Series: Young Adult

HE’S DREAMT OF HER FOR YEARS, OBSESSED WITH A FIGMENT OF HIS IMAGINATION. UNTIL SHE MOVES IN NEXT DOOR.

Experience the intrigue, the romance, and the chilling world of The Gifting, where the mentally unstable are locked away and belief in the supernatural has been eradicated. This time, from Luka’s point of view with never-before-seen content.

17-year-old Luka Williams has a secret. He sees things nobody else can see, feels things nobody else can feel, and dreams about the same girl every night. A girl in danger. A girl he must save. A girl who doesn’t exist.

Until one day, she does. Her family moves in next door—upending his world and calling into question everything he thought he knew. Maybe he’s not crazy after all. Maybe the things he sees are as real as the girl from his dreams.

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Enjoy Several Complimentary Chapters

BOOK DETAILS

Series: The Gifting, companion novel
Publisher: K.E Ganshert
Copyright @2021
Kindle ASIN: B097YY1H9X
Paperback ASIN: B097XB79QW
Amazon Paperback ISBN: 979-8526339940
BISAC Subjects:
– YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Supernatural Mysteries & Thrillers
– YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Romance/Paranormal
– YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Science Fiction & Dystopian

SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Prologue

I’m not supposed to exist.

The intrusive thought runs through my mind as I sit inside a drafty office, staring at the mugshot paper-clipped to a file in the doctor’s lap.

A teenager with dark, messy hair. Straight nose. Olive skin. Camo green eyes. A strong, symmetrical jaw. And full, unsmiling lips set in such a way as to suggest amusement. Or maybe sarcasm. The combination of features are objectively attractive. I understand this without any arrogance or pride. What I don’t understand is how those features exist at all. They shouldn’t—a truth I hadn’t fully grasped until recently, when I overheard my parents talking in dulcet tones behind their closed bedroom door.

The next day, my father announced that we were moving. Across the country. To a town called Thornsdale on the northern coast of California. Now here I sit in a red leather chair at my very first appointment at the Edward Brooks Facility with its one and only out-patient psychiatrist—a man named Dr. Roth with an office that smells like ammonia. I picture him sanitizing with it after every session like crazy is a contagion. A germ to be caught. Maybe this is why the mentally unstable are locked away from society. If left in the world, they would spread their germs and we would have a full-blown pandemic on our hands. Nobody wants that, so the insane are sequestered away—treated in seclusion—until they are no longer symptomatic.

I look from the framed diploma on Dr. Roth’s wall to the tall filing cabinet beside his work desk. There’s no computer. No laptop. If I had to guess, there isn’t an iPad tucked away in a drawer or anything else that might store hackable data. My father’s policy, no doubt. A man so rich and powerful he bought one of the country’s last remaining privately-owned mental health facilities in order to keep his son off the government’s radar.

Dr. Roth’s bifocals slide down his bulbous nose as he studies the paperwork in my file. I watch him take it all in, wondering what’s inside. The whole truth and nothing but the truth? Or did my father exclude the part where he’s at least partially culpable?

I shift in my chair, the leather squeaking beneath me. “Do you believe in God?”

Dr. Roth looks from the file to me, caught off guard as he pushes up his glasses. “Do you?”

I know the correct answer. The widely acceptable answer. No, of course not. We live in a world that has systematically eradicated God and all things supernatural from existence. We live in a world that is purely physical and should it ever seem otherwise, just wait a moment. A reasonable explanation will be found eventually. Still, I can’t help but imagine some cosmic creator constructing humans on a manufacturing belt high up in the sky. I glance again at the file in Dr. Roth’s lap. If such a God exists, then he not only forgot to tighten the screws in my head, he left something out altogether. Some vital piece that makes everyone else around me whole while I remain … half. This is the symptom not in the file. The one I have never articulated and can never escape. The ever-present feeling that I’m living life with a missing piece. A phantom limb. Probably the sort of thing a person ought to talk to a therapist about. But after overhearing that conversation between my parents, I don’t think it would be wise.

I’m not supposed to exist.

Dr. Roth scratches the whiskers of his mousy brown goatee, a spark of unmistakable interest in his narrowed eyes. A spark that has me feeling like a novel virus under a microscope. “Why do you ask about God, Luka?”

“Just curious, I guess.”

He crosses his ankle over his knee. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

I cross my ankle over my knee, too, mirroring his posture. With my elbows propped on the armrests of the chair, I steeple my fingers. “What do you want to know?”

“How are you adjusting to the move?”

I shrug. We’ve been unpacking boxes for three weeks now, slowly and steadily filling our new home—a behemoth house inside the gated community of Forest Grove, conveniently located a couple blocks south of this very facility. “The surfing’s good.”

“Ah, yes. Surfing. It says here that you quite enjoy it.” Dr. Roth shuffles through the papers. “That seems like a solitary endeavor.”

“I don’t mind solitude.”

“Do you consider yourself a loner?”

I consider myself out of step. One notch removed. But I swallow the words and shrug again. The less I give Dr. Roth, the better. My goal, in fact, is to give him so little he renders our appointments unnecessary.

“How was your first day of school?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“Did you make any friends?” he says in a rush, almost like he’s required to ask the question. Orders from his new boss, probably. At the request of the boss’s wife. My mother really wants me to make friends.

“Everyone’s been … very welcoming.”

“Have you considered participating in any extracurriculars?”

“Like?”

“I hear you’re good at football.”

I don’t mean to react. But I must do something. An eye-roll. A huff of breath, perhaps?

Whatever it is, Dr. Roth pounces. “Does that annoy you?”

“I’m not interested in football.”

“Your father seems to think the coach is interested in you.”

I give him a third shrug. The coach is my new P.E. teacher. He saw me tossing a football in class and made a special call home that same day. My mother’s eyes were aglow when she relayed the conversation word-for-word. That son of yours has one heck of an arm, Mrs. Williams. It’s not too often I see a freshman throw with that much speed and accuracy. We sure could use him on the team.

My poor mother.

All of this would be easier if she’d had an awkward son. An unattractive, uncoordinated son. Instead—in a cruel twist of fate—she got one with all the right ingredients. Except for the most crucial.

I’m not supposed to exist.

“Well then, why don’t we get to it.” Dr. Roth clears his throat. “Your parents report that you’ve experienced … hallucinations.” His left brow arches with the word.

I don’t respond.

“Have you had any recently?”

“No.”

This is lie number one.

“And the unexplained fluctuations in temperature—what about those?”

“Haven’t had them.”

This is lie number two.

Dr. Roth pulls at his whiskers. Pull, scratch. Pull, scratch. The rhythmic sound of gently peeling Velcro. I wait him out, twisting the frayed hemp around my wrist. A bracelet that contains three stones—red jasper, jade, and onyx. A gift my mother purchased when my oddities became particularly burdensome. Protective stones, she’d said. A ridiculous idea. A contradictory one, too. Stones are stones are stones. They don’t have protective powers. The very notion reeks of the supernatural.

“What about the dreams?” Dr. Roth finally asks, the sparkle in his eye filling me with distrust. “With the girl. Have you had any of those?”

I stare back at him without blinking.

“No,” I say.

This is lie number three.

The biggest one of them all.

Chapter One
2 Years Later

The dream shoves me awake.

I bolt upright, heart thundering. Chest heaving. Cold sweat trickling down my back. The memory of it fills the space in my mind, crowding everything else away, until nothing exists but her. Dark hair. Fair skin. Pointy chin. Round, navy eyes with freckles as small as pinpricks dusted across the bridge of her nose. Her narrow shoulders squared in such determined ferocity, it takes my breath away. The image is more vivid than anything in real life and in its wake comes a crushing need.

To find her.

To know her.

To protect her.

The insatiable hunger of it curls inside of me—this craving that will never be satisfied. Because the girl isn’t real. I’m obsessed with a figment of my imagination, a creation of my own making—a constant reminder that while I may be able to fool my parents, while I may be able to fool Dr. Roth and my classmates and society at large, I will never be able to fool myself. I—Luka Williams—am certifiably, unequivocally insane.

