Noise swelled around them, and Sage had the feeling she should cry or do something. Mom looked like she was waiting for it, bracing herself for the break. Sage waited, too, searching inside herself.
There was nothing. She was empty.
“Sage,” her mom said, and the spell was broken. Sage’s feet pounded the pavement toward the exit gate. Faster. Faster.
“You can’t run!” Mom screamed after her, the fear in her voice a living, writhing thing. It hooked itself into Sage, forcing her to slow down. Fine, Sage seethed. She would slow down. She would walk. But she would not break down here. She would not.
“The pass comes up short, and it’s fourth down,” said the announcer. “Now the field goal squad is out for the fifth time. Zendasky has been four for four, but his longest field goal is forty-one yards. Can he push it another five tonight?”
Sage stopped. She was so close to the exit gate, mere feet, but Ian… She turned, forced herself back past Mom and to the chain link fence that kept spectators off the field and the track that surrounded it. She spotted Ian at the far end, counting off his paces as he lined up to kick.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said earlier, when he’d cleared the echo he’d had that morning because apparently her heart condition was genetic. “I’m sorry I asked you to be here.” And she’d called him an idiot and hugged him, and it felt good that he’d wanted her there, that even at sixteen he’d needed his older sister in case his news echoed hers. But his heart had checked out, and of course she was happy for him. It wasn’t his fault she’d lost the genetic roll of the dice.
Her face twisted as she recalled the way Mom had hugged Dad, how her tears spilled as much as they had after Sage’s results. How they’d meant something completely different.
Sage grabbed on to the fence, thankful Mom hadn’t followed her back to the field. Her eyes locked onto her brother’s back. She visualized the ball piercing the goal posts dead center, the same way she envisioned her own serves before she took them. “Drill it, Ian,” she whispered.
Ian shook out his hands and tapped his right foot behind him, his pre-kick ritual. Sage closed her eyes, her skin tingling with the energy of the stadium’s collectively held breath.
“And it’s GOOOOOD!” the announcer cried. “Ian Zendasky has kicked five for five field goals and the Rams have won! The Rams have won! For the first time in six years, Southview has defeated Asheville High!”
Sage opened her eyes to watch Ian joyously tackled, then hoisted by his teammates. Students rushed the field and a low hum grew into a buzz, a chant. “I-AN. I-AN.”
At midfield, Ian threw off his helmet, his sweaty face aglow beneath the stadium lights. Sage knew that look, the ecstasy that accompanied a triumph earned from years of hard work and dedication. The fence dug into her palms. She lived for that feeling. She would never have it again.
Without warning, her gut revolted. She was going to vomit. The bathrooms were too far, and already the exit was backed up with Asheville’s defeated fans trying to beat the mess of traffic.
Another belly lurch and she was moving, away from the exit and Mom’s pity for her, desperate to find somewhere she could stay unnoticed. She couldn’t bring attention to herself. This was Ian’s moment, and she would not destroy it.
She dodged the crush of people descending the visiting stands, then realized she could go beneath them, where they stored the hurdles. Yes, that was perfect.
She barely made it. As soon as she slipped between the fencing under the metal stands, her knees gave out, her stomach contents splashing to the stale, powdery dirt. She was pretty sure some got in her hair.
Someone made a gagging noise. “Oh, my God,” a voice said. “Are you okay?”
Sage’s head shot up. She recognized that voice. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, assembling a figure deeper inside the bleacher’s underbelly.
“Len?” Sage pushed herself up, wiping her mouth. “What are you—” Her eyes took in what Len held, a camera. “You’re taking pictures?” she said, recoiling slightly. “Here?”
“I needed a vertical,” Len said, whatever that meant. She pointed to the aluminum beams around them. “The bleachers have interesting lines,” she added, and slipped the camera around her neck. It was a nice camera, the kind that professionals use. Len still had on her gloves and the too-big sweatshirt, her hair loose and straggled. As she looked Sage over, something in her face changed.
