She doesnt know what I do. She can never know.
She doesnt know what I do. She can never know.
I peek my head around the doorway and smile, taking in my moms shiny brown hair that falls into perfect wavesunlike mine, which is the same color but frizzes no matter how much product I use. Shes slim and has long arms that reach for a file in one direction, a red pencil in the other, all fluid motions that flow almost like a choreographed dance rather than an entry-level job she never expected to work.
She looks perfect, always has. If you didnt notice her wheelchair, youd assume she was about to jump up and give me a hug.
But that hasnt happened since the accident that left her paralyzed.
The one where I traded my aunts life for my dads.
I suck in a breath and push that thought away, the same way I do twenty times a day. At least. But its harder today after having a foretelling I couldnt fight. About another death. Those are the worst. People like to laud heroes. The ones who rush in, risk their lives to save someone. And Im not saying they dont deserve it; they do.
But you know whats harder? Not doing anything. Standing back and letting bad things happen. Letting people die because theyre supposed to.
I remember asking Sierra once, soon after she moved in, why we didnt act. We could be superheroes, I argued with her. We should help people. Isnt that the right thing to do?
Look what happened when you tried to save me, she said so gently I couldnt be angry.
Just sad.
In the end, its not the right thing. Ever. And so I stand back.
Before I gained controlwhen I saw my visions more oftenI foresaw a few deaths. Usually it was something like car accidents, heart attacks, that kind of thing. Things I probably couldnt stop even if I did try.
But murder? Just a word of warning to Bethany. To be careful. How much could it hurt?
Especially when the other option is to let her die a terrifying death.
Youve got your thinking face on, Char, my mom says, pulling my mind back into her well-organized office.
I make myself smile. Lots of homework, I lie. Not that I dont have a bunch of homework. Just that it isnt what I was thinking about.
She pauses and glances up at me, her face so soft and caring it makes me want to cry at the thought of all the lies and half-truths I tell her on a daily basis. You work so hard, she says quietly.
I bite the tip of my tongue. The last thing I deserve is her sympathy. I dont take advanced math and science and every AP class the school counselor will let me into because Im some brainiac whos all self-motivated and ambitious. I do it because if I tire my mind out enough, I dont have time to think as hard. About the visions, about my utter lack of social life, about the fact that I ruined my mothers life and now well grow old together, two lonely spinsters.
Three if Sierra stays with us.
Gotta get into Harvard, I say in the lightest tone I can manage. Its another lie. Ill go to Rogers State in Claremore, about twenty miles away, so I can live at home. For a million reasons. Because Mom needs me and Im responsible for her. Because its dangerous for me to drive to Massachusetts, at least semiregularly, on the freeway, where I cant pull over at the first sign of a foretelling.
Because I could never live with roommates.
But Mom doesnt need to know any of that. Not yet.
Is Sierra home? I ask, changing the subject. Even though Moms basically self-sufficient now, Sierras never left.
And even though I hope its not because she thinks she still has to babysit me, she kinda does anyway. I dont mind. Much. It means shes there to talk to, and the three of us all get along really well. Like Gilmore Girls plus one.
And a big-ass secret.
Mom often reminds Sierra that, although we love her and shes welcome to stay as long as she wants, we dont need her anymore and she can go out and have a real life.
But Sierra and I know the truth: Sierras an Oracle too, and her real life is inside her head. Theres not really a possibility of anything else for Oracles. Getting married? Im pretty sure a spouse would notice all of the weird things we arent allowed to explain. Ive always hoped that maybe someday Sierra would find that perfect person who she could trust enough tell everything to. But even assuming Sierra would be willing to go against the rules, would finding out the truth chase someone off? And if it did, would they keep their mouth shut about it? Not likely.
Or, lets say they did believe herit would take a pretty big person not to start prying about their future. Everyone thinks they want to know the future.
Everyone is wrong.
So it just . . . wouldnt work.
Similarly, theres no perfect soul mate in my future either. Only a lifetime of hiding. I didnt choose this. I wouldnt choose this. But its the hand I was dealt. The hand Sierra was dealt. Some people are short, some people have freckles, some people see the future. Its all genetics.
I think so, Mom says, and Ive forgotten what it was I asked.
Oh yeah. Sierra.
