Insight

ONE

“What is
this
?” I step out of our van into darkness, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I can’t look away from the skinny three-story building that has probably been here for a hundred years. Light from the tired streetlamp stretches just as far as our car, but the blackness still presses in.

My chest sinks. It’s a dump. Like all three stories will fall over if the wind blows too hard—it will definitely be on the list of worst places Mom and I have lived. The grey paint is worn, and the white trim isn’t all that white. Giant evergreens lean in one side, a parking lot on the other.

“Look the other way, Micah.” Mom’s smile is sly.

I turn from the building and suck in a breath. It’s amazing, even in the dark. I’d live in our
car
to wake up to this every day.  There’s a small hill down to the railroad tracks, and in another few feet is the
ocean
. Just like that.

I like the water, but the ocean? It’s like a whole moving body, alive with attitude and power. Power to heal, power to frighten, power to kill and power to save
. I’m in awe
.

A small ferry dock is to the left against the trees, and dim yellow lights reflect from an island across the water.

“Wow.” I exhale
. I walk across the narrow street to stand over the tracks, pulling my unruly masses of blond curls into a low ponytail mess. It’s a quiet night, no wind, and the water looks like black glass.

“Something isn’t it?” She watches, probably enjoying my reaction.
“
I knew you’d like Tacoma.”

“What’s that? Out on the island there?” I point.

“Fox Island Prison.” She chuckles as she pulls a few duffels out and sets them on the ground. I spin to see her smiling over the first pile of our belongings. Mom and I have the same blue eyes and angled face, but her hair is a gorgeous sleek brown where mine is thick curls of blonde.

“Oh. Great. Prison.” I try to sound sarcastic, but in this moment I wouldn’t care if we were in the house just outside of the prison walls—the smell of the ocean could keep me happy anywhere. As I spin back toward the building, I feel a whole ton lighter than I did a minute ago. “So, which one’s ours?”

“Top.” Her smile widens. “Top, left.”

Perfect. I look up to see a small hammock chair, and wonder how many naps I’ll take in there with the rain pouring down on the metal roof of our small balcony.

“Well, there’s no elevator, and we have a lot of stuff to haul up.” This is her nice way of asking me to get my butt in gear.

I take a deep breath, grab two bags, and follow. The stairway is narrow, but it’s late enough that I don’t have to worry about anyone else here. With my abnormality, personal space is a serious issue. No one who gets unwanted visions when they bump into people
would like tight spaces.

I step into the apartment. It’s even smaller than the one we left back in Spokane.
One tiny bedroom attached to a
tiny living room and a practically microscopic bathroom. I can see it all from the doorway. There’s a distinc
t smell of mustiness—
an earthy quality that I find appealing, rather than a sign that the place is probably in need of a good scrub.

“Are you sure we’re
done with student living, Mom?
Because this feels like a closet pretending to be an apartment.” I drop the two bags on the floor.

“Very funny. This is temporary.” She disappears out our door and back down the stairs.

I stand in the small space and stare at the ocean again. When I open the sliding door, I get another deep breath of ocean air. My arms rest on the railing
,
and
I feel home.

“Well, I vote we both sleep in the living room tonight. We can fight about who sleeps out here and who gets the bedroom tomorrow.” Mom has just brought in another load. “Come on, Micah. One more load up the stairs
,
and I’ll leave you alone, okay?”

“’Kay.” I back through the sliding door, unwilling to take my eyes off the water.

The ocean turns a new shade of black as the lights dim, and a small breeze hits the back of my neck giving me chills. I hope we’re here at least until I have to leave for college. I don’t want to leave the water’s edge.

***

“Tired?” Mom asks as she steps out of the bathroom. The smell of her strawberry shampoo fills the air, but I can’t make out her face in the dim light of our room.

“Yeah.” After driving across the state of Washington, and hauling all our possessions up in one night, my body’s about done. We’re both on the floor, but Mom promises she’ll get mattresses tomorrow.

“Thanks for being so good about moving like this.” She kneels next to my makeshift bed. “Especially halfway through senior year. It’s just the job came up, and I felt like—”

“I know, Mom. It’s fine.” She’s apologized to me a million times, maybe not realizing that I didn’t leave anything behind. Besides, the job is for third grade, and Mom loves that age.

She leans forward to give me a hug like she does every night. Mom is the only person I look forward to touching because when we do touch, my vision is the same, every time. I see me. Sometimes it’s a flash of me as a baby, sometimes now, sometimes near future, but it’s always me.

I never know what I’ll see when I brush against someone else, or shake their hand. I don’t want to know private things about people or what they feel—but it’s sort of unavoidable unless I want to be a total recluse. Which I don’t. Most of the time.

I’ve seen a lot of bizarre moments in people’s lives, and I sometimes wonder why I don’t just see the moment we touch. But I also wonder why I have this oddity at all. Mom is safe, so I sit up to put my arms around her.

I suck in a breath, and I swear my heart stops.

A man. Short brown hair with bits of grey at the temples. Warm, kind eyes. A friendly smile on the corners of his mouth. A lot of like.

