Even Linden. Who Ive liked since before my age reached two digits.
Itll never happen. Even if by some miracle he were interested, therere those stupid social lines that are practically stone walls separating us. Im in the Artsy-Semi-Nerd pen. Linden is in the Super-Popular-Dont-Even-Try-It pen. Despite the fact that hes so nice. And talks to me sometimes. In choir class mostly. When hes bored. He doesnt actually sing very well, he just needs an arts credit.
But he wouldnt ask me out or anything.
And what would I do if he did? I cant date anyone. What would I tell the guy when he asks why Im always so tense and jumpy? That Im always on guard for unwanted foretellings of the future? Yeah, thatll break the ice.
How about why I dont want to go to a movie? Ever. Somehow telling someone I dont like dim places becauselike closing your eyesthey make the visions harder to fight, feels even more embarrassing than the lie that Im afraid of the dark. Which is what I had to tell friends who used to spend the nightonly once, of course, before they realized how weird I waswhen they asked why I sleep with my bedside lamp on.
Not night-light. Lamp.
Youre positive? Linden asks, and I nod, hating that I want to cry inside. He throws me a grina real one, a nice oneand says, Ill see you in choir then.
I wave lamely and watch him walk away. I wish I could just be normal.
But Im not. Im Charlotte Westing and Im an Oracle. The kind youve read about who once imparted wisdom and advised great kings and queens and assisted brave knights on their quests. But those Oracles existed a long time ago. When they could actually reveal their foretellings and use them to make lives better.
The world is different now. And our role is different. Oracles once worked with the leaders of civilization to mold, shape, and change the future for the good of mankind. But corruption led to several disasters like the fall of the Roman Empire and the Mongol invasion of China, so the Oracles withdrew their power. From then to present-day, the Oracles have followed an ancient vow to allow the future to unfold as it will. Now, Oracles believe its best that no one sees the future. So that no ones tempted to change it.
So that no one dies because an Oracle doesnt have the strength to resist that temptation.
A hollow sadness fills my chest and I force it away. The past is gone. No one, anywhere, can do anything about what has already happened.
But the present? Thats what I have to deal with. The visions are part of my lifehave been since my first at age three. As soon as I was capable, my aunt Sierra started teaching me how to resist them.
A child should never be burdened with knowledge of the future, she told me, and I tried to believe her even though at the time I was excited that I could do magic.
I know better now.
TWO
Im more than ready to be finished with the day when I head into my final classtrigonometry. Were going over a review test today and Im having trouble paying attention. I have an oddly muffled sensation in my temples, the subtle feeling that generally precedes a foretelling.
But I just had one this morning; twice a day is pretty unusual. And this foretelling is being weird. I never like weird. Weird is unpredictable. Usually, once I get the feeling, the vision follows within minutes, max. This time, the sensation has lasted almost half an hour and still nothing.
But I just had one this morning; twice a day is pretty unusual. And this foretelling is being weird. I never like weird. Weird is unpredictable. Usually, once I get the feeling, the vision follows within minutes, max. This time, the sensation has lasted almost half an hour and still nothing.
Class is nearly over when the blackness starts to descend around the corners of my eyes and its almost a relief to lay my forehead on my arms so I can get it over with.
Even though all my muscles are tensed and ready, its as though a force crashes down and I try not to shudder as a painful weight settles on my body.
It feels different this time. Its a vise that envelops my entire head. Squeezing, squeezing. A moan builds up in my throat and I push it away.
An Oracle never loses control. My aunts voice echoes through my head, but her words blow away as a storm thrashes within my brain like a physical thing, battering against my skull until I honestly fear the bones are about to shatter. What is this?! Distantly I feel my fingers grip the edges of my desk and I hold statue-still, scrolling through every tactic my aunt taught me and new ones Ive come up with on my own throughout the years.
But this vision is too strong. It tosses aside my defenses as though they are tissue paper trying to hold back a stampede.
Within seconds, the formless presence of the foretelling pulses around me. I can still kind of hear Mrs. Patterson answering a question about the radius of convergence, but her voice is getting further and further away as I struggle against a pull that feels like a river, carrying me away in a whirling current. Inside my mind, shadows are beginning to emerge. Then Im spinning, falling.
No, no, no! I shout in my head, trying to grip my desk harder, breathe even shallower.
None of my tricks are working.
