Sleep No More

  Oh yes, please talk about puberty right now, I think, forcing myself not to roll my eyes. I do pull my hand back though, and cross my arms over my chest.

  At least she didn’t ask. She usually assumes I won. Because I almost always do. Maybe she trusts that I would tell her if I didn’t. And she should be able to. More guilt.

  But ten years? I really am crappy at this.

  “Things will calm down once you finish college and can withdraw from the world more,” Sierra said calmly, evenly. Like she didn’t just sentence me to a life of seclusion.

  “Sierra,” I say after several long seconds of silence. “Would it really be so bad if we just let them come?” Her eyes narrow slightly, but I continue. “Not all the time, just, like when I’m alone in my room at home.” I don’t remember a lot from when I didn’t fight, but the foretellings I did get were mostly little things. Things I didn’t care about. “If I don’t do anything about it, of course,” I add when Sierra’s lips tighten.

  She leans forward, looking up at me with dark brown eyes that look so much like Mom’s. “I know you think you can do that, Charlotte, but believe me, the temptation will become too great. You’ll want to change things. And that’s not a bad thing; it’s because you’re a good person and you have a desire to help people.” She furrows her brows and then she’s not meeting my gaze anymore. “You don’t know how bad the visions can get. Not even you.”

  Not even me? Not even the girl who got her father killed trying to save her aunt? How much more devastating than that could it possibly get?

  But then, maybe seeing a murdered teenager is worse. It makes me wonder what Sierra has seen that puts that haunted look in her eyes.

  I want to ask more, but I’m not sure how I can without revealing what I saw today. And I just don’t want to. Don’t want to admit how much I suck.

  I stand there silently for so long that after a few minutes, Sierra squeezes my hand, turns back to her computer, and resumes working.

  I wander over to the shelf that houses the oldest books. With my arms folded, I scan the spines and titles—as close as Sierra ever lets me get. My eyes catch on a cracked leather spine printed with the words REPAIRING THE FRACTURED FUTURE.

  Air slips slowly out between my teeth with a tiny hiss. This. This is what I need. I glance at Sierra, but she’s as focused as she was when I first came in. My fingers walk slowly forward, sneaking the same way I might tiptoe down a hallway. Closer. Closer.

  My index finger hooks around the top of the spine and I pull slowly, tipping the book down. A whisper of the leather covers rubbing together makes me freeze, but after a few seconds I let the spine lean all the way into my palm.

  Now I just have to pull it out and—

  “Charlotte.”

  Disappointment wells up in my throat. She didn’t snap—she never does—but that edge of “you know better than this” in her voice makes me want to melt into a puddle of shame. With my teeth tightly clenched, I push the book back where it belongs—at least she won’t know exactly which book I wanted—and turn to look at her.

  Sierra sighs and rises from her chair. She comes close and puts an arm around my shoulder, deftly steering me toward the door. “You know you’re not ready,” she whispers.

  “I think you’re wrong,” I say defiantly, proud of myself for voicing what I’ve thought for at least two years.

  “I’m erring on the safe side this time,” Sierra says, leaning her head close enough to touch mine. “The last time I didn’t watch you closely enough, this entire family paid for it. You don’t need more temptation in your life.”

  And without another word, she pushes me the last few inches through the door.

  By the time I turn around, the door is closed and even as I raise my hand to turn the knob, I hear the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

  Great.

  Maybe I should have told her. Now I have to decide what to do all by myself.

  And I don’t even know where to start.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  FOUR

  It’s all over the news the next morning.

  Her body is covered with a white drape, and the reporter is rambling on about her injuries, but even his gruesome descriptions can’t compare to the actual sight. The one I saw only yesterday.

  Mom’s hand is clenched around a mug of coffee, but she hasn’t lifted it to her mouth since she turned the television on ten minutes ago. “Who could do this?” she finally whispers after what feels like hours.

  Unfortunately, despite the vision, that’s a question I can’t answer. Visions are fickle that way—sometimes they give you the important information, and sometimes they simply . . . don’t.

  Sierra walks into the noticeably tense kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asks, looking between Mom and me and not seeming to notice that the TV is on despite its high volume. She’s like that, totally unaware of some things while being hyperaware of others. Probably because she’s constantly on guard for visions.

  I guess I’ll be like that someday too.

  “A teenage girl was killed at the high school last night,” Mom whispers, still staring horrified at the television. “Throat sliced right open.”

  Sierra’s head swings to me and she stares with questions shining in her eyes. I feel like I did when I was six. I don’t know how she knew then, but she did.

  And she knows now.

  Her expression evokes the same awful guilt, even though this time I did nothing. Which makes me feel even more guilty.

  Sierra fills her coffee cup with marked carefulness. She begins to leave the kitchen, but just before she disappears around the doorway she flicks her head, gesturing for me to join her.

  I stall. I’ve got about five bites of now-soggy cereal in the bottom of my bowl, and I lift them to my mouth slowly. But I can’t put it off long—I have to leave for school soon.