I drag my hands through my hair, then down my face. Toss the covers off my body and head into the bathroom, where I put in my contacts and take a shower. With my palms flat against the tiled wall, I let the hot spray knead the tension from my shoulders. But the memory remains. A shower won’t wash it away. Never has before. Won’t start now. Still, I make the water hotter like more steam might offer an escape.

It doesn’t.

I dry off with her in my head.

Get dressed with her in my head.

Brush my teeth with her in my head.

Downstairs, my mother bakes.

I step into the kitchen, inhaling the smell of warm chocolate while she hums near the stove, scooping cookies off a metal sheet and onto a serving dish. I reach for one, just barely snagging the edge when she swats at my hand with the spatula.

“These are not for you,” she says.

“Who’re they for?”

“Our new neighbors.” She gives me a casual once over. “Isn’t there a football game tonight?”

She asks like she doesn’t already know.

“Yes.” I lean against the counter.

“You don’t want to wear something more … festive?”

Today is Friday, the very last day of spirit week at school. Homecoming week. The Thornsdale Dragons will play the big game tonight. A dance will follow tomorrow. Mom would probably light up like a Christmas tree if I came into the kitchen with my face painted red and gray. Instead, I’m wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. “I have my dragon costume upstairs. Want me to go get it?”

She rolls her eyes, then scoops more cookies onto the serving dish, oblivious to the trail of tiny lights twinkling behind her. “I met the mother the other day while they were unloading the truck.”

I blink. “The mother?”

“Our new neighbors. The Eckharts. Her name’s Miranda. Her husband is a corporate manager for Safe Guard Security Systems. They have two children in high school.”

My attention remains fixed on Mom, the tiny lights still twinkling. Spinning. Not really there, but a misfire in my brain. Something only I can see. Something I’ve learned to ignore.  “Maybe one of them wants to borrow my dragon costume.”

This elicits another eye roll.

“Did Dad leave for work?” I try again to reach for a cookie.

Mom slaps my hand away. “Half an hour ago. He wanted to get some things wrapped up before he leaves tomorrow.”

“Before we leave tomorrow.”

She frowns.

I am unswayed.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” she asks.

“Let me see. Stay in Thornsdale …” I hold up my hands like a balancing scale. “Or go with Dad to Santa Cruz.” It’s not even a contest. Santa Cruz is one of California’s best surfing spots.

“Luka, it’s homecoming. You really want to miss the dance?”

“Mom.”

“Summer would go with you in a heartbeat. She’s such a sweet girl and you two would make the cutest couple.”

Summer Burbanks is far from a sweet girl and I’m not interested in making a cute anything with her, but it’s wasted breath. My mom takes fitness classes with Summer’s mom. She adores Mrs. Burbanks and her daughter, and once Mom forms an opinion, there’s no changing it. “I’m pretty sure Summer’s already going with someone.”

“I’m pretty sure she would change her plans for you.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“I’m not taking Summer—or any other girl to the dance.” The mere thought exhausts me. Faking normalcy all day at school is torture enough. I don’t have the energy—or the inclination—to put in overtime at a dance.

My mother sags, catching me with the smallest sliver of guilt. She wants to relive her high school years through her one and only son. I’ve never been very cooperative.

“Maybe I’ll ask Summer to the winter formal.” I give her cheek a quick peck, then reach past her and finally—successfully—snag a cookie.

“Hey!”

“It’s just one.” With a quick step away, I take a bite.

She shoos her spatula at me as I head into the living room—away from my mom, away from the twinkling trail of light—and turn on the television. International popstar sensation B-Trix smiles inside the screen, talking about the latest technological advancement in a commercial ad for pregnancy screenings. All the guys in my class are obsessed with her. They think she’s the hottest thing to walk the earth. Personally, she makes the muscles in my jaw clench. Not with desire, either. Maybe if her newest platform wasn’t so personal—maybe if it wasn’t a constant reminder of the precarious truth I uncovered two years ago—I’d have a different opinion. But her latest platform is personal. So the muscles in my jaw remain tight until the morning news anchor appears. She covers cheery topics, from the escalating unrest in Egypt to the rising crime rate within our own boarders to Abigail Cormack, the independent presidential candidate making big promises to fix it all.

Compelled by need—or maybe habit—I lean closer and twist the hemp bracelet around my wrist. Searching. Every story. Every commercial. I study every face, willing her into existence—that deep, hungry ache stretching like sharp talons inside. And while it’s all a particular brand of torture, I wish none of it away. As maddening as the dreams are, I don’t want them to stop.

If they do, the girl will be gone.

And that—I am certain—would be worse than death.

Chapter Two

Red and gray homecoming posters decked out with dragons decorate the lockers as I stride through the wide, nearly empty hallway toward first period. Current Events with Lotsam. There aren’t any desks inside his classroom, rather a collection of rectangular tables arranged in a horseshoe around the edge of the room. I slip inside class right as the bell rings. The only seat available is next to the girl my mom wants me to take to homecoming.

Summer.

She catches my eye and flashes a bright, white smile.

I take the seat and tell myself Summer is fine. She isn’t hard to look at; she can even be funny—if you can get over the fact that her humor is almost always at somebody else’s expense. Still, the way she shifts her chair closer makes me wish I would have skipped first period. Maybe it’s my mother’s constant attempt at matchmaker. Maybe it was the depressing news that played on the television as I searched every face for the one I can never find. Or maybe it’s the fact that when it comes down to it, I find Summer Burbanks a little tedious. A walking, talking movie trope with her honey blonde hair and possessive, mean girl vibe. All of it reeks of a desperation that is somehow lost on everyone but me.

At the front of the class, Lotsam spreads his hands wide. He’s sporting a gray soul patch where his beard used to be. He wears moccasins and a ponytail and has got to be close to retiring.

“I hear,” he says, pausing for a beat while the class settles into silence, “that we have a new student in our midst.”

Everyone’s attention swivels in my direction, only instead of looking at me, they look at the person next to me. Not Summer, but a girl to my left. She’s small, with dark, shoulder-length hair that hides the majority of her profile. And yet, the familiar point of her nose draws me in. My spine straightens as something inside stirs awake.

Leela McNeil—one of the student ambassadors, a genuinely nice girl in my grade dressed in red from head to toe—stands and takes an excited breath. “Everybody, this is Tess Eckhart. She just moved here from Florida. Tess, this is everybody.”

Eckhart.

My new next-door neighbor.

The one Mom was baking cookies for.

Tess gives a shy wave to the class, then shifts ever so slightly. My heart picks up speed—a dull thud-thud that grows louder and faster. Lotsam starts talking, but I don’t hear him. He might as well be speaking underwater. My heightened senses narrow into a singular point aimed directly at this girl. I need to see her face. The urge is so irrepressible, I have to grip the underside of my chair to keep from reaching out and sweeping her hair away.

Lotsam claps his hands.

The sharp sound startles me. I blink a few times, conscientious of the fact that I was just staring with an intensity that isn’t normal.

“Since our classes are cut short today because of the pep rally,”—the class breaks into applause—“how about we jump right in?”

A collective grumble replaces the cheering.

Lotsam jots Presidential Election on the board while my attention returns to Tess. She sits with her elbow propped on the table beside a pencil, her hand disappearing beneath her hair—fingers most likely wrapped around the back of her neck. She is small. Her hair, glossy. She wears a light pink cardigan and dark jeans and if I don’t stop staring, she’s going to notice. I need to peel my attention away, but I can’t. It’s like I am the tide and she’s the moon—a force of gravity impossible to resist. An irrational thought. One I need to check and check quickly.

I force my attention forward—onto Lotsam and the chalkboard—just as she moves.

Her elbow knocks into her pencil.

And I am primed. Alert. Ready. I snag it before it falls to the ground—a quick, confident grab—and hand it over. Her eyes meet mine, and the world drops out from underneath me.

