Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  Instinct

  by

  Mattie Dunman

  Text Copyright © 2013 Deirdre Robertson

  All Rights Reserved

  For Mom and Dad, with all my love—

  You never questioned my dream, only ever asked “how can we help?”

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  About The Author

  Sneak Peek—At First Touch

  Acknowledgements

  Instinct:

  -a natural or inherent aptitude, impulse, or capacity

  -a largely inheritable and unalterable tendency of an organism to make a complex and specific response to environmental stimuli without involving reason

  -behavior that is mediated by reactions below the conscious level

  Chapter 1

  “I’m completely dishonest. I’ve swindled everyone I’ve ever done business with.”

  I grab my Mom’s arm and smile apologetically at the guy in the business suit who sits across from us. Mom glances down at me, eyebrow lifted in inquiry. I shake my head. She nods and turns back to the slightly bemused man across the table.

  “Well, this has been very enlightening. I will take your offer under consideration and let you know,” she says, rising from her chair.

  The man is startled for a moment but recovers smoothly, his voice oiled with charm as he bids us goodbye. We’ve played this particular scene many times before; Mom meets with a potential buyer or seller for her antiques business and then I stop by to introduce myself and hear whatever unwelcome truth the client is hiding. Rinse, lather, repeat.

  I don’t look back as we exit the coffee shop. A morning meeting with a potential client at Starbucks. How cliché can you get?

  As we round the corner outside the building Mom puts an arm around me. “Are you sure, sweetie? He had some great pieces, and he wasn’t being unreasonable.”

  “I’m sure. He was lying his ass off,” I say, a weary note in my voice. People are always trying to screw someone over. It gets depressing after a while.

  “Oh well. Better safe than sorry.” She shrugs and gives me a quick hug. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  I shrug back at her. What else am I going to do? Let my mom potentially lose buckets of her hard-earned cash by buying fake antiques from someone we know nothing about? Hardly. She needs me. She’s always been terrible at reading people.

  I, on the other hand, am infallible.

  “C’mon. Let’s get something good out of this trip. How about a new outfit for school tomorrow? There are some cute shops downtown, I bet we can find something you’ll like,” Mom offers playfully as we reach the car. I survey my outfit. Jeans, an old Ramones t-shirt, a vintage smoking jacket, and scuffed sneakers. Maybe some new clothes wouldn’t hurt.

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” I agree. Mom’s eyes brighten and she shoves me into the passenger seat, as if further discussion might make me change my mind. In the past, there has never really been any need for me to worry about what I wear. When you’re homeschooled by your mother your entire life, hitting the books in comfy sweats is the norm.

  The thought of school the next day starts the churning in my stomach again. I begged Mom to let me go to public school this semester, my last shot at a normal high school experience. It took weeks to wear her down, and since I already qualified for graduation, and got early acceptance to a university, high school is probably unnecessary. But I’m going to be eighteen in five months. This is the last opportunity I’ll get before throwing myself into the unfamiliar and slightly terrifying world of college. I need to test the waters.

  “You know, you can still back out of this,” Mom says knowingly. I ignore the whirlpool in my stomach and force a smile.

  “No way. How else will I know if the Vampire Diaries accurately portrays the average high school experience?”

  Mom rolls her eyes more expressively than I ever could. She also manages to swerve the car into the opposite lane.

  “Geez, Mom, watch the road!” I gasp, grabbing the door handle. She scoffs and makes it back into the right lane just as another car whizzes by, blaring its horn.

  “I was fine. You worry too much.”

  Ten thrilling minutes later we pull into the parking garage three blocks away from the main drag in Georgetown. A long stretch of trendy boutiques, designer shops, and overpriced bistros populated by a mixture of well-dressed business people and stylishly scruffy college kids, M Street is a popular destination on Sunday, despite the frigid early January temperature. I half-listen to Mom’s litany on city traffic as I look around. Two months ago we moved to Harpers Ferry, a small town in West Virginia about an hour outside of D.C, but this is only my second trip into the Capitol, and my first visit to Georgetown. Since I’m starting college in the fall at Georgetown U., I am avidly interested in what the neighborhood has to offer.

  We stroll down the street glancing at the different shop names, Mom excitedly pointing out where we might eat lunch, but I feel a familiar melancholy wash over me. All Mom sees are the elegant window displays and sale advertisements. I see past the cutesy lettering on the signs. I read what they really promise.

  Mom calls it instinct. She believes that I have clearer first impressions than other people. An uncanny knack for sensing the truth where others can’t.

  But I know better. I’m a freak. I’m so weird and wrong that I’ve been separated from the rest of the world for as long as I can remember.

  “Sweetie, do you see anything you like?”

  I blink and look around me, realizing that I have zoned out completely. Mom is pointing to a window display in front of us with mannequins wearing faded t-shirts paired with short skirts and brightly colored scarves wound around the white plastic necks. I dart a look up at the sign over the door.