“Oh.” Len’s voice was soft. “I’m so sorry.”
Sage wiped her hands on her shorts. “What?”
“I hadn’t noticed before,” Len said. “But now…” She nodded. “I see it on you.”
“What are you talking about?” Sage said, because she was pretty sure Len didn’t mean vomit. She ran a hand through her hair, just in case.
Len stepped closer, a tiny crease in her forehead. “It’s all over you.”
“What?”
Len’s eyes narrowed, like it should be obvious. “Loss.”
Above them, footsteps clanked and banged. Bands of light cut through the darkness as fans exited, letting the stadium light slip through the emptying bleachers. A long, bright strip fell across Len’s face. Sage clenched her fists. Kayla had been right. Len was the definition of bizarre. Maybe even downright freaky.
“Okay,” Sage said shakily. “That’s a super weird thing to say.”
Len stared at her, her expression unchanged, and Sage wondered if she’d even heard.
“I’m gonna go now,” Sage said, backing out and almost tripping on a hurdle. Len remained in the darkness.
As she resurfaced, Sage’s phone pinged with texts—Kayla probably, wondering where she was—but she left it in her pocket and kept her head down, blending into the exiting crowd. She wouldn’t be joining the celebratory bonfires tonight.
Mom stood waiting right where she’d left her, hands wringing. But at least she’d stopped crying. At least Sage had a ride home. The team hadn’t returned from the locker room, which was good, because Sage couldn’t face Ian, not yet. She was proud of him and she’d tell him so, but not right now.
“I know,” Mom said before she had to say anything. “Ian will understand.” As Mom put an arm around her, Sage had the distinct feeling someone was watching. She whirled back to the bleachers.
People filed out in a steady stream. Behind them, under the stands, there was only darkness. Len Madder was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LEN
LEN WOKE IN A COLD SWEAT, HER DREAM REMNANTS CLAWING to remain in her consciousness. She’d been with Nonni. They’d sat together on the football bleachers, and Len showed her how to use the Canon. The field was empty and still, but the air swirled with color; blue jays circled and dove in an elaborate air dance. Len had summoned them somehow, and Nonni had giggled and clapped like a young girl, snapping photo after photo.
Murky morning light leaked from the window, and Len swung her socked feet to the side of her bed, the heaviness of her legs jarring. Dream Len had been weightless, she realized, and flying—somehow a blue jay but still a girl, too. She tried to recall the exact feeling—it had been perfect, she was sure of it, daring and free. But her body couldn’t quite recall it, the dream dimming with every moment. She’d landed next to Nonni—that she remembered—and her grandmother’s long, pianist fingers moved deftly between the focus ring and shutter-release. “Look,” Nonni said as Len fluttered back and forth, laughing and playful. “Look, Lennie.”
Len turned, took in Nonni’s body, Nonni’s hands, Nonni’s short, storm-white hair. Then her grandmother lowered the camera, and Len locked eyes on her own face.
Outside, the wind chimes tinkled faintly, the sounds dissolving the last of the dream images. Not the feeling, though. That clung to her, dark and sticky, like a warning.
Len made herself stand, made herself slip on the sweatshirt that hung over the wooden desk chair. She grabbed the chair as the weight of yesterday, of Jamie’s revelation, crashed back over h
er. Was the dream another sign? Further proof she was going the way of Nonni, her brain slowly dissolving?
Sounds crept under her door. Then the warm scent of tea. Len pulled on her gloves. Maybe she should tell her parents after all.
She found them in the living room, Mom draped along the sofa, Dad rubbing her bare feet. Both of them spoke softly. It was a tender moment. A private moment. And Len was an intruder. She tried to back up, but the floor creaked, giving her away.
“Lennie!” Dad said. “How’s our girl?”
Mom wiped her face quickly, a too-wide smile pulling her cheeks tight. It couldn’t hide the evidence: she’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” Len asked.
“Oh, nothing.” Mom waved her over to them. “I’m just tired is all. How are you?”
