Second Thoughts (29 page)

Amy speared a carrot and looked at it, not him. “Good for you.”

I watched them both as I pushed my salad around my plate. Caleb was trying,
really trying.
His fingers tightened on his fork. But he took a deep breath and said, “So why don't we see if you can come with me.”

“Which word don't you understand,
strict
or
probation?”
Amy bit off half her carrot and put the rest down.

Caleb, too, put his fork down. It clattered against his tray like a warning and I wished Amy would heed it. “Do you not want to go?”

“That's not the point.”

“So why don't we ask your parents? They can't force you to stay here if your parents are letting you leave.”

Amy shoved her tray away. “You actually think my parents are going to let me go with you to a college campus for a weekend?”

Caleb rubbed his eyes. “It's worth asking, isn't it?”

“Not when I know the answer.”

Before long, everyone else at the table had—smartly—taken off, and I was the only other one left. I didn't even know why I stayed, except to torture myself with the rest of their argument. It was painful to watch on so many different levels but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was all partially, maybe mostly, my fault. But I didn't know how to fix it either. Carter had told me I
couldn't
and he was probably right.

“Okay, fine,” Caleb said. Angry red splotches were developing on his usually adorable baby cheeks.
“I'll
ask them, if you want. Or don't even try. Whatever.”

Amy flicked her fingers. “Just go, if that's what you want. Have fun with your brother. You know where to find me if you want to hang out with
me.”

“Hasn't this whole conversation said I
do
want to hang out with you?
You're
the one—God, whatever. I'll let him know you can't make it.”

She looked down at her still-full plate. “So you're going.”

“Yeah. I'm going.”

“Great. Happy birthday.” She twirled her finger in a sarcastic
woo-hoo
circle and that was when Caleb gave up.

He grabbed his tray and stood. “Thanks. I'm done. Later.”

“Wait!” Amy reached for his hand, but seriously, she should have done that a long time ago. Caleb let her take it but he didn't really hold hers back. “Are you coming to the bookstore later?” The bookstore being the
only
place Amy could go that felt the least bit like having fun.

“I have tutoring,” he said and walked away.

She made a fist with her hand that he'd just dropped. “UGH!” she ground out, but I honestly thought she was more mad at herself,
which seemed valid to me. She glanced at me, the silent witness on the other side of the table. “Are you going to be there?”

I shook my head. “I have therapy. Sorry,” I added, and I picked up my tray and left too.

In the weeks since the vision returned, instead of focusing on a number of important things I was running out of time to do, like make necessary decisions about the future, or work harder to solve the still-hanging mystery of Mark Penrose, or reconcile with my best friend, I'd thrown myself into physical therapy and killing things.

I practiced planticide with the same passion I'd devoted to practicing my volleyball serves over the summer, approaching my theory as scientifically as I could and working up to my end goal. I started with the poinsettia, killing whole plants. I killed plants from all angles, by touching the stem, touching the leaves, touching the tiniest, slimmest piece I could find. Where I touched the plant didn't matter; they all died with ease. I tried touching just the dirt, but that had no effect.

Next I moved on to the first true test of my theory—I killed just one
part
of the plant. The first few attempts failed, and the whole plant died. I was too nervous and didn't have the right focus for my Thought. I had to hold the intention in my mind and concentrate until I felt the energy, the essence of just the
piece,
not the whole.

In a major breakthrough, I managed to kill a branch of a large plant in the entryway to the Auditorium. Under the pretense of visiting Aunt Tessa's installation, I watched it carefully to see if killing the branch eventually killed the entire plant. But it didn't; the branch withered as if I'd snapped it off, but the rest of the plant continued to vibrate with life.

After that, confident I could affect a reasonably large piece of a whole, I moved on to the huge, beautiful umbrella tree—I'd asked one day what it was called—outside Dr. Stewart's office suite. I made excuses to visit, including but not limited to requesting off-campus
privileges, seeking advice on the merits of my favorite schools, and updating her on my progress in physical therapy, and had killed fully half the leaves before the entire plant began to die. If she thought my sudden reappearance in her daily life was strange, or noticed the slow demise of her waxy-leaved plant, she said nothing.

In fact, if anyone noticed my new interest in horticulture, they didn't mention it. I'd tried to be discreet, which wasn't hard, because it took no more than a passing touch for me to wield my gift and take a plant's life. The more I practiced killing in segments, the faster I became at that skill as well.

The more I practiced, the more I scared myself.

In fact, I scared myself so much, I gained a new understanding of the Perceptum, which scared me even more.

There
were
people whose Sententia abilities were so profoundly dangerous their very existence was a danger. I was one of them. I
epitomized
them. I hadn't truly understood it before. The one time I'd used my gift, it had been a moment of wild desperation. Almost a fluke. I hadn't even been sure it would
work.
Now I was using it regularly, and just like with practicing my Diviner half, I was getting better at it. It took less concentration every time, became more of a reflex. That was my goal—I
needed
that level of control if my theory had even a chance of working—but it was a frightening goal.

I
knew I'd never turn the
full
power of my gift on another person, not unless it was literally life or death—that's why I was practicing. But I recognized the substantial level of trust it would take for someone else to believe that. I knew, too, that there were plenty of people not deserving of that trust, who
would
use their gifts not just for personal gain, but for the detriment of others. I understood, deeply, why Senator Astor had sworn off using his gift at all.

I understood why Carter hid.

I understood why all of Sententia hid.

Most of all, I understood why the Perceptum wanted me.

There was even a moment when I really thought I'd join them. I understood. Finally. But I wasn't ready. I wouldn't play executioner, no matter how horrible the person was.

