The Gifting (12 page)

Without asking to be excused, I grab my backpack and hurry out of the room. I sprint down the hall. I don’t wait to see if Mr. Lotsam or Leela come after me. I run out of the building and I get into my car and I drive to the Edward Brooks Facility.

I need to speak with Dr. Roth.

*

“What did you do to me?”

Dr. Roth looks up from whatever he’s working on at his desk.

I walk over to him, plant my palms flat on his desk, and glare. “I want to know what you did to me during hypnosis.”

“I didn’t do anything except bring you through a few relaxation exercises.”

“That’s it?”

Dr. Roth looks at me sympathetically and motions to the chair on the other side of his desk, not the red cushy ones we usually sit in. I wonder how many insane people he has diagnosed throughout the years.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Tess. You can tell me what’s going on.”

I sit down and clutch my bag in my lap while he removes my manila folder from the file cabinet behind him and begins scanning the papers.

“Is there anything in there about my grandmother?”

His attention snaps up. “I wasn’t aware you knew about your grandmother.”

“I overheard my parents talking.”

Dr. Roth doesn’t say anything for a while. The silence gives me too much time to think. A thousand questions somersault through my brain. No matter how hard I try to make them sit still, they keep hurtling over each other. I don’t know where to start. “You obviously know about her.”

He nods.

“Do I have what she had?”

He scratches his goatee. “I’m not sure.”

“My parents say she suffered from psychosis.”

He stares, unblinking.

“Are they right?”

Dr. Roth takes off his glasses, rubs the corners of his eyes, then puts them back on.

“Do you trust me, Tess?”

I clutch my backpack in my lap, unsure. “I don’t know.”

“I need you to believe that everything we talk about here is confidential. I won’t report anything to the authorities. I won’t tell your parents. I won’t even plug anything into the computer.” He holds up the folder, a reminder of his archaic filing system. And its necessity. “If I’m going to help you, you have to let me. And the only way I can is if you’re honest.”

I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. “I think maybe … I might be experiencing psychosis.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m having hallucinations.” Surely, that is what they are. They can’t be real if nobody else sees them. “And delusions.” Prophetic dreams? A cute boy keeping tabs on
me
? Really? Talk about false beliefs if ever there were any. I wipe my palms against my jeans and hug my backpack tighter. “The things I saw at that séance?”

He leans forward. “Yes?”

“I don’t think I fell asleep.” I scratch my patch of eczema and look down at my fidgeting feet. One Converse All Star rests on top of the other. Then they switch. And switch again. It’s like they are somebody else’s feet. “I also have dreams …”

“Yes?”

“They come true.”

A spark of excitement flashes in his pupils, but disappears so quickly I immediately doubt myself. He pulls at his goatee. “Could you elaborate?”

“I dreamt about an explosion at a fetal modification clinic and there was the next morning.”

“There has been a lot of violence around those clinics lately. I’m sure many people are dreaming about clinic explosions.”

“The two people who died were in my dream. I’ve never seen them before in my life. But the next morning, they were on the news.”

Dr. Roth’s face remains neutral.

“And last night, I dreamt this girl was about to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge and I … I stopped it from happening. She was in the paper this morning. Still alive.”

I see the spark again, but he looks down at my file and jots something in his notes.

“Are you going to give me medicine now?”

He continues his scrawling. “How would you feel about a dream journal?”

“A dream journal?”

He sets down his pen, reaches inside one of his desk drawers, and pulls out a composition notebook—the kind we use in Chemistry and Physics. “When you wake up in the morning, I want you to record your dreams. Make sure to date each one.”

I look at it skeptically. “And you think this will help?”

“Perhaps.”

Pressing my lips together, I take the journal. I don’t tell the doctor about what I saw in Mr. Lotsam’s class. I’m not ready to divulge that yet. Dreams can be explained. Frightening creature-like humans that lunge at me in my waking hours? Logic cannot handle that. I thank him for listening. He tells me he will see me on Monday. I put the notebook in my backpack and shuffle out of the creepy, drafty facility.

When I open the heavy door, I run into someone.

That someone is Luka.

Unexpected Encounters

“W
hat are you doing here?”

He steps back, his gorgeous eyes widening like he’s seen a ghost. Like he can’t believe I’m here. And then for a second, I see the same flash of intrigue in his eye as I did in Dr. Roth’s. Of all the people I want to know about my visits to a shrink, Luka is the last. But he is here too. So does that mean …?

“My dad owns the place,” he says quickly.

My heart sinks. His dad? Luka’s father owns the Edward Brooks Facility? My mind scrambles for an excuse, for some non-incriminating reason as to why
I
might be here. “I-I needed to-I, um …” My mind fails. In my exhaustion, I am unable to drum up any sort of believable explanation.

His eyes soften. “It’s okay, Tess. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not crazy,” I say.

“I never said you were.”

A seed of suspicion germinates inside my chest. So his dad owns the facility. That still doesn’t explain why he’s here now, in the middle of the morning on a school day. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“Why did you leave class so fast?”

I take a slight step backward. “Did you follow me?”

He steps closer. “What upset you in class, Tess?”

Oh nothing much. Just a white-eyed man thing lunging at me. Didn’t you see it?
If not for my growing fear and Luka’s dangerous curiosity, I would laugh. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“So you ran out?”

