was depressed. Didn’t help that I was a handful. Crying all the time. One night when my brothers were acting wild, I got hysterical—sensing my mother’s sadness, I think. But she couldn’t deal with me and my brothers at the same time, and so she locked me in a closet. I was stuck in there for hours.”
Teddy closed her eyes and tried to put herself in Molly’s place, in the dark, alone. Molly went on, “I’ve always been scared of everything. Heights. Spiders. Darkness. It’s hard to be brave when you feel how scared everyone is—of things big and small—all the time.”
For a second, Teddy caught a glimpse of a hallway, heard the sound of crying from somewhere above. But then it was gone. Teddy’s parents had always been happy to have her around, even if she was a troublemaker. In fact, they’d done that thing so many adoptive parents do—assured Teddy again and again that she was special because she’d been chosen.
Teddy opened her eyes to find Jeremy watching Molly, visibly concerned. Molly turned to look at him quickly before she continued, “I’m working now on learning to shut out people’s emotions. But high school was a nightmare. College, too. Even this place can be overwhelming. I took a break last year because I still wasn’t ready to be around so many people. That’s why I like computers.” She laughed. “Just data, no fear. But I’ve been working with Professor Dunn. He’s teaching me how to control it.”
“I’m glad,” Teddy replied, her throat dry. “Your wall helps, though, right?”
Molly looked at her, eyes wide. “What?”
“In Seership, that day I broke through your wall. You know it was an accident. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”
Molly nodded. She looked even more drained than usual. Dark circles showed under her eyes, her pale brown hair was lank, and her skin had an almost ghostly pallor. It was like each day at Whitfield sucked a little more out of her. Teddy made a silent vow to check in on her more often.
“All right, people.” Clint’s voice carried across the room. “That’s enough for today. Remember: empathy won’t just ma
ke you a better psychic; it’ll make you a better government official, a better colleague, a better friend, a better spouse, a better human being. So keep working at it.”
Teddy stood up and extended a hand to Molly. “Want to go grab a coffee down by the docks?”
Molly looked to Jeremy, who was still watching them. “Can’t,” she said. “I promised Jeremy I’d hang out with him.”
“All right, maybe another time.”
“Yeah,” Molly said. “Another time.”
As the students gathered their belongings, Clint called Teddy’s name.
“How’s your wall coming?” he asked.
“It’s coming,” she said as she made her way toward the door.
Alone, Teddy walked to the meditation lawn. Even though she hadn’t been able to tackle the thirty minutes of meditation that Dunn advised the students to perform each morning and night, Teddy slipped off her shoes, threw down her bag, and sat down on the damp grass. She turned her palms up on her knees and began to breathe deeply. She cleared her mind. She then waited for the idea of a wall. It wouldn’t be sand or steel. She blinked, letting in a bright flash of light. Yes, she thought. Light. Electricity. So strong that no one could even touch it, let alone manage to break through. She would build a wall of pure power.
Teddy imagined the light crackling. She breathed in deeply and visualized sending more energy to her electric wall until it jumped in waves, giving off sparks. She spent an hour on the lawn turning the shield on and off. She didn’t notice the students walking by, she didn’t notice the sun start to set, and when Teddy finally got up and walked back to her dorm, she felt calm, as if she finally had gained some control over her mind and her body.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE END OF OCTOBER CAME to Angel Island faster than a dealer could yell “No call bets” at craps. Midterm exams were still far enough away that the students at Whitfield felt like there was time to celebrate. Conveniently, October brought an occasion for it: Halloween.
The Whitfield Institute took Halloween seriously. Like, too seriously, considering it was a government institution for adults. And while its celebration could never reach Vegas proportions, it captured a certain level of Vegas enthusiasm. The highlight of the evening was a costume contest—everyone on campus was encouraged to dress up, even teachers.
That was how Teddy ended up in the dining hall, next to Jillian, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans covered in blood (okay, fake blood): she’d gone with a Walking Dead theme. Recruits from all years crowded into the dining hall. As Teddy took a sip of her nonalcoholic fair-trade fruit punch, she thought about how quickly life at Whitfield had taken on a rhythm—she went to class, she did her work, she strengthened her mental shield, she met with Clint, he tried to break her mental shield, she got her ass kicked by Boyd, she meditated, she tried (and failed) to replicate her astral ability in Dunn’s class, she went to bed exhausted, and she woke up the next day and did it all over again. She’d done her best to keep her nose clean, play nice, follow the rules. It wasn’t that hard to want to fit in. She liked the other Misfits. And there was a part of her that had grown to enjoy organic nonalcoholic fair-trade fruit punch.
She looked around the dining hall. The staff had even gone to the effort of decorating, cheesy cobwebs gracing every surface, complete with plastic spiders. The coveted prize for winning the costume contest was a weekend pass for two off-island. Teddy knew she didn’t have a shot at it. She’d discovered she was merely one of a zombie horde.
Jillian had done better, transforming one of the diaphanous rolls of fabric that hung above her bed into a toga in order to become the empress from a tarot deck. Thankfully, she had let up on the patchouli, instead dusting herself from head to toe in shimmery body powder.
“So are you meeting with Brett?” Teddy asked.
Jillian shrugged. “We just have some loose plans.”
“Yeah, sure,” Teddy said, rolling her eyes and taking another sip of punch.