It’s her.

The girl from my dreams.

The girl I’ve spent years searching for.

The girl who doesn’t exist.

It’s impossible. Mind-blowingly impossible. And yet there’s no mistaking it. She has the same navy eyes and the same pointy chin and the same fair skin and the same spray of freckles across her nose. Even the same small, white scar along her jawline. She is right here. In the flesh. Sitting beside me in Current Events, no longer a figment of my imagination. But incredibly, astonishingly, insanely … real.

“Th-thanks,” she stammers.

I give her a slow, disbelieving nod. Trying to process. Unable to process. A million half-formed questions buzzing and booming in my mind. Where did she come from? How is she here? Why is she here?

Summer nudges me with her elbow.

I’m convinced that if I continue staring like this, I will make Tess Eckhart uncomfortable. I probably already have made her uncomfortable. The thought motivates me to look away. Somehow, her discomfort would be my own. I command my body to relax, my muscles to unwind. But my body refuses to listen. After all these years, after searching millions of faces, she’s suddenly and unexplainably real. Sitting to my left, close enough to touch, heat radiating off her body, pulsing through my own.

Summer nudges me again.

A needed distraction.

Taking hold of it, I read the bubbly letters she scribbled in her notebook.

How many touchdowns do you think we’re going to lose by tonight?

My mouth tips up at one corner—a normal response. An expected one. Our football team isn’t good. Summer knows it. I know it. Everybody knows it. Even though the student body dresses and cheers like the Thornsdale Dragons of Northern California are the defending state champions.

I pick up my pencil and write something back. Meanwhile, it feels like somebody has filled a syringe full of amphetamine, injected it into my brain, and now my only job is to sit still and act calm. Everything hums—with energy, with awareness, with utter disbelief—as one thought and one thought alone consumes me:

I have to know her.

Chapter Three

When it comes to faking normal, I have plenty of practice. I’m used to pretending—a skill meticulously honed for self-preservation. The world doesn’t tolerate crazy, so I’ve become adept at tucking the crazy away.  But right now, with the appearance of this girl who has consumed my nights—and much of my days, too—the crazy has turned into the Hulk. An out-of-control green beast determined to leave a path of destruction in its wake.

It takes Herculean effort to sit there on a stool in my second period Ceramics class, working bubbles out of clay. Just like it took Herculean effort to walk out of Lotsam’s class with Summer, away from the girl whose presence—whose very existence—upends everything.

Tess Eckhart.

After all these years, she has a name.

And I walked away from her.

A fact that has a full-blown war waging in my head.

One half demands that I get up and go find her. Right now, you idiot. Before she vanishes as quickly as she appeared. The other half—the one that has spent the better part of my life suppressing my own instincts, cultivating self-control—refuses to indulge irrational whims. Leaving class to go find the new girl would be irrational. Leaving class to search Google for answers would also be irrational. So here I sit, crawling out of my skin, breaking apart this hunk of clay and kneading it back together when movement by the door catches my eye.

Two girls walk inside.

The dressed-in-red Leela McNeil.

And Tess Eckhart.

A wave of violent, unadulterated relief washes through me. I didn’t make her up. First period wasn’t a dream. She’s here, in my second class. And she has a friend. She’s not alone on her first day. I have no idea why this matters so much to me; I only know that it does. It means everything to watch Leela smile as Tess says something I can’t hear.

They set their bags on an unoccupied table.

Across from me, Jennalee Fisher—a girl even more tedious than Summer—lobs a piece of clay in my direction.

I dodge it easily.

“You’re quiet today,” she says.

I’m quiet most days, I think, my attention sliding back to Tess. This time, she must sense my stare. Our eyes lock and my body hums. I lean forward like a sun-starved plant reaching for the light. Does she feel it too—this intense connection? Is it possible that somehow, she knows me like I know her? Or am I just another face in a crowd of new faces, staring with the same curiosity my classmates had when I was the new student two years ago? I hold her gaze, hoping she’ll give me a sign. Some indication that I’m not the only crazy person here.

Color mounts in her cheeks and she severs eye contact.

I don’t catch her looking again until lunch.

I sit where I always sit. At a table with Summer and Jennalee. The quarterback of the football team—a tall, lanky senior named Matt Chesterson. A meat-headed linebacker named Jared who loves to hear himself talk. And some other classmates who are constantly trying to pull me into their conversation. Today, I can’t be pulled. I peel my orange, my thoughts fixated on the girl. In my dream, she’s always in danger. In my dream, her life is more important than anything else. Here in the cafeteria, she’s not in danger. But the same feeling—that there is nothing more crucial than keeping her safe—overwhelms me. When I look up from my orange, I spot her across the cafeteria.

She’s looking at me again.

Only this time, our eyes do not lock.

She ducks her head so quickly I barely have time to catch her.

For the rest of the day, I obsess over the mystery, listening attentively to my gossiping classmates in case I might glean some answers. But my classmates don’t notice her like I do. They certainly don’t notice her like they noticed me when I was the new kid. The girls are much more interested in her younger brother, Pete. Tess seems to fly under everyone’s radar. Meanwhile, I have to fight the urge to start conversations about her.

Final period is World History with Lotsam, the teacher who sandwiches my school days. Summer and Jennalee are also in the class. They look at me eagerly as I step inside, the same way they look at me every day. Avoiding them both, I find a seat in the back, and just as the bell rings, Tess slips in. The tension that’s been winding through my muscles releases. I can breathe again.

All of it, insanity.

Lotsam motions to the empty seat beside me.

Tess approaches hesitantly. Probably because I’ve been staring at her all day and she’d rather sit by somebody who isn’t a stage four creeper. This has to stop. I have to get a hold of myself before I frighten her. That’s the last thing I want to do. So while Lotsam waxes on about some long-ago war I don’t care about, I twirl a pencil around the tip of my thumb as if I’m not acutely aware of the girl beside me—cataloging every breath, taking inventory of every movement, committing to memory every detail. Like the faint scent of strawberries in her hair and the way she lets it drape between us like a protective curtain. A couple times she scratches the inside of her wrist, which has gone red. Most girls go out of their way to get my attention. This girl shifts her weight to avoid mine. It’s both refreshing and maddening.   

The bell finally rings.

Everybody rushes out of class, excited to get to the pep rally. I linger, hoping for an excuse to talk with her. To hear her voice. To look into her eyes and make sure—extra sure—that I’m not making this up. But she takes meticulous care in packing her bag, nervousness rolling off her in waves. It’s obvious I’m making her uncomfortable. Wanting—no, needing—to put her at ease, I scoot my chair back and leave for the gymnasium, casting one last look over my shoulder as I go.

Several people catch me along the way, slapping me high fives and fist bumps, drumming up conversation. I go through the motions until I find myself in the middle of the loud gym, standing between Summer in her cheerleading outfit, and a senior named Bobbi in hers. I chew my thumbnail as the two of them talk, searching the crowd when Leela McNeil’s voice breaks through the noise.

“Hey, Bobbi,” Leela says.

I turn in her direction.

She’s pulling Tess with her.

“Hey Leels!” Bobbi replies.

Bobbi and Leela are cousins, and while there is no family resemblance, they are similar in personality—both sincere. Both kind.

“You’re Tess, right?” Bobbi asks.

Tess nods.

“Welcome to Thornsdale. Leela and I are cousins.”

A flicker of something flutters in Tess’s eyes, then quickly disappears. I wish I knew what it meant. I want to know what she’s thinking.

“Bobbi’s a senior.” Leela beams proudly. “She’s on the homecoming court.”

Bobbi turns her smile from Leela to Tess. “You coming to the game tonight?”

“Leela and I are going,” Tess answers.

Other than the startled thank you from first period, it’s the first time I’ve heard her voice. In my dreams, she never speaks. She’s too busy marching courageously into battle. Her tone is soft and adorably self-conscious. A fascinating contradiction to the confidence she displays in my sleep. A confidence that intensifies my fear. It’s like she doesn’t even realize she’s in danger. Or she doesn’t care.