It’s not me.

My hands close in fists, and I try to stop the shaking spreading through my limbs. Mom is my constant. I can’t lose my safe vision from her. Not with our move.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to jerk away. My heart is frantic, beating desperately against my ribs. He must be in her future. I don’t know this guy.

“You okay, Micah?” She drops her arms, and scoots away.

I’m grateful for the dark because I have no idea what my face looks like right now. There’s no way I’m doing a good job of hiding my shock. I’m too tired. “Just sore.” I clear my throat. “From moving.” I lie back onto my pillow, eyes fixed on the white popcorn ceiling.

“Okay.” She reaches out again and touches my leg. He’s back.
Short hair. Kind eyes. Soft smile. Lots of like.

I blink aw
ay tears. This shouldn’t make me
cry. This should make me relieved. Happy. I graduate in a few months. I’ll go to college. Mom will be alone.

At the same time, I rely on seeing my face from my mom, and I’m not there. It’s times like this I wish I had the guts to tell her about the things I see.

Mom lies on the floor and pulls her blankets up over her shoulder.

“Night, honey.”

“Night, Mom.” At least my voice came in some version of normal.

My visions seem completely pointless, and really only make me wish for the ability to disappear. Every since I can remember, every time I touch someone, through clothes, bare skin doesn’t matter—I see
and feel the experience
as if I’m them. Just for a moment.

All it does for me is make me want to not be noticed so I don’t get touched. This is not going to be an easy feat as the new girl more than halfway through senior year.

TWO

I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my face, wishing I were one of those pale girls with thick lashes, dark eyes, and some sort of severe haircut that’s almost black. That’s how I feel—though, I guess that wouldn’t really help me blend. Instead I’m stuck as Goldilocks or her seventeen-year-old counterpart. I grab two ponytail holders and pull it all back into the messy bun ponytail thing I always seem to do. I put on mascara and lip balm, and walk out of the bathroom.

I slide into my softest pair of black ballet flats as part of my attempt to blend. That’s my goal. I have on a white men’s undershirt and my favorite fitted, green military jacket. It seems safe enough. Cute, but not too cute. I need a scholarship for college so I feel like I should come off as “normal” to the teachers, but I don’t want to attract any attention so I keep everything as simple as possible.

“When did you get so tall?” Mom asks as I pass her on my way out the door.

I’m careful
not to touch her, which sucks be
cause it’s never been a problem before. But I’m not about to start my day with seeing a stranger from Mom.

“I’m five foot, eight, Mom. It’s not that tall.”

“Well, it is to me.” Mom’s keys rattle against the door as she locks it.

I pull in a breath to loosen my tight chest a bit, but these kinds of nerves I can deal with. It’s just high school. Only a few months left in the year.

Mom follows down the stairs. “Ready for your first day?”

“Yep. No big deal.” I slide my pack further up on one shoulder.

“Wanna drive yourself and just pick me up later?” she offers.

“No. I can walk home. You said it was short. A walk after school will be fine.” And better than waiting for my mom.

“You could always wait for me. The elementary school doesn’t get out much later than the high school.” Her voice sounds almost hopeful. Maybe it’s just the problem with being an only child. She has just one person to place all her worrying powers on.

“Yeah… I’m not staying late on my first day, Mom.” And be labeled a dork or an overachiever.

“Well, maybe someone will give you a ride. I worry that you don’t seem to ever have many friends.” I’m glad I can’t see her face. She’s still behind me in the stairway.

In the years of going to school with this bizarre thing I do, I’ve learned a lot about how to be left
alone. Dark and moody gets me
sent to the counselor. Too goody-goody gets teacher attention. Instead I really try to go for invisible. It’s this talent I’m proud of. How not to be seen. I smile as we step outside.
How Not To Be Seen
is my favorite Monty Python sketch ever. It’s an old show from the seventies, but when you can’t sleep in the middle of the night, it’s what’s on.

And now I have to gear up for school. I have minutes.

***

I stare out the car window as Mom pulls to a stop. The school is smaller than I expect. It’s a red, brick building surrounded by huge pine trees, nearly all of them taller than the two-story school.
There’s no moss on the bricks yet—a dead giveaway that the school’s not as old as the designers probably wanted it to look.

“Call if you need anything,” Mom says. She leans over to give me a hug, and I have to breath
e
out slowly not to cringe.

It’s me
.
I’m on the hammock chair. It looks as if I’ve been crying. Mom’s emotions go from angry to worried.

“Thanks,” I for
ce out. This is not how I want
to start my day. I was all braced and ready for the guy, even though I wasn’t thrilled about it. And I’m not totally unaccustomed to seeing myself in the future, but right now it’s looking like my future sucks. I’m going to have to work extra hard to keep my distance—not that I’ve figured out how to make anything I see turn out different.

It’s five minutes to the bell when I step out of the car. This means that the doorways and hallways inside are packed. After the pictures from Mom that I don’t know what to do with, I’m not ready to face the private lives of strangers.