  ‘Over-priced and Poorly Made’ stretches across the sign until I blink. The words shimmer slightly and then I am reading what everyone else sees. Just like always.

  “No. I don’t see anything I like,” I say, my previous jolt of excitement over shopping fading into a disenchanted resignation. It’s hard never to be blissfully unaware of reality. The trendy window display just looks forced and falsely cheerful to me now.

  “Oh, come on. We’ll find something for you,” Mom argues, grabbing my arm and dragging me through the frosted glass door. With a sigh I go along, knowing that it will please her to buy me something. She always feels guilty after she makes use of my “gift.” I might as well make someone happy.

  An hour later we emerge, Mom flushed with success, me trudging along behind her, clutching my one bag and feeling awkward. She picked out sweaters and skirts and carefully demolished jeans that she swore would help me blend in, but nothing looked right on me. She ended up buying the clothes meant for me herself, and I left the store with a pair of yellow ballet flats decorated by a cheerful white flower on top, my one concession to mom’s determination to get me something. As we walk down the street, Mom chatting away obliviously, I worry that I’ve been needlessly stubborn about attending school. That I won’t fit in.

  I’ve never been to school. I’ve never gone to a party, or a dance, or a football game. I’ve never played on a sports team or been in detention. I’ve never had a boyfriend.

  I’ve never had a friend.

  Mom told
me that when I was little, she and my father put me in kindergarten before it became apparent that I was too “different” to be with normal people. I don’t remember much, but there was another little girl with whom I used to share toys and play at recess. I guess no one really noticed the way I picked up on every little thing, the way I would blurt out what someone had been hiding after they spoke to me for the first time. Kids are forgiven a lot of tactless things when they’re that little.

  But most adults don’t want you to tell the teacher that they’re beating their child at home.

  We were having a parent day, where everyone’s mom or dad or whatever would come in and look at the macaroni pictures we’d made or the modeling clay lumps we proudly called sculptures. My playmate dragged a frayed looking woman with cold eyes over to meet me.

  “Mommy, this is Derry,” my friend had to say several times before the woman took notice.

  I had smiled up at the woman, extending my small hand for her to shake as my father had shown me to do, feeling hurt when she didn’t take it.

  “I’m going to beat Chrissy with a belt when I get home for talking so much,” the woman had finally said, whatever greeting she had really imparted lost in the truth she was hiding.

  That’s what happens with me. I’m not psychic, or clairvoyant, or even telepathic. I simply can’t be lied to. No matter what someone says to me, the first thing I hear is the truth. Usually what they’re thinking about or something related to the situation, whatever they are holding back in that moment.

  Once that first statement is out of the way, I can get through the rest of a conversation without hearing the double-speak. Still, even if I can’t hear the truth behind the words, if someone is lying I can always tell. Lies find their way under my skin like tiny insects clamoring for my attention, forcing me to see the uglier side of people. There’s no way to get rid of that first impression. And it’s always right.

  Always.

  So I ran straight over and told my teacher what I’d heard. Though she acted like I had misheard, I knew that she believed me, had probably already had suspicions anyway. I saw her go over to my friend’s mother. They argued and the woman left, dragging my friend behind even as the teacher hurried after them. That was the last time I saw her. When my teacher later mentioned to my mother what I had said, my parents removed me from kindergarten. That was the last time I ever had anything resembling a friend.

  I shrug off the old memories. The last thing I need to be thinking of tonight is how woefully inadequate my experiences have been. All my knowledge of social interaction and school politics is based on Gossip Girl. I have serious doubts as to its accuracy.

  But I can’t help the impatient, fluttery feeling in my veins when I think about tomorrow. The whole thing could be a bust, of course, and yet I lose myself in the fantasy of sitting at a lunch table, surrounded by friends, talking about the big party coming up, and stealing kisses with my gorgeous, totally devoted boyfriend. As I slip into the car and Mom weaves her way through the brutal afternoon traffic, I can almost pretend that the fantasy is real, and I look out the window with a smile.

  “Ok sweetheart, remember, if you want to come home, you just call me. I can be here in fifteen minutes,” my mom says for the third time in the last five minutes. Her forehead is creased with worry and she’s gripping the steering wheel too hard.

  “I got it, Mom. I’ll be fine,” I protest, my hand on the door handle. Before I push the door open I hesitate and turn to look at her. “Do you really think it’s going to be that bad?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

  She pins me with her warm hazel gaze and then smiles, relaxing her shoulders. A knot inside me eases a little as she brushes a hair back from my face. “No, sweetie. I think it’s going to be a little overwhelming at first, but I know you can handle it. Just…be careful. You know that when you first meet people, you seem a little…”

  “Weird? Stupid? Psycho?”

  Mom fixes me with a look. “No, and don’t start that up again. You can seem a little distant sometimes while you’re sorting things through. Relax and let people get to know you. You’re going to be a hit,” she promises and leans over to kiss my cheek.

