Mind Games

by Kiersten White

  I get back in the car and drive toward the single most dangerous place in the world for me right now. I should be terrified. I should turn around and go anywhere else. I should curl up in a ball and cry. Instead, I think about everything in the whole entire world that makes me angry—there is a lot, oh, there is a lot—and I start singing Justin Bieber at the top of my lungs.

  I can do this.

  FIA

  Four Years Ago

  “IT’S NOT FAIR.” I STAND, FEET PLANTED, ARMS crossed. I will not be scared of Ms. Robertson. I don’t care how broad her shoulders are, how tight her bun is, how many students whisper that she knows you’re cheating without even looking at you. She doesn’t scare me (she does, and I hate it).

  “What’s not fair?” She raises a thin eyebrow at me.

  “Why is my test all essays? Everyone else has multiple choice!”

  She smiles; it doesn’t touch her eyes. It is a lie of a smile. She is a liar. Everyone here is a liar. I hate this place, I hate it, it’s wrong, every day it’s wrong and I feel sick all the time. I hate the two postcards Aunt Ellen has sent us in the three months since we came here, saying she’s in Egypt and isn’t it great that the school will do all holidays and summer breaks for us. I hate the beautiful dining room with the fancy food, I hate the laundry room with the spinning washing machines, I hate the classrooms with too few students and too much attention.

  Annie loves it all. She has a private tutor. They’ve talked with a geneticist about her eyes. She is happy.

  “Well, Sofia, part of our goal at this school is to challenge our students. And you have demonstrated that you excel at multiple choice. You never miss a question. Ever. On any test in any subject.”

  “Are you accusing me of cheating?” I don’t break eye contact. I won’t. I have never cheated in my life.

  “Of course not. I’m simply saying you have an uncanny knack for answering multiple-choice questions. If everything comes easily, how will you ever learn?”

  I barely hold back my eye roll. Annie wouldn’t approve. She tells me to roll them as much as I possibly can and makes me tell her when I’m rolling them at her. But Annie doesn’t understand. She’s not sick all the time, doesn’t have these thoughts bouncing around in her skull making her crazy. She doesn’t feel like the bottom has just dropped out of the room, like she can’t quite get enough air to breathe. I do, ever since we came here. I’m crazy. But I am not a cheater.

  “Fine. Whatever.” I stomp back to my seat, my stupid plaid skirt swishing. The girl I share a table with, Eden, scowls. There are only five of us in the thirteen-year-olds’ class. I don’t get to know them. I don’t want to. I wish I had classes with Annie.

  “Stop being so angry all the time,” she whispers. “It’s distracting.”

  “Why do you care?” I hiss. “I’m not mad at you!”

  “No, but it’s…I don’t like feeling that way. Just calm down.”

  Everyone here is insane. I am the insanest of the insane. I’m going to run away tonight. I’m sick of the way the staff stares at me like they’re seeing straight into my head, and I’m sick of the bizarre classes they’ve “designed” specially for me that have me picking stocks instead of learning math, and practicing self-defense instead of gym. And I am so sick of feeling sick all the time.

  But Annie is happy. She loves her staff mentor, Clarice, and the loads of braille texts and the pamphlets of information from the doctor I have to read out loud to her over and over again. She’s bonded with Eden and they hang out constantly; you’d think they were sisters. She’ll be happier here without me dragging her down. Maybe Eden is right—maybe I am so angry that other people can actually feel it.

  I’m going to leave. I have no money. Whatever. I’ll figure it out. Just planning to leave tonight I feel better already, lighter, not as jittery in my own head. There’s a camera and an alarm and a security guard at the main entrance to the huge school building. But a window on the second floor has a balcony under it. Ten-foot drop. I can do a ten-foot drop. Then I’ll climb the rest of the way down. The brick is old and uneven. I can do it.

  I know I can.

  I’m going to get out of here tonight, and I’ll never come back. I’ll walk back to my aunt’s house if I have to. I’ll live there by myself. I’ll send Annie stupid postcards, and maybe they’ll fix her eyes and she’ll even be able to read them by herself. I don’t want to be without her—that idea makes it even harder to breathe—but I can’t stay here.