Ive never had a vision this strong. Even when I was younger and didnt know how to control them, they didnt overwhelm me quite this way. Some tiny part of me knows that Im in school, sitting in a classroom surrounded by other sixteen-year-olds, but in the midst of the vision, those facts seem as fantastical as stories of princesses and dragons.
Then, with a brilliant flash of light, the falling sensation stops and my stomach feels like it flips upside down.
My feet are on solid ground.
Im at the school football field.
Its dark.
Cold.
Goose bumps rise on my arms, and the air is clammy and damp like Im standing in a thick fog. The vision pulls me forward, forcing me to walk, bending me to its will as though it were a living thing.
I fight every step even though I know its too late. Still I fight. Because Im supposed to. Because Sierra would expect it.
Because I owe it to my mom and dad to at least try.
I see her feet first.
Clearly a hersmall feet clad in maroon ballet flats with little bows over the toes. I focus on those bows. I dont want to see the rest.
But even where I look is out of my control and my gaze moves up her body. Legs, torso, shoulders. Face. In my mind, I gag and I hope my physical self doesnt too.
Her eyes are open, sightless and a vivid blue. The splatter of blood across her cheeks is so fine it almost looks like glitter. But deep-red liquid pools under her neck, still dripping from her unmoving body. The puddle spreads as I watch, and the slice across her neck gapes in a grotesque display that makes my whole body rebel.
Get away!
I want to runneed to runbut the vision isnt finished with me yet. I focus on the rest of her body, taking in the smaller injuries I missed the first time around. Her shirt is torn across her midriff and a long, bloody scratch decorates the skin there. A knife? Fingernails? I cant tell. Her ankle is twisted at an unnatural angle and her hand is covered in blood starting at the fingertips. Her own? Her attackers? Theres no way to be sure.
Charlotte.
The voice is almost singsongy.
Chaaaaarlotte.
Charlotte!
I jerk my head up and air rushes into my nose. With a dull shower of sparks, my physical sight fades back in.
Yes, Mrs. Patterson, I say as soon as my throat stops convulsing long enough to let me speak. Croak.
Number twenty-three, she says, her hand on her hips, her voice heavy with annoyance.
How many times did she call me?
I make my neck tilt down; my eyes have trouble focusing as the numbers swim on my paper.
One hundred sixty-seven point six eight, I say, finally locating my answer. I look up and meet her eyes, hoping shell just move on. I dont even care if I got it right. She stares at me for a moment. A beat. Too long? Too short? I dont know.
Jake? Twenty-four.
Thank you.
My breathing returns to normal but my fingers are still clutched around the edge of my desk, pressing so hard theyre white all the way up to the second knuckle. I force them to relax, one at a time, but when I pull my arms back and tuck my hands into my lap, they ache from the tension.
A sheen of perspiration prickles on my forehead and catches the breeze from the heater, making me shiver. More sweat is trickling down my spine, gathering under my arms. I feel gross and worn out and all I want to do is go home and take a nap.
And some ibuprofen.
And something that will make me forget.
Even before I was better at blocking foretellings, tut-Buhe things I saw didnt always happenthe future is fluid and the glimpses Sierra and I get are simply that: glimpses of how the future is currently set to play out.
But my record is pretty solid. Because unless you do something to change the futurewhich I would never do againits probably going to flow down the foretold path.
My heart speeds as I try to recall every detail. But it almost hurts to remember. The stark image of the thick, syrupy blood still pouring from the slash across her neck makes my stomach churn. It may not technically have been a real body, but unless something changes, it will be.
The bell ringsshrill and piercingloud enough to distract me for the tiny second I need. I pull my mind away and take a deep breath, pushing back some of the nausea.
I have to get out of here, I think as I shove my books and papers into my backpack. Get out of this classroom and Ill be okay. I can go home. Take a nap. Forget about all of this.
I yank the zipper closed and spin toward the door in the back of the classroom, hoping I can walk some semblance of a straight line.
Then I freeze.
Bethany laughs and touches her friends shoulder.
I didnt think about her face in the vision. Didnt worry about identifying her.
All I saw was that cut. The blood.
Shes alive.
For now.
But shes wearing those maroon ballet flats.
THREE
Im home, I call as I walk in the front door.
Office, Mom hollers back.
Im almost afraid as I approach the converted bedroom where she does medical coding from home. Does it show on my face how stressed I am? I hope not. I cant talk to her. Not about this.