“I told her we’re going to lose,” Leela says. “I want her to have realistic expectations.”

Bobbi slugs my shoulder. “If this guy would join the team, we wouldn’t have a problem.”

“That would mean your boyfriend would be out of a position,” I say, distracted. Willing Tess to look at me.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Bobbi replies.

Tess finally looks.

And it’s like I’ve won the entire world.

I slide my hands into my pockets. “Are you having a good first day?”

She nods.

A thousand questions crowd inside my brain, fighting to get out. Who are you? What are you doing here? Am I in your dreams? Do you lead armies in yours like you do in mine? I hold them back and select something much less deranged. “Where did you move from?”

“Jude.” She clears her throat. “It’s in Florida.”

“Never heard of it,” Summer drawls, picking her nail.

“Not many people have,” Tess says. “It’s a small town.”

“Can’t be much smaller than Thornsdale. This place is so boring.” Summer pouts at me like I’m to blame for her boredom. Her voice grates like nails on a chalkboard, especially since it’s not her voice I’m craving. “If somebody would teach me to surf, then it wouldn’t be so bad.”

I have zero interest in teaching Summer to surf.

Tess, however …

Leela asks Bobbi about her homecoming dress, changing the course of the conversation. Tess doesn’t join. She’s very quiet. Shy. And yet, there’s this aura around her that makes the air crackle and pop. I stare at her while she stares at her shoes until something happens that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

The temperature plummets.

It’s fast and dramatic and completely unnatural.

My muscles coil.

Usually, I’d remind myself that it isn’t real, but an odd symptom of my abnormality. The temperature hasn’t actually dropped. Just like there wasn’t twinkling lights in the kitchen behind my mother earlier this morning. These things are nothing but chemical imbalances in my head—imbalances I need to hide at all costs. But then, I thought Tess was all in my head, too. Yet here she stands, this girl I’ve been trying to keep alive in my sleep for years. Everything in me wants to step forward and shield her from whatever is making the air so cold.

“Is California very different from Florida?” Bobbi asks.

Tess opens her mouth to answer, but something distracts her. She’s looking past Bobbi’s shoulder. And whatever she sees has her large, navy blue eyes widening, her pupils dilating. “Who is …?”

I follow the direction of her gaze.

A lumbering figure with lank, greasy hair stands near the bathroom. It’s the kind of figure I’ve seen before. The kind of figure I don’t let myself acknowledge because nobody else can ever see them. Except … I swear Tess can. I swear Tess is fighting the urge to scream.

A bright flash of light fills the gymnasium.

I stand very still. I keep my feet glued to the floor and pretend nothing is happening. I act like every other student around me. Every other student but Tess, who shields her eyes at the exact same moment the flash occurs.

“Tess?” Leela touches Tess’s arm.

All the color has drained from her face. She’s struggling to recover, just like I’m struggling to recover. Only not from the creepy figure no longer loitering by the bathroom or the flash of light that made the figure disappear. I’m reeling over her. This girl—who I swear—just saw what I saw.

Beside me, Summer gawks.

Bobbi’s brow furrows.

They noticed Tess’s reaction, only they didn’t see or feel what she was reacting to. I can tell what they’re thinking. What is wrong with her? I can see how easily Tess could become the center of gossip. As badly as I want to learn more about her, I don’t care to learn in that way.

I clear my throat—a nice loud clear that pulls the attention to me. I reach for the phone in my back pocket. “Can I get a picture?”

It works.

Summer wraps her arm around Bobbi’s and Leela’s shoulders, happy to be at the center of attention, forgetting all about Tess and the odd way she flung her hand up to her face for no reason they could understand. I snap a few pictures and the cheerleading coach calls them over.

Penelope Waters—a sophomore in my health class—asks Leela a question about an English assignment, leaving Tess and me alone in the crowded gym. She stands there, so pale she’s almost gray. I stand there, wondering what all of it means.

DID YOU ENJOY? PURCHASE ON AMAZON

In a future where the mentally ill are removed from society, Tess Eckhart is terrified she’s losing her mind. After a public breakdown at a high school party, her parents are terrified too—enough to uproot their lives and move across the country, next to a private facility that might be her only hope.

Tess is determined to fit in at her new school, to ignore the whispers and stares. But when it comes to Luka Williams, a reluctantly popular boy in her class, she’s unused to a stare that intense. Then the headaches begin. The prophetic dreams. The creeping sense that something inside her is unraveling. As Tess fights to keep it together, she can’t shake the suspicion that Luka knows what’s happening—that he might even be responsible.

But what if she’s wrong? What if Luka Williams is the only thing standing between her and a madness too terrifying to fathom?

• The Vibe: Clean paranormal romance and near-future dystopias governed by a surveillance society with an atmospheric setting similar to Forks.
• The Mystery: A classic battle of good vs. evil packed with high psychological tension, prophetic dreams, and hidden powers.
• The Romance: A classic shy girl meets popular guy slow-burn romance featuring an intense fated mates connection.
• The Characters: A new girl fighting to hide her secrets and a mysterious boy who might be the only thing keeping her grounded.

BONUS CONTENT

Find out your Gifting! Take the quiz and discover where you fit in Tess’s world.

Interested in seeing my muse for the characters and setting? Check out The Gifting Series Pinterest Board.

ENDORSEMENTS

“Set in a not-too-distant future that feels frighteningly like home, this novel immerses readers within the heart of Tess’s fear from the very first chapter. This is not, however, a novel of horror. Guaranteed to leave you breathless, The Gifting is an eerie merging of Gothic-like dystopian mystery and YA romance within a pulse-pounding supernatural thriller. Expect to lose sleep over this book! A must-read addition to any YA reader’s collection, this one’s a keeper!”

~Serena Chase, USA Today’s Happy Ever After blog, author of The Ryn

“Chilling from start to finish! K. E. Ganshert delivers an exciting young adult fantasy that’s just as fun as it is riveting. The Gifting will keep you turning pages in an effort to unlock the mystery of this unsettled world.”

~Addison Moore, New York Times Bestselling Author

“K.E. Ganshert brings a fresh new voice to the dystopian romance scene for young adults. Ganshert will wow her audience with captivating prose, a well-paced plot, and just the perfect amount of swoon!”

~Heather Sunseri, author of the Mindspeak series

STORY TROPES

Tropes are familiar plot devices that make a novel recognizable in some way. They are also an excellent form of packaging, letting readers know what’s inside and whether or not they might be interested.

There are certain tropes you might LOVE as a reader, and others you might not care for.

So with that in mind, here are some of the tropes you can find in The Gifting Series:

• Fated Mates
• Shy Girl/Popular Guy
• Slow Burn Romance
• Hidden Powers
• The Chosen One
• Dystopian Future
• Good vs. Evil
• Found Family

TRIGGER WARNINGS

This series includes several unsettling scenes and explores some darker themes. Readers should be aware that the books contain:

• Demonic entities
• Negative portrayals of occult practices, including a scene with a Ouija board
• Mental health hospitalization
• A brief, non-graphic depiction of suicide within a dream sequence
• Bullying
• Negative portrayal of abortion

BOOK DETAILS

Series: The Gifting, book 1
Publisher: K.E Ganshert
Copyright @2015
Kindle ASIN: B00WYK0NJ2
Audio ASIN: B01AIR32R2
Paperback ASIN: 1511995378
Amazon Paperback ISBN: 978-1511995375
BISAC Subjects:
– YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Supernatural Mysteries & Thrillers
– YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Romance/Paranormal
– YOUNG ADULT FICTION/Science Fiction & Dystopian

SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter One
Birthday Wishes

According to science, humans have no souls. There’s no afterlife or guardian angels or ghosts or spirits or anything at all supernatural. Our world is purely physical. The government has systematically removed God from society. He’s no longer mentioned in the Pledge of Allegiance, no longer written on our money, no longer found in our Constitution or acknowledged in any of our political gatherings.