  Sierra is waiting for me just outside her bedroom door. “This is why you were asking questions yesterday, isn’t it?”

  There’s no point in denying it.

  “You didn’t tell me you actually saw it. I assumed you fought.” Even though her voice is soft, I can tell she’s angry. Angry that I didn’t confide in her? Maybe.

  “I did fight!” To my dismay, tears are starting to build up in my eyes. I didn’t expect it to actually happen so soon. I wasn’t ready. “I fought so hard,” I continue, pleading now. “It was different from anything I’ve ever experienced before. I couldn’t stop it.”

  She stares at me for a long time, but then her eyes soften and she simply says, “I wish you’d told me.”

  “Why?” I shoot back. Not mad exactly, but very helpless. “So you could do something?” Her jaw tightens but I continue. “What good would it have done to tell you?”

  Sierra looks down the hall toward the kitchen where I can hear the news continuing about the murder. She steps close and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Charlotte, the life of an Oracle is very solitary; we’re lucky to have each other. Please don’t push me away because I have high expectations of you. I don’t think you failed—these things happen. But that means it’s time to be even more vigilant.”

  Her steady gaze makes me weirdly nervous and I pull out my phone and light up the clock on my home screen. “I gotta go.”

  After getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen and pick up my set of house keys from the basket beside the back door. Surprisingly the soft jingle is what finally distracts Mom from the gruesome scene on the screen. “Where are you going?” she says in a rather irritated tone.

  I blink at her, confused. “School?”

  Her hair looks almost wild around her face as she shakes her head. “You can’t go to school today.”

  “Why not?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize how stupid they are. Of course my mother is worried about my safety; a teenage girl w
ho’s in a couple of my classes just got murdered on school grounds.

  She doesn’t know that I’m completely safe.

  It’s kind of an open secret among Oracles; we all know how we’re going to die. Or, like me, we don’t yet because it’s too far in the future. The more personal a foretelling is, the harder to fight off. And nothing is more personal than one’s own death. I managed to get that tidbit out of Sierra once when I asked why she didn’t try to change her own death in the vision we both saw when I was six. But then she clammed up and wouldn’t tell me anything else.

  I’ve never had a foretelling about myself. I’m pretty sure that means my death is years and years and years in the future. My lonely, eccentric future.

  And that means I’m safe today. But Mom doesn’t know that.

  “I know this is awful,” I say, “but I have a test in trigonometry today. I have to go.”

  Mom fixes me with a dry look. “I have a feeling the test is going to be postponed.”

  As though she can control the television, the silence between us fills with a voice announcing, “Due to the fact that William Tell High School is a crime scene that has not yet been released by the police, classes have been canceled. Principal Featherstone hopes to open campus as early as Monday, but until then, please keep your teenagers home, where they’re safe.”

  Canceled or not, a quick shot from the news camera shows that the teenagers of Coldwater, Oklahoma, are certainly not at home. The football field fence is lined with students and adults alike, most in tears as they watch from behind bright yellow barriers of police tape fastened across the chain-link.

  “The police haven’t released the name of the victim yet,” the news reporter continues, catching my attention again. “Only that it was a female teenager.” She indicates the crowd of people, many on their phones. “You can imagine the panic these kids must be feeling as they call and text their friends and wait anxiously for responses. For channel six, this is—” But I tune her out; I don’t care what her name is.

  My eyes are glued to the draped body that’s now being lifted onto a gurney bound for a waiting ambulance. They do a good job of keeping her face covered, but a gust of icy December wind wrenches the drape free from one foot and a maroon ballet flat comes into view.

  A scream sounds from offscreen and, as though drawn to the agony, the camera swings toward the fence and shows a tall brunette crumpling to the ground, surrounded by a handful of other girls.

  Rachel Barnett. She’s Bethany’s best friend. The one I saw her with yesterday. She would know instantly who those shoes belong to. Sobs shake her body as the news camera zooms in, invading her private grief. I can’t help but feel like a voyeur as Rachel wails and shakes her head. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I’m gasping for air.

  I turn and leave the kitchen, ignoring my mom when she calls after me. I swing the door to my bedroom closed as fast as I can without slamming it, and lock it. My room feels too dark even with the sunlight pouring in through the window, so I turn on my overhead light, and then add my bedside lamp for good measure. After kicking off my shoes, I dive under my comforter, wishing something as simple as a fluffy feather blanket could hope to chase away the frost inside me.

  I could have stopped this.

  No, that’s not exactly true. I might have been able to stop this. And I didn’t even try. Even though I can hear my aunt’s voice screaming in my head that I did the right thing, I feel like a terrible person.

  And what’s worse is that I hadn’t actually decided what to do yet. I thought I had more time. I was going to make the for-sure decision this weekend. And now the choice has been torn away from me.

  I did nothing.