Len gave a small shrug, stepping around several canvases to reach the sofa. She perched herself on the edge, next to Mom. “Do you guys think dreams mean anything?”
“Definitely,” said Dad.
“Carl Jung certainly thought so,” said Mom. “And Freud, although that man had major issues, so I tend to ignore him.”
Len raised her eyebrows.
“Sorry,” Mom said. “Never mind. What was your dream?”
Len tried to pull back the wispy fragments. “Well, it was about Nonni,” she said. “We were together, taking pictures, and there were blue jays, and—Mom?”
Tears spilled down Mom’s cheeks. She covered her mouth.
“Are you okay?” Len asked.
“Sorry,” Mom said again. “I just—” She tried to laugh, which only made her look more pitiful. “Dad and I were just talking about her before you came in.”
Dad nodded. “I bet you picked up on that energy.”
Len took a deep breath, her nerve starting to give out. If she was going to tell them what she learned, about childhood dementia and her own symptoms, she had to do it now.
“I need to tell you something,” Len and Mom said at the exact same time.
“Whoa,” said Dad. Mom rubbed Len’s gloved hand, her smile shaking.
“It’s okay,” Len said. “You can go.”
Mom slipped her palm beneath Len’s and squeezed her hand. “I know you know that things have been a little tight lately.” She winced, like the words physically hurt. “And I don’t want you to worry, because we’ve got things under control, but, ugh, I’m sorry. I’m such a crier!” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Dad moved closer and rubbed her shoulder. She moved her hand from Len’s and placed it on top of his. “We found out last week that Nonni needs to switch medications, and the new one, it’s, well, it’s more than the last.” She pulled out a crinkled tissue and wiped her nose. “Dad’s taken a part-time job with a painting company, which will help offset things a little, but we just need to be a bit more careful with money for a while, okay?”
Len wasn’t sure how they could be any more careful, but she nodded anyway. Things must be much worse that she imagined. Dad had had a lot of random jobs to boost his cobbled income from commissions, but they were always in line with his artistic sensibilities—local theater set designs, visiting art professor summer workshop leader, that kind of thing. He would never have taken a job with a house painting company—a job that’s not only not creative but that would take time away from his own projects—unless things had gotten dire.
“Maybe,” Len said, “what if I got a job?”
“No.” Mom’s voice was the end of a sentence. A solid wall. “Your job is school, to get good grades, to get yourself into a good college.”
“But if I can’t pay for it…” Len didn’t know why she was arguing. How could she get a job when her brain was falling apart?
Mom sat up, pulling her legs off Dad’s lap. “There are scholarships. What about that one your teacher wrote home about last semester? The Melvin?”
“The Melford.”
“Yes, that one.”
“It’s really hard to get, Mom. It’s not—”
“Your teacher told us you can do it. Len, I know you can do it. Dad does too. You just have to believe.”
Even tucked in gloves, Len’s hands went cold. There was no use arguing with her parents when it came to college. They just didn’t get it. Sometimes she thought they didn’t want to, like they were happier believing it was some kind of supernatural thing that made wishes come true. That if you worked hard enough, if you tried your best, you could go and somehow magically not have to pay for it.
She wished Ms. Saffron had never told them about the Melford Scholarship, had never implied that Len had a chance. Ever since, both of them had assumed it was a given, not a very, very slim longshot.
Len stood up, suddenly conscious of all the flecks on the sofa. What were those?
“Wait,” Mom said. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
Len looked down at her, curled up like something fragile. The skin of her face lacked its usual color and hung looser than it should on her cheekbones. Deep half-moons sunk below her eyes, mirroring—she just realized—the ones on Dad’s face. Had either of them slept in days? Weeks?
How could Len drop this on them? That their daughter’s mind was slowly unraveling, that she probably had childhood dementia, and, sorry, there was nothing they could do, but by the way, the medical care would surely bankrupt them? They didn’t even have healthcare.