My father thinks this is a good thing. He believes the human race has caused enough damage in the name of religion. We’re better off this way, more evolved, and anybody who thinks differently is a fool. He adamantly, wholeheartedly agrees with science. But I’m not as convinced. Because if science is right, then I’m crazy.

And crazy is dangerous.

Seventeen candles flicker on the cake, illuminating a portion of our kitchen. A pocket of warmth expands inside the room. One that has nothing to do with the cake or the people in front of me. The feeling doesn’t originate inside of me at all. It radiates from beyond the border of the light’s reach, pulsing in the dark. Something shimmers beside our refrigerator and for the briefest of moments—before that beautiful shimmering thing disappears—I feel terrified and brave all at once.

I blink and it’s gone. The only thing hovering near our refrigerator is empty air. The temperature returns to normal, but my heartbeat does not. It thuds in my ears. My younger brother Pete yawns and shakes dark hair from even darker eyes, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here—at my lame, four-person birthday party. Dad stands with his arm wrapped around my mother’s waist. She clasps her hands beneath her chin and nods encouragingly. “Go on, Tess. Make a wish.”

So I ignore my brother and fill my lungs with oxygen and wish for the one thing I want most, the one thing that’s constantly elusive.

I wish I could be normal.

I blow toward the candles as hard as I can, but the room doesn’t go dark. One small flame dances on a wick, mocking me.

Chapter Two
Tess the Freak

It’s August on the panhandle of Florida and I can’t get warm. The icy chill that woke me in the night refuses to leave. It hovers nearby when I get ready for my first day of junior year, and it follows me into the kitchen where Dad reads the morning newspaper.

There was an earthquake in California, the second one in a month, another riot broke out at a fetal modification clinic in Chicago, a drive-by shooting in Tallahassee, which is like, twenty minutes from where we live, and the unrest in north Africa continues to escalate. Dad thinks it’s only a matter of time before the U.S. gets involved. Dad thinks if we don’t get Egypt under control as soon as possible, we’ll have World War III on our hands. I think he should read the newspaper to himself. But he insists Pete and I know what’s going on in the world.

I grab a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. “Do you think the Chief of Press ever wants to off himself?”

Mom frowns. “Tess.”

“What? The news is seriously depressing.” I take a swig of o.j.

Mom’s frown deepens. To her, the habit is disgusting. To me, it’s economical.

The paper crinkles as Dad flips to the business section. “You gonna join me at work on Saturday, kiddo?”

“You have to go in this weekend again?” Mom takes the carton from my hands to pour some orange juice in a glass. When she’s finished, she gives me the cup and returns the carton to the top shelf of our fridge.

“I need to get this account finished by Monday.” Dad peers at me over the top of his paper. “Would love your help.”

“Yeah, sure.” While most kids my age hang out with friends on the weekends, I go to work with Dad. It’s the way we bond. I probably know more about security systems than all of his employees at Safe Guard’s west Florida branch combined.

Mom gives Pete and me a goodbye kiss on our cheeks and tells us to have a great first day. The icy chill follows me to school and remains while the principal of Jude High welcomes all 300 of us to a new year. It follows me into Mr. Greeley’s classroom, too. He teaches Current Events, a course every high school student in the country is required to take, because apparently, the government agrees with my dad. Ignorance is unacceptable.

Mr. Greeley calls attendance over the familiar, excited chatter that marks the first day of school. Somehow, I can never figure out how to become a part of it. So I slouch in my seat and doodle mindless swirls on the cover of my folder while Missy Calloway flirts with Dustin O’Malley, a red-headed soccer player with a face full of freckles. Dustin isn’t very cute—but he’s confident and funny and is pretty much the reason why Jude’s soccer team won state last year, so all the girls forgive him.

He crumples a gum wrapper and throws it at Missy. The foil ball tangles in her bleach-blond hair. She half giggles-half shrieks in that stop-it-but-really-don’t kind of way and tries to throw it back. The foil ball lands on the corner of my desk.

Sydney Lauren—whose lips are never the same color—leans forward and pokes Dustin in the back with her pencil. “Psst.”

He twists around.

“I’m having people over tonight. Nothing big. Just a small back-to-school get together.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear to peek at Dustin, but my elbow knocks into my notebook. It falls to the ground. I have to turn all the way around to pick it up and when I do, Sydney raises her eyebrows at me. “You should come too.”

The only reason I’m ever invited anywhere is because girls think if I come, my brother will too. And girls really like Pete, even though he’s a skinny sophomore.

“So …?” Sydney’s eyebrows creep higher up her forehead. “Are you gonna come?”

“It’s a school night.”

“And?”

I can feel Dustin and Missy staring. “I—uh—already have plans.”

Sydney shrugs. “Well, your brother should still come. Tell him I insist.”

“Yeah. Okay.” The last time I went to a party, I kept seeing stars in the periphery of my vision, as if I had some sort of concussion. I ended up coming home two hours before curfew. My mom was actually disappointed. I turn back around and resume my doodling. Only somehow, the mindless lines have turned into a form—one that resembles a monster with a forked tongue and horns, one I swear I’ve seen before—and for reasons I don’t understand, I have the overwhelming urge to throw the folder away. Or tear it in half. I don’t want that thing or the memory of it anywhere near me.

A collective giggle ripples through the class.

When I look up, Mr. Greeley is staring at me over the top of his clipboard. “Teresa Eckhart?” It’s obvious it’s not the first time he’s called my name.

I clear my throat. “It’s Tess.”

“Speak up please,” he says.

The class giggles again.

“I go by Tess.” My voice escapes like a mouse.

* * *

While most parents wouldn’t let their fifteen- and seventeen-year-old children go to a party on a school night, my mom practically shoves us out the door.

How are you going to make friends if you never go anywhere, sweetheart?

I want to tell her that particular ship has long since sailed. We’ve lived in the small town of Jude, Florida for two years now. Since my dad is some bigwig for one of the nation’s wealthiest security companies—a thriving industry thanks to the escalating crime rate—we move a lot. Part of his job requires planting new branches across the United States. He gets them going, helps them grow, and starts all over again somewhere else.

Mom never complains about the moving, so long as Dad finds a house that is at least fifteen minutes away from the city. According to her, any place with a population over fifteen thousand is too dangerous for children. Plus, she thinks if Pete and I go to smaller schools, we’ll have an easier time fitting in. What she doesn’t realize is that smaller schools also make it easier to stand out. Especially if you’re me.

Anyway, I don’t want to be here, in the balmy heat outside Sydney Lauren’s home. In fact, I’d rather be anywhere but here. Before I express any of this to Pete, he rings the bell. Two seconds later, Sydney swings the door open. She wears neon purple lipstick and a mesh tank top that is completely perfunctory. As she squeals and flings her arms around my brother, I’m distracted by her lime green bra. I would never, in a million years, have the guts to wear that outfit.

“You’re right on time!” She grabs Pete’s hand and pulls him inside. “We just got out the Ouija board.”

Pete laughs. “Ouija board? I didn’t know those still existed.”

“You have to know where to look.” She wags her eyebrows. “I told Rose that this house was built on an Indian burial ground and she doesn’t believe me.”

Sydney lives in a peach-colored stucco home straight out of the twentieth century. Hardly haunted house material. Still, my stomach squirms. The law prohibits the selling of items that perpetuate belief in the supernatural. The thing is, forbidding teenagers to dabble in anything supernatural only guarantees that they will.

She leads Pete over to the small crowd lounging around a coffee table. There are five juniors. Two seniors. A bowl of candy, a bag of pretzels, and a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff. Pete squeezes in on the couch and Sydney sits on his knee like the two are a couple. Elliana—a girl with an eyebrow ring and fluorescent colored bracelets covering both of her wrists—shoots daggers at Sydney.

I feel sick.