  I look up to see Ms. Robertson smiling at me, and this time the smile isn’t a lie. It’s a challenge. Like she knows what I’m planning.

  But she can’t know.

  She knows. It’s a physical reaction in me, a certain quivering, empty feeling in my stomach, that tug of my gut. I know she knows. How does she know? I have to go now. NOW. I stand, knocking my chair over with a clatter into the table behind me. “I feel sick,” I say, leaving my stuff as I run out the door. Down the long hall, all tile and dark wood. Into the residence wing. Up the stairs that smell like lemon furniture polish. Straight to the window, the one I opened last week to see how far the drop was.

  It’s nailed shut.

  Screw this, I am gone. I sprint up another flight of stairs to the dorms with their warm yellow lights and plush red carpet. I will grab everything I own and I will run straight out the front doors. I will run into the sunshine and I will never come back here where everything is wrong for no reason. I burst in, and Annie’s there, on the couch, and she’s crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, out of breath. “What happened?”

  She looks up, but she’s smiling. Why is she crying and smiling at the same time?

  “I’m not the only one,” she says. “Fia, it’s not just me! Clarice can do it, too. Clarice sees things before they happen. And she’s going to help me learn to do it better, to control it. Oh, I knew this school was the right choice.” She stands and holds her hands out for a hug and I stumble forward, letting her wrap me up because I never stay away when she wants me close. “Think about it, Fia. If I had known how to control it before, I could have seen Mom and Dad earlier, I could have understood what I was seeing, I could have…” I know what she saw because she’s told me so many times, crying in the middle of the night.

  She saw their lives smashed out of them. She still blames herself because she saw the accident and didn’t change it. (She didn’t change it. I am here because—no, stop.)

  Maybe this school is the best thing that ever happened to her; she can figure out how to deal with what she sees. But why do I still feel so wrong when she’s so happy and hopeful? No. It’s my job to take care of her. If staying here is what she needs, I’ll stay.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I turn to see what Annie’s eyes can’t. Ms. Robertson is standing, perfectly silent in the doorway, watching me.

  It’s been two weeks since the window was nailed shut. Bars were installed on all the windows, on all the floors. The administration said it was because of an attempted break-in.

  Every day Annie chatters to me about what she learned, how smart Clarice is, what an amazing coincidence it is that she’d end up with the one person in the world who could understand her. I do not smile because with Annie I don’t have to, but I lie when we are together.

  Now I am sitting in class.

  I am not doing any of my assignments.

  I sit perfectly still and straight, and I do not work, and I do not answer questions, and they do not do anything to me. There is no detention. There are no threats. Except in self-defense, where my instructor hits me and hits me until I finally block and hit back.

  I am riddled with bruises under my stiff white shirt that smells of bleach and makes me miss my mom with an ache I didn’t think I could feel anymore.

  I do not tell Annie. I cannot tell Annie. Annie is happy, and I have to let her be happy. It is my job to make sure Annie is happy.

  I glare at Ms. Robertson, standing in the f
ront detailing the upcoming ski trip; I still blame her for the nailed-shut window, though I have no reason to.

  Then I have an idea. Maybe Clarice isn’t a coincidence. This school is wrong, I know it is. I want to know why, because if I know why, then maybe it won’t make me feel sick all the time. If there’s a reason why it’s wrong, then I am not crazy for feeling this way. (I’m not crazy, I’m not.) I lean back in my chair, stare straight at Ms. Robertson’s forehead, and think, I have a knife in my shoe. I have a knife in my shoe. I have a knife in my shoe, and I am going to pull it out and stab Eden. I am going to stab her until she screams. I have a knife in my shoe. I’m going to stab Eden. Right now.

  Ms. Robertson sprints down the row and rips me out of my chair, knocking me to the ground; my head slams against the floor. She pins me, it’s not hard—I am all elbows and knees and I am only thirteen. She yanks off one of my shoes and then the other, breathing hard. My face is smashed into the tile. I can’t see anything. I can’t move.