But you know how she is; she sneaks in and out and I dont hear a thing. Mom grins at me over her shoulder before turning back to her work. Check her office.
I pull Moms door closed and walk down the hall to the room Mom always refers to as Sierras office; but its really her room/office/work/life. When Dad died, we didnt have the money to moveespecially not with all the medical billsbut Mom couldnt handle sleeping in the master bedroom anymore, so she gave it to Sierra. Its a big room with a small sitting area and private bathroom and . . . well, Sierra doesnt leave it very often.
At least not when Im home.
Her desk is set up in the sitting area and about half the time I bring dinner in to her so she doesnt have to stop working. The walls are covered with bookshelves stuffed full of books about history and mythology and other Oracle stuff that she is constantly pulling out to use as references. When I was twelve, I asked what she would do if Mom came in and really took a look at her books but Sierra shrugged and said, Id tell her its research.
Then I asked what she would do if I started coming in and borrowing books. She said shed start locking the door.
Two days later when she caught me with Oracles of Rome, she started doing just that.
She always knows more than shes willing to tell me. She says too much knowledge makes what we can do excessively tempting and that she only trusts herself because of years of resisting as she researches. Im not even sure what that means. I guess we might be tempted to change the future, but she talks like theres more.
And I desperately want to know what that more is.
I dont think its fair. I cant really believe any other sources; theyre legends at best. But Sierras library is the real deal. Ancient books and manuscripts that dont exist anywhere else in the whole world. I keep trying to sneak glances at them, but Sierras not stupidshe notices. Thats why she does most of her errands when Im at school.
And if I am home, the door is always locked when she leaves.
I try not to resent it. After all, shes devoted so much of her life to me. She taught me everything she knows about fighting foretellings, and shes always patient. Ive actually never seen her lose her tempter.
But all those books . . . She says shell let me read more when Im a member of the Sisters of Delphi. Like her.
Sierra is an author of several texts about Greek mythology and the unseen world. Thats what she does to pay the bills. And while her books are probably really greatI can barely understand the few paragraphs Ive read, but she wins awards all the timeits just camouflage for her real job: the historian of the Sisters of Delphi.
The Sisters is an ancient organization of Oracles that basically monitors all of the Oracles in the world. All twenty or so of us. Sierra wont tell me much about them. Which seems weird to me since there are so few of us. Shouldnt we all share our information? But Sierra says that when Im eighteen and its time to join them, Ill be ready to know more.
Always the promise of more. But not now. Drives me crazy.
I knock softly on Sierras door. She must be home; her door is not only unlocked, but open an inch or two.
Come in.
Sierras work space is bright and inviting. The curtains are pulled back, letting in the sunshine, and there are two tall, standing lights flanking each side of her desk, which are on as well. The surface of her desk is jumbled and full of stacks of papers and books and about six coffee mugs, but theres no dust, and certainly no darkness.
Darkness is our enemy.
Sierra doesnt even look up until Ive been standing beside her chair for what feels like a very long time. Charlotte, she finally says, pushing wisps of hair away from her face with a smile. Her hair is a shiny brownjust like mine and moms. At least it is now.
I remember when it was strawberry blonde, when she curled the edges and it danced around her face. Now she dyes it. I dont know why anyone would opt for brown over that gorgeous strawberry. But when I asked her about it a few years ago, she looked so sad Ive never asked again.
That was back when she always looked pretty and dressed up. Not anymore. No makeup, no fancy hairstyles. A single ponytail, a braid down her back, sometimes a bun. I glitz myself up more than Sierra does, and thats saying something.
Shes staring at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to speak, and my mind vacillates. Confess or keep quiet? I honestly dont know what the best thing to do is. Id like advice, but I feel like a kid again, confessing that I wasnt able to block a vision. Despite the fact that Sierra and I are close, shes still my mentor, and she expects a lot of me.
When was the last time you saw a vision? I finally blurt out.
That gets her full attention. She slides her reading glasses up onto her forehead and pushes her office chair back. The last time I fought a vision or the last time a vision won? she asks softly.
Both, I say after a moment of hesitation.
She waves her fingers in the air almost dismissively. I fought one this morning. It was small. No big deal. She removes her glasses now and sticks the end of one earpiece in her mouth, her teeth worrying the plastic with audible clicks. The last time a vision beat me was ten years ago, she whispers as though confessing a crime.