Despite taking two Excedrin Migraine pills, a headache pierces my left temple. Clasping my hands in front of my waist, I watch Missy set up the Ouija board while everyone else laughs and clowns around. Nobody has noticed me yet. Which means it’s not too late to turn around and leave. As soon as the thought occurs, Missy spots me in the doorway. “Hey everybody, look who’s here. It’s Teresa.” She raises a plastic red cup in my direction. I’m pretty sure she’s not drinking water. “Aren’t you going to come in? We’re about to have a séance.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna talk to some dead Indians.”

“The politically correct term is Native Americans, Syd.” Dustin pops a handful of M&M’s into his mouth.

I peek around the doorway. “Are your parents home?”

Everybody laughs.

Right. The vodka.

“Aw, is Tewesa scared the ghosties will get us without any gwown ups around?”

“Give it a rest, Missy.” Sydney tosses the Ouija board box aside. “Will you hit the lights, Tess? I’m pretty sure this works better in the dark.”

I swallow, but my throat sticks together. Everybody waits for me—Tess the Freak—to unglue my feet from the doorway when what I want to do is crawl under the doormat and disappear. No, scratch that. What I really want is to throw off my headache and my painful shyness and join in the laughter and fun. What I really want, more than anything, is to be a part of this group. So I ignore the erratic galloping of my heart and flip off the lights.

Sydney hops off Pete’s knee and pulls the drapes across the large picture window. The swinging vertical blinds chop apart the waning daylight.

Dustin wiggles his fingers at Missy. “Oo-oooo-ooo!”

She punches his bicep. “Cut it out, jerk.”

I follow Sydney, eager to be closer to the group. Despite being seventeen, darkness still creeps me out. The clamminess spreading across my skin doesn’t help. I take a deep breath and tell myself that fear is irrational. Ghosts are not real. And even if they were, the Ouija board is made by Parker Brothers. Not exactly black market paraphernalia.

Elliana snuggles closer to Pete’s shoulder and wraps her arm around his elbow. “Are you going to save me from the big bad evil spirits?”

Even through the semi-darkness, I can see Pete’s crooked, half smile—the one girls go gaga over—and a surge of jealousy stabs my gut. How can he sit there so at ease? How can two people born from the same gene pool end up so incredibly different? For crying out loud, we don’t even look the same.

Sydney kneels next to Pete’s legs. “Okay, so I think we all have to put our hands on this pointer-thing.”

“It’s called a planchette.”

Everybody looks at Elliana.

“Don’t ask me how I know that.”

“Don’t we need candles or something?” Missy asks.

Rose—a senior with beautiful ebony skin and a killer volleyball spike—wraps her long leg over the arm rest of the love seat. “You can light all the candles you want, the only thing this board can do is teach J.R. the alphabet.”

J.R. tosses an M&M at Rose. She catches it and pops it in her mouth.

“Hey, you better watch it or you’re going to piss off the Indians,” Dustin says.

The banter is lighthearted, but the hair on the back of my arms prickles. I can’t bring myself to laugh with the rest of them. All I can think is that I really, really want to leave.

Physical, physical, physical. Dad says the world is purely physical …

Missy sets her cup on the coffee table. “I think we should hold hands.”

“Jeez, Miss, if you wanted to hold my hand so badly, you should have just said so from the beginning.” Dustin gives her a lighthearted thwack with a pillow. “We don’t need a séance for that.”

Missy flicks her hair. “You wish.”

Sydney puts her fingers on the pointer, the planchette. Whatever it’s called. And I have the same feeling I had in Mr. Greeley’s Current Events class, when that monster stared up at me from my folder—a coldness that won’t go away. A coldness so deep I can feel it in my bones. I fist my hands in my lap.

Dustin and Missy put their fingers on the planchette too.

“I cannot believe we’re doing this,” Rose mutters.

“Shhh!” Sydney sits up straighter and closes her eyes. The room fills with laughter and … something else. A presence that makes my breath come so quick and so shallow, I worry I might be having a panic attack. I glance at Pete and Elliana flirting, at Rose sticking her tongue out at J.R., and I can’t figure out how they don’t feel it.

Sydney wears the kind of expression that says she’s trying hard to act serious, but a smile makes the corners of her lips twitch. She clears her throat and waits for the giggling and whispering to cease. “Who is with us in this house?” she asks in a low, spooky voice. Dustin and Missy giggle. “We’d like to speak with you.”

I tell my heart to calm down. I tell myself I’m being a spaz. I tell myself I will never, ever fit in if I can’t do a stupid séance with a group of teenagers on a Parker Brothers Ouija board. But then something moves in the corner of the room, near the hallway, and I squeeze my eyelids shut.

It was just my imagination. It was just my imagination …

“We invite you in.” Sydney’s voice has turned into an exaggerated moan. I peek at her through squinted eyes. “Tell us who you are.”

The planchette moves across the board. Missy takes her fingers away.

Elliana nudges Dustin with her foot. “Very funny, O’Malley.”

He holds up his hands. “It wasn’t me.”

The room plunges into ice. I wrap my fingers around my throat and squeeze my eyes tight. This isn’t real. None of this is real. But then the whispers come. Ghost-like voices that turn my blood cold. Visions slam through me—horrible, awful, terrible images—worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had. Visions of death and decay and gnashing teeth and man-made pits filled with cold, lifeless bodies. Visions of skinny, pale people wrapped in straitjackets, black mouths splitting their faces with silent, anguished screams.

Something brushes against my leg. I slap my shin. Something tickles my cheek. I slap at my face. But I do not—cannot—open my eyes. I refuse to face whatever is on the other side of my eyelids. The whispers turn into screams. Blood-curdling, heart-stopping screams. Like whatever is out there wants me to look. Demands me to look. As hard as I try, I can’t make them stop. I can’t make me stop.

The screams are coming from me.

Chapter Three
The Incident

I wake up to the hushed voices of Mom and Dad and another I don’t recognize. My head pounds as I open my eyes to a blinding white box—white walls, white floors, white sheets, white bed. The brightness is so sterile and shocking, I throw my arm over my face.

Where am I? What happened?

“Her tests came back clean,” the unfamiliar voice says. “We didn’t find any traces of drugs or alcohol in her system.”

“None?” My mom sounds deflated, like the no drugs or alcohol is bad news.

“No, I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry?

My temples throb around the response. Why would he be sorry? I slide my arm away and this time, I understand why the whiteness is so bright. Sunlight filters inside an open window. I turn my head on the pillow and spy my parents and a man in a white coat huddled together in the corner, near the door. My mom presses her fingers against her lips and shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

“We’ll know more when your daughter wakes up. We can hear what she has to say about …” the doctor frowns, “the episode.”

“My daughter is not crazy.” Mom’s words come out sharp and vehement. And with them, comes clarity. It floods back into place with a vengeance. The party at Sydney’s. The Ouija board and the voices and the screams. My stomach churns. I should be afraid, maybe even terrified. But all I can feel is humiliation. Abject humiliation. Because what must I have done to end up in a hospital? The churning turns my stomach to rot.

“I’m merely following protocol, Mrs. Ekhart.”

The doctor leaves and I close my eyes, feigning sleep. I cannot face my parents or their worry. I cannot face anybody ever again. I want to hide behind my closed eyelids forever. I want to avoid whatever repercussions lay beyond this bed. The seconds tick into minutes. The silence in the room crackles with tension.

“What are you thinking?” It’s my father’s voice.

“You know exactly what I’m thinking.”

“I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation for what happened.” These are classic my dad-isms. According to him, logic explains everything. And if it can’t, he dismisses it altogether. His world makes no room for the unexplainable. “Tess is sensitive. We’ve always known that. She probably got spooked and the other kids exaggerated.”

“You think Pete is exaggerating?” Mom’s voice wobbles. “James, our son said she was hitting and scratching herself. He said she was screaming for something to get off her.”

I sink further into the bed, fear expanding inside my lungs. Never mind the humiliation I will face upon returning to school, I could be committed for this. I could be locked up in a cell and never let out again.