When the next note arrived, it was a big surprise, as big as the first one had been. The headmaster handed it to me, right after I finished killing her plant completely and just before I headed out of her office to be driven to my twice-weekly physical therapy. It was a ridiculous contrivance and waste of Academy funds, forcing me to be chauffeured to the doctor's and back, but the seeming one iron-clad rule of the Northbrook academic year was no cars for students, and though mine was parked behind the bookstore, it may as well not have existed.

I clutched the note between my hands until we were out of the gates and past the bookstore, as if somehow, someone might see me and ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. The further we got from the Academy, the safer it felt to open it, as if being off the grounds would make it less real.

I'd stopped expecting them, the notes. I'd never
expected
them, but for a while they'd been thrilling, so I anticipated them in a not unpleasant way. Now that they'd come to feel sinister, I was surprised again. Afraid. Almost as much as I was afraid of the future, or myself. I finally opened it slowly, the way you opened a door when you were afraid something dangerous was behind it.

It was short and to the point, and like the others, wasn't overtly threatening. Anyone else looking at it would think it sweet, maybe a joke. It's just that I was reading it with new eyes.

Lainey,
he wrote,

We're all waiting on you. Don't keep us in suspense.

-D.A.

The notes were the only direct contact we had, Dan and I, and were only one way. I'd never replied, not personally. While I had the means to contact him directly, if necessary, it hadn't seemed expected. Not yet.

But if the calendar I marked off every morning didn't remind me, the note in my hand was an alarm sounding a clear warning I was running out of time.

I
WAS STILL
thinking about the note later, and what Mandi had said to me, while I stared at Ferny, who sat unobtrusively and content in the sunny corner of our room.

I was afraid Mandi was right, that secretly I liked the attention. So much seemed to revolve around me right now and maybe I
wasn't
trying hard enough to make that stop. Carter had said I was afraid of deciding, and that was true, but
was
it because at least part of me didn't want the decision-making attention to go away? I thought I hated it, but love and hate were such close cousins.

Whether I wanted the attention or not, my time to have it was almost up. I had to make choices. And I still wasn't ready. I actually did hate what I was about to do, but I couldn't put it off any longer. The most perfect test subject had sat in my room since the New Year, a comforting green presence that recently seemed more Amy's friend than I was.

Since I'd decided to use Ferny, I'd spent some time only touching him, stroking his spiky fronds, and feeling out his energy. And mentally apologizing for making him an innocent victim. A nice plant in the wrong place at the right time.

I gripped one slender leaf, barely a hairsbreadth wide, and Thought.

Then I touched another one and Thought again. And again. And again.

One by one, as I touched them, the tiny pieces lost their spark. Some fell off immediately and I collected them. It wasn't an accident. I hadn't tugged too hard and pulled them loose. Each one told the story of how I killed it.

Close. I was getting close to what I thought I could do. If I could discern such a small, truly
tiny,
leaf of the fern, out of I couldn't even guess how many thousands of leaves,
maybe
I really could—

And that was when my phone rang and changed
everything.

D
o you think you could bring my watch back when you come over later?”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“My watch,” Carter repeated. “I left it there after the Ball. Thanks to your roommate's antics, I haven't been back since.”

I'd have laughed at the bitter tone in his voice, if I hadn't just been killing things and he hadn't caught me by surprise. Carter's watch. It was in my room. The watch I'd surreptitiously been
looking for,
in
his
room, since the Ball.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I guess you didn't notice it? In your nightstand?”

I pulled open the drawer I pretty much never used unless Carter was visiting, and sure enough, there it was. Carter's watch.

Except the thing was, this
particular
watch wasn't just his—it was his
father's
first.

Carter wore it only for special occasions, though it wasn't very fancy. At the Ball was the first time I'd ever given it a second look. When I'd joked about getting him a new one for his birthday, he told me whose it was. It was the kind of watch his father had worn every day.

The watch Mark Penrose had likely been wearing the day he died.

“S—sure. I'll bring it over.”

“Thanks.” When I didn't say anything more, he added. “You okay? You seem a little distracted.”

That was an understatement. “Um, yeah. Sorry. I was…in the middle of some pretty intense homework. I'll see you later, okay?”

I barely waited for him to say goodbye before I hung up.

Here it was, the clue I'd been waiting for, I'd
looked
for, hiding in my room.

The watch and I stared it out for a little while. I was afraid to pick it up. I didn't
know
what it might show me, but I already knew the end was not a happy one. Taking a deep breath, I plucked the watch out of the drawer and closed my eyes.

Of course, it was even worse than I imagined.

I didn't need more than a few seconds to see all I needed to see, every heartbreaking detail. Like all death-connected objects I'd touched since the spark, the tingling sensation that told me there was
something
about this watch was there. It was different from the others, from the couch that constantly buzzed in my room, but similar. More painful, not in strength but emotion. I knew I'd learn to understand the subtle differences in the electric hums over time, but today all I could feel was devastation.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I rubbed my fingers across the smooth metal links of the band. The watch seemed warm to the touch, maybe because I was gripping it so hard, and under different circumstances, I'd have pretended it was because Carter had just taken it off. I wanted to associate this piece of jewelry with
good
memories, but that would never happen again. In fact, I wasn't sure how I'd ever be able to see him wear it without crying.

Mark Penrose had poisoned himself.

I watched him do it: pouring tea into the mug I'd broken at the beginning of the year. Mixing in a spoon of sugar and a splash of milk. Going to his room—the room that now belonged to Melinda and Jeff—for the small bottle of poison hidden in his nightstand and emptying its contents into the mug too.