“I didn’t want to get sick all over Mr. Lotsam’s floor.”

He cocks his head. “And you came here?”

My cheeks blossom with heat. I don’t know how to answer that one.

Frustration carves a deep furrow between his eyebrows. “You seemed really scared of something.”

I was,
I want to say.
I was terrified.

But I can’t tell Luka that. I can’t tell him anything.

*

I stare at the journal Dr. Roth gave me. It’s half past midnight. My eyelids droop, but I pace inside my room. Dr. Roth wants me to record my dreams. I’d rather not have any. So I tell myself to stay awake. I realize the insanity of my plan. I will have to sleep eventually. I just don’t want it to be tonight. I need a break.

A cool breeze ruffles my drapes and brings the scent of the sea inside my room. From my window, I have a clear view of Luka’s house cloaked in darkness. I sit in the alcove and tuck my legs up to my chest, wondering which bedroom is his. Wondering why he showed up at the Edward Brooks Facility when he did. The more I replay the awkward conversation, the more convinced I am that he knows something.

But what?

Moonlight and the sound of breaking waves filters into my bedroom, reminding me of Connecticut. We lived there when I was six. Pete and I used to run up and down the shoreline on Sunday mornings, searching for shells and starfish that would wash up after the high tide. Life was so much simpler back then. When you’re six, it’s okay to be afraid of the dark. It’s okay to have an overactive imagination. I didn’t feel different yet. I was just a kid with a younger brother and an ocean at my fingertips.

My eyes grow heavier. I rest my head back against the wall and give into the weight. But then a light floods on and my eyes pop open. It’s a sensor down below. It lights up the front of Luka’s home and a shadowed figure slinks out the front door. I sit up straighter, all traces of tiredness gone. The figure looks over his shoulder—one way, then the other—then creeps into the dark.

It’s Luka. I’m sure of it. Luka Williams is sneaking out of his house.

I don’t give myself time to think. I don’t give myself time to chicken out. I grab a zip-up hoodie off the floor and tiptoe quickly out of my room while jabbing my arms into the sleeves. I creep down the stairs as quietly and as quickly as possible, shove my feet into a pair of sneakers by the door, press the code on our alarm so it doesn’t alert my sleeping parents, and hurry outside. I find Luka at the end of our block and take off after him—keeping far enough away that I can’t be spotted, but close enough that I won’t lose him.

Three blocks later, I come to my senses. This is not only extremely dangerous, it’s insanely stalkerish. For all I know, Luka is sneaking off to Summer’s house. And here I am, the freaky weird girl who goes to the Edward Brooks Facility, following him in the dead of night. But curiosity has trumped all reason. It propels me forward.

We come to the end of Forest Grove. Luka punches in the code and the gate squeals open while I hide behind a bush, my out-of-breath lungs screaming into the silence. The harder I try to reign them in, the worse they get. As the gate begins to close, I hurry to make it through, thankful for my silent feet, and fall back into shadow.

A couple blocks later, I see it—the Edward Brooks Facility.

It looms ahead of us in all its haunted-house glory, more intimidating in the dead of night than it’s ever been in the afternoon. I take in all five stories—at the spotlights shining up the walls—and I wonder if there are crazy, deranged people inside. Like the ones I saw during the séance. Luka walks up the cement steps and I crouch behind the shrubs at the bottom, feeling like a female version of James Bond. He punches in another code—and I count out the time it will take to fly up the stairs and grab the door before it closes behind him. I won’t have long and if I miss it, I’ll be out of luck. Unlike Luka, I don’t know the code.

I take a deep breath, preparing to bolt. One … two … three!

Luka opens the door and I sprint after him, catching the handle before the door shuts. I slip inside and let it close behind me, hoping he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t. He walks down the hall, like he knows exactly where he’s headed. I tiptoe behind him, my shoulder blades pressed up against the wall, my heart beating like mad, my entire body pulsing with adrenaline. I’ve walked this path enough times now to know where we’re headed.

He stops in front of Dr. Roth’s office. I peek around the corner as he removes a key from his pocket and slides it into the lock. There’s a loud click and the door squeals open. Luka disappears inside. I creep toward the office and stop in the doorway. Luka stands by Dr. Roth’s filing cabinet. And he’s reading a file.

Anger rises inside me—fierce and sudden. He has no right looking through files, especially if that file belongs to me. I step inside the room. “What are you doing?”

Luka whirls around, his eyes wide, and we stare at each other for an extended, silent, chest-heaving moment.

“Did you follow me?” he asks.

It’s the same question I asked him earlier today. Or actually, yesterday. But he never answered then, so I figure I don’t have to answer now. I step closer and my suspicions are right. The folder in his hand has my name typed neatly on the tab. My indignation swells. “That’s my file.”

He pulls it behind his back, as if hiding it will erase what I already saw.

“What are you doing with
my
folder?” I sound brave, strong, and for a second, I wonder if I’m dreaming. But I scratch my wrist and the spot burns. This is all very real. Luka. Me. Alone in Dr. Roth’s dark office in the dead of night. “You have no right to read any of that. It’s private.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He pushes his hand back through his hair. It sticks up in all directions, only instead of looking ridiculous, like I no doubt do, he looks sexy and disheveled. Frustrated, too. “I had to know what you told Dr. Roth today.”