“And what about you and Pyro?”
Now it was Teddy’s turn to shrug. Their interactions since that night at the Cantina had been awkward, to say the least.
“Speaking of,” Jillian said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Teddy could see Pyro making his way over to them. Of course he hadn’t dressed up.
“And who are you supposed to be?” Teddy asked.
“The man who haunts your dreams?”
“Very funny,” Teddy said.
“You want to make tonight a little more interesting?” Pyro asked, nodding to her cup and pulling out a flask.
Teddy thought for a moment. She remembered her promise to Clint. She had to at least try to follow the rules on campus. “I’m good,” she said.
He smiled. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
She saw Clint standing with the instructors by the punch table across the room. Even they had gotten in the swing of things. Professor Dunn had dressed as the Dude from The Big Lebowski, while Clint looked relaxed and comfortable in his college football jersey.
Dara, wearing a fur coat, too much eyeliner, and a pink polo dress, sidled up to Teddy. “You know what I like best about tonight?” she asked, taking a fake drag from her unlit cigarette. She looked just like Margot from The Royal Tenenbaums.
“What?” Teddy took another sip of punch.
“That Boyd’s not here. Imagine her predicament. What if she dressed like a troll and nobody noticed she was in costume?”
The Misfits’ intense dislike of Sergeant Rosemary Boyd had only magnified. Boyd ran her classes with an iron fist and was responsible in large part for the rivalry that ran between the Misfits and the Alphas. It was as if she wanted the competition between them to spiral into something like tribal warfare.
Teddy laughed, catching Clint’s eye. He was watching her. They’d been working consistently on mental defense, but Clint had been able to penetrate her mind each and every time he tried. She imagined a current crackling in her fingers, traveling up her arms. She closed her eyes, marshaling that electricity. Then, as if it were thread, she pictured spinning the bright white light into a web inside her mind, shielding her thoughts. Clint raised his cup to hers and returned to his conversation with Dunn. As if he could hear her silent vow to keep him out of her damn mind.
Ava Lareau bumped Teddy’s arm, almost spilling her drink. Ava was one of those girls who thought lingerie and animal ears made the best Halloween costume. Teddy guessed she was dressed as either a call girl or a cat.
“Anyone seen Brett lately?” Ava asked, her eyes right on Jillian. “He promised to meet me here, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
Teddy just hoped that Jillian wouldn’t take the bait. Everyone knew that Ava was determined to be the best spiritual medium among the first-year recruits, and that she perceived Jillian as a threat. She’d gone on the offensive, doing everything she could to undermine Jillian’s confidence and class rank. And when Ava had discovered that Jillian had a crush on Brett Evans, she’d launched a campaign to openly flirt with him any chance she could. Jillian had retaliated by doubling her efforts to get Brett to notice her instead, occasionally pulling down her dress to reveal another inch of cleavage.
Ava’s eyes narrowed as she turned her attention to Jillian’s costume. “Oh,” Ava drawled. “I just love what you did with that curtain. Very Scarlett O’Hara.”
“I like your costume, too,” Jillian said, smiling. “Clever idea to appear practically naked in front of your professors. Let me know if it works for you.”
Ava flushed. “If you see Brett, tell him I’m looking for him.” With that, she turned and left.
Dara put her hand on Jillian’s shoulder. “He’s over there,” she said, pointing toward a table where a group of upperclassmen—including Brett, dressed as the Long Island Medium—were reading fortunes. “Jeremy and Molly tracked him down earlier. They’re still trying to make that trade for Internet access. Remember? Brett has a key to the lab? The whole black-market thi
ng?”
Jeremy and Molly, dressed in coordinating doctor and nurse costumes, blended easily into the crowd. But Brett stood out. It was hard to miss a six-foot-tall guy in leopard-skin stilettos, a tight leather skirt, a bleached-blond wig—and five o’clock shadow.
Despite the getup, Jillian looked so lovestruck that Teddy decided to accompany her friend across the room to keep her from doing anything stupid. As they drew closer, however, it was clear that Brett wasn’t exactly in character. “I mean, I understand that some people need the rules and restrictions,” he said. “But I don’t. Just the opposite. All these regulations are curtailing my abilities. Makes me feel like I could start a fight with a possum. Why put us through all this training if we can’t use—”
“Hey,” Molly said, cutting off Brett’s rant the moment she noticed Teddy and Jillian nearby.
“Hey,” Jillian said breathily. “You owe me a dance.”
“I do?” Brett said.
Jillian grabbed Brett and led him onto the floor.
Teddy sneaked off to get a refill of nonalcoholic punch. She chatted with Dara and an upperclassman, but no matter how she tried to relax and enjoy herself, there was a distinctly middle-school feeling about the party. Bored, Teddy practiced putting her wall up and down as she watched her peers grind on the dance floor.
That was, until she saw him.
Nick, killer dimples and all, walked into the Whitfield dining hall. Teddy had tried not to think about him much after that night, it had been too cringeworthy—she had made a move on him, and he’d dad-blocked her!—and now he was here and talking to Clint like they were old friends.
She felt like she’d been hit with a ton of bricks, because she realized the truth. They were friends. Or colleagues, at the very least. Nick knew all about Whitfield, all about her—and he had known since the moment she’d first laid eyes on him in the Bellagio. She’d been freaking played.