  Not because I chose to do nothing, but because I didn’t make a choice at all. The thought sickens me. I wish I’d never seen the vision. I wish I’d fought harder. Assuming I even could have fought harder. The memory of how drained I felt after the foretelling makes me doubt it, but maybe there was something else I could have done.

  Even without a vision, the whole idea of a murder would have seemed surreal. Coldwater is the kind of place where stuff like this just doesn’t happen. We’re not teeny tiny; there are, like, ten or fifteen thousand people in the community. Lots of farmers, people who say hi at the grocery store even though they don’t exactly know who you are. Half the town goes out to the high school football games Friday nights without fail. That kind of thing.

  Our idea of a crime-filled night is some couple getting drunk and causing a “domestic disturbance,” or maybe a high schooler attempting to steal a bottle of tequila from the liquor store on a dare.

  Not killing people. Not killing kids.

  I should have warned her. I shove my head under my blanket in some long-forgotten instinct, and then tear it off again to escape the darkness.

  As light flashes across my eyes, I have a terrifying thought: maybe that was the reason the vision overwhelmed all of my defenses—because I was supposed to help her and I failed.

  But what if I had done something? If I’d warned her to be careful she might have taken Rachel with her. Then two people would be dead. And that second death would have been entirely my fault.

  This isn’t about choosing between right and wrong; it’s about trying to predict the line between wrong . . . and more wrong.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  FIVE

  Monday is pure hell. Even worse than the torture I’ve been putting myself through all weekend. There’s a huge pile of flowers and candles and stuffed animals in front of the school. Not just from other students—from the whole community. The sense of security that permeated Coldwater is gone.

  People are afraid. Sad and afraid.

  News vans have come in from Tulsa. I’d like to think it’s because they care—and that’s certainly the façade they’re trying to sell—but it feels intrusive. Like strangers attending a strictly family funeral. I want to chase them away and tell them this isn’t their loss.

  But I can’t. I have to attempt to blend in—act like I’m as surprised by this horrific act of violence as anyone. That I’m as normal as every other kid floating aimlessly through the halls today.

  Standing in front of my locker, I almost don’t notice Linden. Of course, he’s not drawing any attention to himself. Maybe he’s even consciously trying to avoid it. I pretend to be sifting through the stuff in my backpack as I study him. The light and spark in his posture and expression that generally define him are gone. His eyes are red rimmed. He looks broken.

  I forgot that he was one of Bethany’s friends. I want to go to him, to say something to ease that awful look in his eyes. It makes me hurt to see him this way.

  I probably shouldn’t, but I do anyway.

  I approach tentatively, not wanting to screw this up and make it even worse for him. “Linden?” I say softly. He turns and for just a second it’s like he’s too deep in his grief to even recognize me. Then his face softens.

  “Charlotte. I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  We’re both silent for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry about Bethany.” And somehow, just saying the words—apologizing to someone—makes me feel better. “I know she was your friend,” I add in a mumble.

  He nods stiffly.

  “If I can . . . if you ever need, I don’t know, someone to talk to or something,” I blurt, half mortified at what I’m saying.

  He stares at me for several long seconds before a ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “That’s really nice of you. I—” He hesitates and for a moment I think he’s actually going to say something—something meaningful. “I’ll remember that you offered. Thanks,” he says, and then wanders away with a small hand flutter instead of saying good-bye.

  I watch him go with an ache in my heart. Somehow, seeing Linden hurt like this makes my remorse even wo
rse.

  He doesn’t show up to choir.

  When school gets out, I know I should hurry home. My house is literally within sight of the front gates of the high school and though I finally convinced my mom to let me walk to school this morning, she wheeled out to the front porch and watched me the entire way.

  She’ll stress until I walk back in the door.

  But I need a few minutes.

  I slump against the worn metal door of my locker, letting my back slide down until my butt hits the floor. I rub at my temples. I’ve been in a blur all day, but my head feels downright cottony now.

  Oh no. My eyes fly open. “I’m so stupid,” I mutter to myself. I’ve been so distracted by my own guilt and pain I didn’t recognize the signs. The very last thing I want to do right now is to fight another foretelling; it’s harder when I’m feeling emotionally vulnerable.

  And there’s something else. Something new: fear. After the horror of the last vision a tiny quiver clenches in my stomach at the thought of losing a fight again. Of seeing something like that again.

  I briefly wonder if I can make it all the way home and into my bedroom before it overtakes me, but even if the pressure in my head weren’t already starting to build, I suspect my mom won’t let me get past her without at least five minutes of talk—she hasn’t been able to focus on anything except Bethany all weekend.

  Fine, it’s gotta happen here in the hallway. I can handle this. I can do it.

  At least I don’t have to worry about anyone looking at me funny. Everyone is out of it today. I brace my forehead on my knees and stare steadfastly at the tiles on the floor, forcing a black veil over my second sight. Bracing myself to hold it there the way Sierra taught me.

  A savage storm rips it away.

  Not again! In my head, I grasp for the blackness and for just a second the imaginary drape slides into place and I think I’ve won.