  “I hope so,” I mutter under my breath and suck up my courage. I swing the door open and hop out onto the sidewalk, looking up at the hulking brick structure that makes up John Brown High. A wave of nausea rolls over me and the urge to jump back in the car and beg Mom to take me home is all consuming. Clenching my hands around the strap of my bag, I steel myself, keeping the fantasy of friends and fun forefront in my mind until my feet unglue themselves from the asphalt and I can move forward. I glance around and wave goodbye to my mom. She taps her horn lightly and pulls away, taking with her my last escape route.

  With no other options left, I head toward the two flights of concrete steps leading up to the front doors of the school. The building is totally retro, probably built in the 1970s and never renovated. I bet the pipes are ancient. Probably shouldn’t drink the water.

  I reach the top of the stairs and brace myself for my first step into the school as a student. Mom and I came here three weeks ago to get registered, and I was given a tour and picked my schedule. But everything had still been theoretical then. This was the real show.

  The sign over the doors reads “John Brown High School.” I don’t see anything else because there isn’t any truth to conceal. The building is exactly what is advertised, and my nerves calm their ragged dance slightly at this reassurance. Taking a deep breath, I put my hand out and get ready to open the door.

  It swings open, nearly swatting me in the face, and I stagger back, almost tumbling down the stairs I just climbed. An angry looking boy in a black wool pea-coat and dark jeans stalks past me, not even glancing my way or noticing the way I’m cradling my arm where the door struck it. I consider saying something, but the hard set of his shoulders prevents me from forming words. I swallow my irritation and rub my forearm until the stinging passes. The boy runs down the stairs and halts before he crosses into the street. He glances around as though searching for something and then slowly pivots and locks his gaze on me.

  My chest constricts and I can’t breathe. An invisible hand is gripping my throat and deliberately tightening until my head is no longer connected to the rest of my body. The inside of my mind burns like molten lava being poured in my brain and my legs and hands start to shake uncontrollably until I almost cannot remain standing.

  Just as suddenly it stops and the vise on my neck is released. My mind clears with no residue of pain, as though the past few seconds never happened. I see the boy widen his eyes in surprise before he jerks abruptly and turns his back to me, crossing the pick-up lane and turning the corner, out of my sight. I am left breathless and stiff with terror.

  I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I can’t help feeling that somehow that boy just nearly killed me with a look.

  I’m not sure how long I remain standing there, staring down the street where the boy vanished, but finally the door opens again and a familiar face peers out, voice strident in greeting.

  “I want another Vicodin and I want a divorce,” she says, unwittingly revealing a hidden truth instead of a simple ‘hello.’

  I shudder and refocus. I don’t know who the boy was or what just happened, but he isn’t here now and I have a major life change to get through. Mrs. Hayworth, the secretary I talked to when I registered, looks at me expectantly and I nod and force a smile.

  I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I say, wishing I didn’t know how miserable the woman in front of me is.

  “I said I wondered if you’d gotten here yet. Come on in, let’s get you settled.” She gestures for me to follow and I enter the school unceremoniously. There is no turning back now.

  “Ok, so we’ve got your schedule finalized and I’ve got a map for you. I’m going to show you your locker and give you your books, and then you’ll be on your own. Any questions?” Mrs. Hayworth asks briskly, her low-s
lung heels clicking emphatically on the linoleum. I shake my head and frown. In all the movies, new students get assigned mentors or helpers their first day. Usually a nerd or someone impossibly good-looking. Guess that’s the first inconsistency between my research and reality.

  I’m about a half-hour early, mainly because I thought there would be more orientation to get through and I didn’t want to be late for my first class. But within a few minutes Mrs. Hayworth shows me my locker and gives me the combination, asks one last time if I need anything, and then disappears into her office, presumably to take another Vicodin. I stand next to my locker, reeling from the speed and indifference with which everything is happening. None of this matches my notions of what today would be like. Disappointment begins to bubble under my skin.

  I shake it off and scold myself for being so sensitive. Did I really expect the whole school to shut down and people to line up waiting for me? Well, maybe a little, but that’s not important now. At least I’ll have a chance to figure out where my classes are while the halls are empty. So I stash the books I won’t need until after lunch in the locker and hang a Georgetown University sticker on the inside of the door to personalize it. Once I see what everyone else puts in their lockers, I’ll make some adjustments. With a frisson of excitement, I look at the map and try to figure out which of the circled rooms is my first class.

  The school isn’t big. Mrs. Hayworth said there were only about a hundred students in each grade, so it doesn’t take me long to formulate a plan for the day. I glance at my watch. It’s still only seven-forty. Most of the buses aren’t due to arrive for another ten minutes. I chew on my bottom lip and begin to doubt that I have any idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

  Needing to find something that fits my expectations, I take off in the direction of the journalism room, where my fourth period class is held. The day is broken into four periods, each an hour and a half with a forty-five minute lunch in the middle. Part of the reason I was able to convince Mom to let me undertake the great experiment was because of the opportunity to work on the school newspaper. Since my major is going to be print journalism, I argued that I needed the experience of working with other students on a paper.