Who knows my secret?
The emotional roller coaster I’ve been on this morning proves too much for my nerves and a stabbing pain starts up in my head. The first bell rings and everyone starts shuffling toward their first-hour class, but I can’t take trying to listen to American history right now. Just … no.
I head to the nurse’s office instead. One of the perks of being weird is that the nurse has been informed that I “get very sudden migraines.” I don’t like the lie, but when I do actually get a tension headache, it means I can have a prescription-strength naproxen instead of the two Tylenol that most kids get.
The nurse takes my temperature and though she frowns at the thermometer in a way that tells me my temp is normal—I could have predicted that without any Oracle skills—she lets me lie down in the last available bed and gives me a well-worn but soft blanket before tugging the privacy curtain around me.
I should tell Sierra; I know that. But can I tell her the truth about the vision I saw with Matthew and still hide that I told him to be careful? That I broke the all-important rule of Oracles? Never, under any circumstances, change the future. She can read me so well—I swear, she’ll just know.
Why didn’t you? The words from the text swim through my aching head until my stomach starts hurting too. I’ve got to figure this out. Maybe it was another Oracle. Maybe she had the same vision.
I squint through the small crack in the privacy curtain and see the nurse sitting in front of her computer. I turn my back to the gap and carefully pull out my phone. I find my aunt’s number and then text her:
Are there any other Os in Coldwater?
I hit SEND before I can think too hard about the consequences of what I’ve just done.
My phone buzzes and I clench my teeth at the sound, hoping no one else heard it.
No.
Helpful, I think sardonically.
I send my reply with shaky fingers:
Are you sure?
A little while passes.
Completely. No bloodlines within 500 miles of us.
Oracles are not only always female, but the ability is genetic. So you don’t just have Oracles pop up out of the blue. It can skip a generation—even two or three sometimes—but there’s always a connection. And one of my aunt’s jobs is tracking genealogy for the Sisters. She of all people would know.
There goes that idea. I mean, technically it could be someone from far away, but if they know about me and saw what I saw, I have to assume they’re somewhere close.
So … probably not another Oracle. But then how …?
My phone buzzes again.
Why?
I scrunch up my face and try to think of a reasonable answer.
I just wondered if we should reach out and be supportive. That’s all.
I hold my breath and hope that satisfies her. Luckily I come to Sierra with Oracle questions all the time—even if she doesn’t always answer them very often. It’s not like I can go to anyone else and besides, she knows more about Oracles than … probably anyone else on Earth. Literally.
Rolling over again, I flip back to the other text. Not to read it; I know what it says. The words are burned into my mind. More to convince myself it’s real. I clench my fingers around the phone and hold it against my chest as I curl my spine and clutch my aching stomach and try to ignore the slowly softening pounding in my head.
Everyone thinks they want superpowers. To be magical and more important and special than everyone else. To be extraordinary. But they don’t really. They don’t understand. I would give anything to be normal.
Despite my stress and guilt and worry and paranoia, I do manage to get one uninterrupted night of sleep before I find out Matthew is dead.
My mom is crying in the kitchen, and fear squeezes my heart so tightly I’m pretty sure it stops beating for a few seconds. I can’t help but feel a smoldering of anger as I watch the news report. What could he possibly have done to get killed like this—stopped to pee in the snow? Everyone’s been on their guard—why would he get out of his car?
I told him to be careful. It wasn’t enough. I failed.
I’m almost deaf to the sound of the newscaster when one detail worms itself into my head.
“We have been informed that the male minor—who police have identified but whose name has not yet been released—was shot with a gun that, though registered to his father, was engraved with his name. The gun was left at the crime scene and hopefully holds a key to this killer’s identity.”
Shot with his own gun.
My knees won’t hold me and I collapse into a chair as questions race through my head: Why did he have a gun in his truck? Did he start carrying it because of Bethany’s murder? Or because I told him to be careful?
I feel a strong hand wrap around my upper arm and pull me into the hallway, but the message doesn’t reach my legs in time and I stumble and stagger after Sierra. Momentarily out of my mother’s sight, Sierra stares at my face, studying me. Not studying—scrutinizing. I don’t have the energy to try to hide anything. I simply look back, tears coursing down my trembling cheeks.
Sierra straightens, appearing satisfied. “This one surprised you,” she whispers, her hand rubbing my upper arms. It would be comforting if I didn’t already feel so guilty.
I nod. It’s the truth. I had just started to believe—to almost hope—that he would live. That I had changed his fate. I was surprised.
“You didn’t see it.”
I close my eyes and start to cry in earnest now. She takes my sobs as an answer and gathers me against her chest. “This is always the hardest part,” she murmurs in my ear as her fingers stroke my hair away from my damp face. “Seeing innocent lives snuffed out and thinking there was something we could have done.” She pulls back and looks down at me. “Charlotte, listen. There is nothing you could have done. Not for him, not for that girl. Not without setting into motion uncontrollable ripples of consequence. You’re innocent.”
Innocent? I’m anything but. If I had said nothing, would Matthew still be alive? Was it something he did in the name of caution that led to this? There’s no way to know for sure. But I took action and now, to some degree, I bear responsibility. I am so far from innocent.
But I nod. Because I have to. Because she won’t let me go until I do, and I need to get back to the news—to hear anything they might have discovered. My own method of torture, perhaps.
When I flee, Sierra doesn’t bar my way and I go right back into the kitchen. I eat a type of cereal I couldn’t have identified five minutes later and listen to the news, hungering for some tidbit of evidence that might exonerate me.
Or condemn me.
After an hour, I push my still half-full bowl away and go to my room. As fast as I can, I pull on yesterday’s jeans and shirt and jam my bare feet into boots. I’m back in the hallway in less than a minute, headed toward the front door.
My mom can tell what I have in mind the second her eyes fall to my boots. “Charlotte, no. You are not going to school today.”
I ignore her and grab