Her legs—the parts that had touched the sofa—went tight and twitchy. It wasn’t like telling them could change anything. There was nothing anyone could do.
“Len?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Never mind. I’m gonna get a shower.”
Her parents’ eyebrows bent, confused, but she left the room before they could speak. As she passed through the kitchen, the phone on the wall rang.
“Grab that for me, Len?” Dad asked. “I’m expecting a call.”
Len slipped off the receiver. “Hello?”
“Lennie?”
Len’s chest convulsed. The voice was Fauna’s. And she was crying.
“Len,” her sister said, “is that you? Hello?”
Len’s mouth opened. But then there was blue everywhere, bleeding across her memories and blurring her vision. Sirens. Wall. Lips. Terrible, terrible blue.
She couldn’t do this. Her whole body went hot. Slimy. She needed a shower. The word snagged in her brain, banging again and again. Shower. Shower. Shower. She couldn’t do anything until she took a shower. That would make things okay again. That would help her breathe.
“Lennie?” Fauna said. “Please, talk to me.”
The phone fell from her fingers, hit the floor with a sickening crack.
“Everything okay?” Dad called from the sofa, but she was no longer around to hear.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SAGE
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HER RECENT MEMORY, SAGE DID not join Ian for their regular Saturday morning run. Sage, who wasn’t sure if she’d slept at all, heard the familiar sounds of Ian exiting his room, the water from the sink as he brushed his teeth. He paused at her door, which made Sage both happy (because he hadn’t forgotten her) and then so dejected that she’d rolled over and let herself sink into the depths of her sadness until it resembled something like sleep.
Now, three hours later, Sage sat on her bed, motionless. Her parents stood in her room, saying something about it not being healthy to stay in bed, but Sage’s attention faded in and out, like XM radio on the Parkway.
“There are still plenty of options,” Mom was saying, pacing between the two windows. She threw open the blinds as high as possible. “Coach and I have talked at length.”
“Nhu-Mai’s been in touch with some friends from med school, too,” said Dad. “They’ve got connections to some of the top heart specialists in the country and, oh, I wonder—” His fingers typed furiously at his phone.
“There’s absolutely no reason you couldn’t be a college coach,” Mom said. “Coach said so himself. With your talent, no reason at all.”
&
nbsp; “I know I met someone involved in this clinic,” Dad said. “I must be looking in the wrong file.” He poured back over the screen.
Sage stared at them. They were fixers, both of them, real get-it-done-ers. It was something she’d always admired, a quality she supposed they’d passed on to her. Don’t take no for an answer. Hard work solves everything. Do something over and over until you are the absolute best, until you get exactly what you want.
“Yes,” Dad said. “Found it.”
The problem with fixers, Sage realized, is that their whole system is inherently flawed. They can only function if a solution to a problem actually exists.
“Is this person gonna give me a way to play?”
Mom stopped pacing. Dad met Sage’s eyes. “Well—”
“Unless they have a way for me to play again, there’s no point calling any clinic.”
Dad’s brow crinkled. “They might be close to a solution,” he said. “Maybe a cure in the works.”
“Close enough it could help me?” Sage asked. “You’re telling me that, even though Dr. Friedman didn’t say anything about it, you think someone else is so close to a cure for this that it could save my volleyball career?”
Dad’s face twitched. He prepared for every question, which made him a phenomenal attorney. But he wasn’t prepared for this. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But we could—”
Sage zoned out again, cocooning herself with the numb static of her mind. None of this felt real, so maybe it wasn’t. Maybe if she just pretended it was a terrible dream, a supremely real nightmare, it would disintegrate the same way vampires were supposed to crumble in the sun.
Her eyes caught on the long rectangles of sunlight that poured from her windows, falling just short of where she sat on the bed. If only what stood in her way was an actual vampire. She’d have absolutely no qualms about stabbing it through the heart. She’d do it twice, maybe three times, for good measure.
Mom was talking. Slowly, her voice chipped a crack in the static, and Sage could make out her words again.
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