“What do you want me to say?” Dad asks.

“I want you to promise me she’ll be okay. I want you to promise that we won’t lose her. I want you to promise that our daughter won’t end up like your mom.”

My heart pounds into the silence, joined with the erratic breaths escaping my lips. My grandmother is dead. She died of a heart attack years ago, when I was too young to remember. So what is my mother talking about? Why is she afraid I’ll end up dead?

“Tess is not my mother,” Dad says in a voice so low I have to strain to hear it.

“But we’ve always suspected—”

“That’s enough, Miranda.” The sharpness of his words slice through the air. “We can’t talk about this. Not here.”

I open one of my eyes. Dad has ahold of Mom’s arm, their panicked expressions mirrored on each other’s faces.

“It’s not safe.”

A chill ripples through my bones.

“She’s going to have to speak with a government-mandated psychiatrist,” Mom whispers. “Nothing about this is safe.”

* * *

News about my freak-out spreads like pink eye. Another disadvantage of these small towns my mom is so fond of. At school, Pete is guilty by association. No matter how cute the girls think he is, there’s only so much high school students will tolerate. Apparently, having a whacked-out older sister isn’t one of them.

So everyone except Elliana ignores Pete. She must have it bad to risk being ostracized by the entire student body. The two of them stick to each other like double sided tape.

Me? I’m not so much ignored as overtly avoided. Students hurry to the other side of the hall when they pass by, as if I have leprosy instead of an overactive imagination (this is the story I spun for the psychiatrist and I’m sticking to it). Part of me wants to run around touching people, just to see how they’ll react. Instead, I hide behind my veil of dark hair and try to make myself as small as possible, which isn’t very hard, considering my build.

None of this would be so bad if my nightmares weren’t getting worse. Sleep offers no escape. Neither does home. As soon as I returned from the hospital, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table and asked me the same questions as the psychiatrist, only this time, they wanted the truth. My attempt at an explanation turned their faces to the color of ash. They don’t bring it up again. Instead, they tiptoe around me like I’m made out of glass. Like the wrong word or the wrong volume will shatter me to pieces. Or maybe they’re the ones who will break. Maybe I’m the one who’s dangerous.

Their whispered conversation from the hospital clings to my thoughts like a stubborn dryer sheet. Jude High has its first football game tonight and Mom hasn’t even tried talking me into going. She lets me hide in my room. I lie in bed, trying to make sense of my growing confusion. I understand their concerns about the psychiatrist. I understand why they warned me to be careful about what I shared. What I don’t understand is why they’re worried I’ll end up like my dead grandma.

When my brain tires from trying to tease it all apart, I grab my worn copy of I Know This Much is Trueby Wally Lamb—one of the many banned books I’ve come to own—and thumb to the place I earmarked the night before. The book’s about this dude with a schizophrenic brother. It’s not good for me. It makes me wonder. But I can’t stop reading. It’s nice to lose myself in somebody else’s messed up problems for a change, even if those problems are fictional.

I’m about to start another chapter when Pete pokes his head inside my room. For a kid whose life has been ruined all because I’m a freak, he doesn’t hold a grudge. He doesn’t walk around me like I’m made of glass. Instead, he’s grown curious. Like all of a sudden, I’m the most fascinating person on the face of the planet. Apart from Elliana anyway.

“Hey,” he says.

“Is dinner ready?” My family has had dinner together since the dawn of time. It doesn’t matter if Dad has a late meeting at work. We will eat dinner at nine o’clock at night if it means eating together.

“Dad just got home.”

“You going to the football game after?” I ask.

“Ellie’s picking me up.”

“Ellie, huh?”

He tosses a pillow at me. “Shut up.”

“What? I think it’s cute.”

Pete plops on my bed. I close my book. It isn’t normal. This. Us. Hanging out. We’ve never been close siblings. I love him. I’d do anything for him. He’s the only kid close to my age who I can talk to without breaking into hives. But we’re too different. And those differences have always created a wall between us.

“You can tag along if you want.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“C’mon, Pete. You know exactly why not.”

“So people think you’re weird. Who cares?” This is why Pete has always been popular. He really doesn’t care. He has this laid back way about him that doesn’t fit the average fifteen-year-old. He can be in a room full of super popular seniors and his heart rate will remain completely steady. At times, it makes me want to judo chop him in the liver.

I hold up my book. “I’d rather spend the evening with Wally.”

Pete rolls his eyes, then picks at my comforter. “You know, Ellie and I were talking …”

“About?”

“That night.”

“Why?” The word comes out with jagged edges.

“We’re intrigued.” He continues his picking, then looks up with Dad’s dark brown eyes. I inherited Mom’s navy blue ones. “We Googled Ouija boards.”

“Pete …” His name escapes on a sigh.

“No, listen, Tess. We found some really crazy stuff. Elliana thinks what you saw could’ve been real.”

Now it’s my turn for the eye-rolling. “Do you have any idea what Dad would say if he could hear you?”

“Who cares what Dad would say.”

“I was tired, Pete, and I have an overactive imagination. That’s all.” Lately, I’ve been contemplating the possibility that somehow, I fell asleep during the séance. That would make the most sense. Especially considering my nightmares. It’s a better option than being crazy. And it’s definitely better than Elliana’s theory. The thought makes me shudder. I don’t want any of what I saw to be real. “Just forget about it.”

The curious gleam in his eye doesn’t bode well. But before I can convince him to drop it, the door opens and our parents walk in. Mom wears that false, familiar smile she dons every year or two, whenever she and Dad sit us down in the living room to tell us the news. I know what they’re going to say before either utter a word. So does Pete. Because he flops back on my bed and groans.

We are moving.

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.

Chapter Five
The New Kid

Majestic. There is no other way to describe the drive to school. Seriously. It’s nothing at all like the flat, ho-hum commute in Jude. We are winding down a road with the ocean on one side and gigantic trees on the other. Briny air ruffles my hair. Everything is so green and beautiful.

Pete and I don’t talk. Our momentary closeness in Florida vanished once he found out we were moving. He spent our final two weeks in Jude brooding or in his room with Elliana. I still can’t believe Mom let him get away with it. I’m more convinced than ever that we do not have a normal mother. I mean, who does that? Who lets their hormonally-charged fifteen-year-old son spend unsupervised hours in his room with an older, more experienced girl?

Since coming to California, he’s spent every waking minute talking to her on his cell phone. I can’t believe Mom lets him get away with that either. It’s not like Pete. But then, he’s never left behind a girlfriend before and I’m pretty sure that’s what Elliana was … or is.

I peek at him from the corner of my eye and search for something to say. An apology maybe—for making him move away from Jude—but I’m saving my words. Rehearsing lines in my head. Things a normal teenager would say. Like:

Oh hi, nice to meet you.

Or …

My name’s Tess. What’s yours?

Or …

Yeah. We moved from Florida. It was a bummer to leave all my friends behind. But California seems cool.

I’m not sure I can pull off that last one, but I tell myself I’ll try. After all, this is almost definitely my final stop before graduation, and I’m determined to make these two years bearable. For me and my family.

The lady inside my GPS tells me to turn left, so I flip on the blinker, make the turn, and there it is. Our new school. It looks ritzy and big, even though Mom told me it only has 250 students, the majority of which—judging by the rows of polished Maseratis, Porsches, Mercedes Benz, and VW convertibles—come from well-to-do families like mine. As I pull into an empty parking stall, I wonder if anyone has a rich father named Dr. Roth or Edward Brooks.

Pete unbuckles his seatbelt and the two of us walk through pockets of students congregating by the door. I tell myself to mimic Pete’s laid-back swagger, since he’s the king of confidence. I tell myself I will not be his loser older sister anymore. I tell myself not to look scared as we make our way inside. I arrange my face into what I hope is a look of indifference—boredom—even though I’m far from either.