  My teacher swears. “What—why would you—Eden! How is Sofia feeling right now?”

  “I don’t know! How can I—”

  “Just tell me how she’s feeling right now!”

  “She’s—she was totally calm before you grabbed her. And now it’s like, I don’t know, like she’s laughing inside, but she’s also really scared.” Eden sounds scared, too, having to admit that she knows this.

  Ms. Robertson stands up, and I roll over onto my back, tears streaming down my cheeks from the pain in my head, but Eden’s right—I’m laughing.

  I laugh and laugh and laugh, and I think about stabbing Ms. Robertson with the knife I don’t have in my shoe. Lighting this whole room on fire with the matches I don’t have in my pocket. Hanging myself in my room with the rope I don’t have in my closet.

  This place is wrong, I think at her, and I know.

  “Very clever,” Ms. Robertson says, with that lie of a smile. “It would appear you’re ready for the advanced placement track.”

  ANNIE

  Monday Afternoon

  SHE SHOULD BE BACK BY NOW. WHY ISN’T SHE BACK? I need to hear her, to figure out if she’s okay. She’ll lie to me, of course, but I still need to hear her.

  It’s my fault. Again. Either I see things and I can’t stop them, or I cause them because I see them wrong. I will be the death of my entire family. I’ve already destroyed Fia by dragging her to this school with me. I can’t kill her, too.

  I walk to the door and out into the hall. Someone stands up immediately—Darren, by the sounds of it. He has a particular way of exhaling whenever he has to actually do something.

  “Can I help you, Miss Annabelle?”

  “Why yes, Darren, you can! There’s a window at the end of the hallway, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you open it?”

  “Are you too warm? I can have the AC adjusted.”

  “Oh, no, the window isn’t for me. It’s for you. So you can throw yourself out of it.”

  A pause and then, “You have such a sense of humor, Miss Annabelle.”

  “Well, I only have the four senses, so I’ve got to compensate somehow. You are welcome to keep sitting in your chair, reading your romance novels. I’m going to see Eden.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “So you can disappoint me yet again by never listening? Please, Darren.” I continue down the hall, tracing a hand along the smooth wood paneling, counting the seams. Skip an empty door. Skip another. Knock.

  The door opens and she reaches out immediately for my hand. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “They sent Fia on a hit.”

  Eden swears. “Is she okay?”

  “I need you to get a feel for her when she gets back. She’ll lie to me.”

  She sighs and her grip changes as she shifts to lean farther away from me. “I’m sorry she had to do that. Really. I think it’s wrong. But I can’t handle being around her. You have no idea what it’s like since we came back, getting sucked into all that anger. It gives me a headache. My whole mouth tastes like I’m chugging battery acid. She’s poison.”

  “My sister is not poison.” I yank my hand back.

  She swears again, her voice softer. “Sorry. Just—I can already tell you how she’ll feel. She’ll feel angry. It’s the only way she’s felt since we left Europe. I wish I could help her, but I can’t, and neither can you.”

  “Why are you even still here?” I’m so furious I want to shake her, and I know she can feel it. “Why did you come back? Why didn’t you go out into the world to be Keane’s little spy?”

  I don’t have to be a Feeler to hear the hurt in Eden’s voice. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

  “How can you work for them?” I whisper. “They keep me here, prisoner, to control Fia.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe they keep you here to keep you safe from Fia?”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “You can’t feel her like I can. She’s dangerous, Annie, and it scares me every time she’s alone with you. She’s—” I hear her inhale sharply. “Good news, she’s here. I can feel her from the first floor. Guess Art Institute is out. Come over after she’s gone and we’ll do manicures, okay?” Eden starts to close the door, but hesitates. “I’m sorry.” Then it clicks shut.

  I turn expectantly toward the elevator end of the hall. I wish I could go straight down to meet her, but unlike Eden who can come and go as she pleases, without Darren’s key card I’m not allowed off the floor.

