Chapter Four
A Not So Fresh Start
“You want me to go where?” I can’t help it. My eyes bug out of my head. I can feel them straining in their sockets as I stand among half-empty boxes in my brand new bedroom.
“It’s called the Edward Brooks Facility,” Dad says.
Beside him, Mom’s hands engage in a wrestling match.
I pick up a box filled with books and set it onto my bed. Movers packed up all our stuff and in a matter of two weeks, we jettisoned across the country to Thornsdale—a small coastal town on the northern tip of California. I remove a stack of paperbacks and look out the window. We live in a gated community called Forest Grove. All the houses are ridiculous, including our own. The view from my bedroom is unreal. A panorama of rocky beach and towering redwoods and miles upon miles of misty ocean and cliffs. As I stare at a seagull gliding over the tide, a realization hits me right between my buggy eyes. “Is this why we moved?”
They don’t have to answer my question. It’s written all over their concerned faces. Yes, this is exactly why we moved.
I plop on the mattress, bouncing my box of books up and down. “I can’t believe this.”
We didn’t move because Dad finished his work in Jude. We moved because of me and the Edward Brooks Facility and that thing that happened three weeks ago. My determination to fit in—to have a fresh start and make friends—fractures. It’s kind of hard to act normal when your own parents doubt your sanity. “How do you know it’s safe?”
Mom sits beside me on the bed and places her hand on my knee. “Because it’s a private facility, sweet pea. One of the only ones left in the country. They are not required to report anything to the government.”
Dad steps forward. “What your mother’s trying to say, kiddo, is that you can be honest. You don’t have to hide anything.”
I stare down at the carpet. “You think I’m crazy.”
“No, we don’t.” Mom squeezes my knee. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. This facility is the best of the best. We think it’ll help you … fit in.”
Right. Fit in. Like that will ever happen.
“Maybe even get rid of those nightmares you keep having.”
I look up into Mom’s eyes. My eyes. We have all the same features. But somehow, the pale skin and the spray of dark freckles and the pointy chin and the upturned nose and round eyes that give us both a look of perpetual surprise are pretty on her face, mismatched on mine. “How do you know about my nightmares?”
She cups my chin and runs the pad of her thumb over the dark circles beneath my eyes. I try to cover them with makeup, but I don’t do a great job. Makeup has never been my forte. “We hear you at night.”
I release a puff of air. Maybe my parents are right. Maybe Edward Brooks—whoever he is—can help me be normal.
For as I long as I can remember I’ve had a small patch of eczema on the inside of my left wrist. I hardly noticed in Florida, thanks to the humidity. California weather isn’t as kind. I scratch at it as I stand in front of my full-length mirror. Today is my first day at a new school. Mom thought going on Friday would make Monday easier. All I can think is that it makes Friday worse. I’d much rather stay behind and explore the beach and the forest and the cliffs that are my new backyard.
But my mother is adamant, so I push the wishful thinking away and check my reflection in the mirror. No dreams haunted me last night, which means my dark circles are faint. Yesterday, Mom took me for a mini makeover. I now have shoulder-length hair and—for the first time since kindergarten—bangs. The effect makes my navy blue eyes much less buggy. I wear a new pair of skinny jeans with a new pale pink camisole and a new champagne cardigan. I even have a new backpack. Basically, I am new. I am fresh. And for once in my life, I look ordinary.
I look like somebody who could blend in.
I take a deep breath, as if the key to confidence is an extra dose of oxygen. Nobody has to know about the séance or my nightmares or that I sometimes see and sense and hear things nobody else can see or sense or hear. Nobody has to know that I’m seventeen and still afraid of the dark. Nobody has to know that starting next week, I will have counseling sessions at the Edward Brooks Facility with a psychiatrist named Dr. Roth.
I can walk into Thornsdale High School and simply be Tess Ekhart, the very unextraordinary new girl. Who knows. Maybe I will find a way to fit in. I scratch the inside of my wrist until my eczema burns bright red.
Anything is possible.
The Gifting (Book 1 in The Gifting Series) Page 5