  To keep me safe. Right. I am the safest prisoner in the entire world.

  I strain, listening for the hum of the elevator, the muffled ding, the slide of its doors. The sound of Fia’s feet stomping down the hall. She always walks loud, just for me.

  But instead of sounds, I’m greeted by a flash of light and I can see—oh, light, I can see!—and it’s all lights and darkness, flashing pounding lights and vibrations and everything is dark and there’s smoke and it’s a fire? It must be a fire! There are too many people, they’ll all die—

  No, it’s not a fire, the bodies are dancing, the vibrations are the pounding rhythms of a song. The lights change color so quickly I can’t remember their names. And Fia—oh, Fia, you are so beautiful it makes my heart hurt—is in the middle of it all, slamming her body, moving and swaying and dancing to the beat in a way that no one else can. Her eyes are closed and her arm is raised. Only one arm, she’s hurt; how did she get hurt? Is this soon? But she has lost herself and I know that there, in that moment, she’s happy.

  I want to do nothing but stay here and watch my sister dance.

  But then I know I’m not the one watching her. Someone else is. That’s the point of this vision, not to see Fia happy but to see that someone else is seeing her. I try to turn to scan the crowd, but it doesn’t work like that: I’m locked in, stuck seeing and only seeing but never seeing enough. Someone is watching her. Fia dances on, oblivious.

  If I can just figure out who is doing the watching, then—

  “Annie! Annabelle!”

  Fia’s voice pulls me out of the light and the darkness slams in all around me again, permanent, claustrophobic after my brief foray into vision.

  “What did you see?” James’s voice is terse. Crap. I should have been in my room. He wouldn’t have known I saw anything. I don’t tell them about the majority of what I see. That’s the glory of your power being in your head and your head alone. They can’t get it there.

  “Fia. Dancing.”

  “Whoop! I’m going dancing!” I can feel her stomping around me in a circle, then her steps falter and something thuds into the wall.

  “You are going to bed,” James snaps.

  “Ooh, James,” Fia whispers dramatically. “Not in front of my sister. She hates you.”

  “Are you okay?” I reach out for her, but she dances away from my grasp, humming under her breath. Some obnoxious pop song. Doris must be here—I missed everything when I was seein
g.

  “I’m not getting anything from her,” Doris snaps. “I’m going back to my office.” She walks away, muttering about having that song stuck in her head all day now.

  “Baby baby baby, Ms. Robertson! Ta-taa!” Fia doesn’t take my hand, she never does anymore, but I hear her stomping toward my room and I follow.

  Her steps jerk to a halt. I assume James grabbed her. His voice is deliberately calm. “Okay, Fia. You saw her. I don’t know why you needed to, but you’ve seen Annabelle now, so can we please get you to Dr. Grant?”

  “Dr. Grant? Why does she need a doctor?” I ask.

  “But I have to tell Annabelle all about my great adventure. Annie—” She leans in so close to my face I can feel her breath. “I got SHOT. It was awesome. How many seventeen-year-olds can say that?”

  “Someone shot her?” I turn toward James’s voice in horror. “You let her get shot?”

  “Please, Fia,” James says.

  “Oh, fine. I also killed some poor innocent college kid. You would have liked him, Annie. He was cute. He had long legs and long arms and gray eyes. Then he was dead. Poor cute dead kid.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It felt like I’d been holding it since I lied to Keane. “I’m sorry.”

  “That I almost got killed or that I did some killing? ’Cause I’m not sorry about any of it. Not sorry, not sorry, not sorry at all. Is the hall spinning for anyone else? Just me? Okay, I’m gonna go get blood on Annie’s couch. Don’t worry, James—she can’t see it. She’ll never know.”

  I hear her shoulder dragging along the wall as she stomps—lurches—stomps to my room.

  “Did you give her something?” I ask. I assume she isn’t bleeding to death or James wouldn’t have let her come up here at all. Maybe he gave her something for the pain already? I didn’t smell any alcohol on her breath. She hasn’t been this bad in a long time.