As soon as we step inside, a hum of excitement greets us in the locker bay. Red and gray posters of a fire-breathing reptile plaster the walls and the lockers. I am officially a Thornsdale Dragon. The entire student body is a mass of red and gray. Some wear football jerseys, some have painted faces, others have dyed hair. A poster on the door of the main office explains why.

Homecoming.

Tonight.

A groan rumbles up my chest. Pete and I are not only the new kids, we’re the new kids on homecoming. My brother ignores my groan and pushes the door open. A cherry-cheeked lady with abnormally long ear lobes smiles at us from behind the desk. “You must be Teresa and Peter Ekhart.”

“Pete,” Pete says.

“Tess,” I say.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Well, Pete and Tess, my name is Mrs. Finch and I have two ambassadors who will be showing you around over the next week or so.”

Pete frowns. “Ambassadors?”

“Fellow students.” As if on cue, the door opens and two students bustle in behind us. A very short, painfully-skinny boy with wire-rimmed glasses and pink ears, and a heavyset girl with a baby-face and warm, brown eyes. Her red loopy earrings, red sweatshirt, and matching leggings make her look like an apple.

“Oh, just in time,” Mrs. Finch, the long-lobbed receptionist says. “This is Leela McNeil and Scott Shroud. Tess, Leela will be helping you find your classes and introducing you to teachers and students. Pete, Scott will be doing the same for you.”

Pete towers over Scott by at least a foot. My brother is fifteen and already six foot two. He doesn’t have the muscles to fill out the frame—not by a long shot—but you can tell one day he will. He hitches one strap of his backpack higher over his shoulder and takes his schedule from Mrs. Finch.

“Have a great first day, dear,” she says.

Without saying anything to me, Pete steps out of the office. Leela watches him go with an all-too familiar look, her cheeks tinged the same color as Scott’s ears. He scrambles after my brother with a slightly dazed expression—as if he’s the new student and Pete is the ambassador.

Mrs. Finch hands me my schedule and I can’t help but stare at her earlobes. They look like pulled taffy, only no earrings weigh them down.

“Thank you,” I say and then follow Leela out into the noisy hallway. Pete and Scott are already gone.

“I’m so excited to meet you, Tess.” Leela sticks out her hand. “We never ever get new students, so even though I applied to be an ambassador my freshman year, this is the first time I’ve actually been able to put my training to any sort of use.”

We shake hands and I wonder what sort of training an ambassador has to go through. Firm handshakes? Friendly smiles? Leela has both of those nailed. She snags my schedule—not in a rude gimme-it sort of way, but in an I’m-so-excited-to-see-if-we-have-any-of-the-same-classes sort of way. It’s kind of endearing. So is her subsequent squeal. “We have the first two periods together. And lunch!” Her eyes go a little wide. “Oh, but you must be super smart. Honors English and Honors Physics as a junior? Wow. I’m afraid we won’t be having any of those classes together. C’mon, I’ll show you your locker.”

All my anxiety over what to say and how to say it disappears. Leela talks enough for both of us. Her words gush forth in a steady stream of chatter as we pass several clusters of students. So far, hardly any of them have noticed the new girl. They’re all too busy jabbering about the “big game”. I hear the phrase tossed around several times.

As soon as my bag and supplies are tucked away in my new locker, Leela leads me to our first class, which coincidentally, happens to be the same as it was in Jude—Current Events. As we walk, Leela tells me about her family. She has five siblings. She quickly adds that she’s Irish Catholic, as if this ought to explain everything. I’m surprised she admits to it so openly.

“Do you go to church?” I ask.

People are allowed to believe whatever they want in the privacy of their homes. It’s their prerogative and hey, if they want to put their hope in something that isn’t true, then go right ahead. But churches have become a thing of the past, replaced by pharmacies and gas stations and liquor stores. The few that still exist are in serious disrepair. Why go when the object of worship has been reduced to another Santa Claus?

“No, there aren’t any in Thornsdale. But my parents make us do our rosary before bed, even though I’m pretty sure they’re closet atheists. It’s more ritual than anything else. They do it because that’s how they were raised.”

I nod, drumming up images of religious folk standing on street corners, holding signs that say things like Repent Now and The End Times are Here and Do You Want to be Raptured? I had to look that last one up on the internet. I wonder if Leela thinks we’re living in the end times. I wonder if she thinks the escalating crime and the influx of natural disasters are proof of our world’s imminent demise. But I don’t have the guts to ask.

“Mr. Lotsam teaches this class and let me tell you, he’s crazy about the news. He gets this fire in his eyes, like it’s the most important subject on the face of the planet, and sometimes he spits.”

“Spits?”

“Only when he’s really, really excited. He’ll also be your history teacher. He never spits in history, but he does cuss.”

“Cuss?” Teachers never ever cussed at Jude.

Leela bobs her head as we step inside Mr. Lotsam’s class. Instead of desks, there are six tables arranged in the shape of a horseshoe. Leela leads me to one on the end. I sit down and watch as students file inside the classroom. I’m the only person not wearing red or gray.

When the bell rings, one last straggler slips inside and takes the seat to my right, bringing the subtle scent of fabric softener and a hint of wintergreen. I look over and my breath quickens. The straggler is a boy. Unlike his classmates, he wears a plain white t-shirt that shows off tanned, wiry arms and a frayed hemp bracelet tied around his wrist with three different colored stones—red, black, and green. His fingers are long and masculine, with worn nubs for nails. He has a straight nose and olive skin and unruly dark hair and the kind of build that reminds me of a mountain climber. Like his muscles come from practical use rather than pumping iron in a weight room.

Leela bumps my knee with hers and I peel my attention away, relieved to see I’m not the only girl staring.

The teacher—cussing, spitting Mr. Lotsam—stands from behind his desk with a gray soul patch and of all things, a thin ponytail. He wears a red button-down shirt and a gray tie and penny loafers.

I peek again at the boy next to me. He has a faded hunter green school bag strapped over the back of his chair and a notebook in front of him on the table. He rests his chin in his hand and twirls a pen around the tip of his thumb as a girl with long caramel hair and full, glossy lips flirtatiously nudges him with her shoulder.

Mr. Lotsam spreads his arms in front of the class. “I hear,” he says, “that we have a new student in our midst.”

Heat rushes up my neck. I want to duck under the table, but I force myself to sit still, to act like I’m not about to pee my pants in front of everyone on my first day. Especially not in front of this boy, whose stare warms the side of my face.

“Leela, do you care to introduce us?”

Leela stands. “Everybody, this is Tess Eckhart. She just moved here from Florida. Tess, this is everybody.”

I give a feeble wave, hoping with every fiber of hope in my body that Mr. Lotsam will not ask me to stand up and talk about myself.

“A pleasure to meet you, young Tess. I’m confident that all here will give you a warm welcome.” He claps his hands and almost everyone swivels around in their seats. A few ogle a little longer, curious. I can see it in their eyes—the boys trying to figure out if I’m dating material, the girls trying to figure out if I’m a threat. I want to tell the girls not to worry and the boys not to bother, but it doesn’t take long for their curiosity to wane without any help from me. “Since our classes are cut short today because of the pep rally—” the class hoots and hollers, “—how about we jump right in?”

The hooting and hollering turns into a groan, followed by rustling papers as notebooks open to fresh pages. Mr. Lotsam jots the words Presidential Election on the white board and the three candidates. This is the first time an independent has a legitimate shot at winning office and nobody can stop talking about it. I try to focus, but the side of my face remains warm. I swear the boy next to me is staring, but when I gather enough courage to peek through my hair, his attention is on Mr. Lotsam. The pouty-lipped girl beside him catches me checking him out and gives me the stink eye.

I quickly turn away and as I do, my elbow knocks into my pencil. The boy beside me goes from sitting like a statue to lightning quick, as if he had measured the proximity between my arm and the writing utensil and was waiting for the collision. Before I can react, he snags it up and hands it over.

Whoa.

His eyes.

They are the color of spring grass, fringed with the kind of eyelashes most girls would kill for. Or at the very least, pay money for. He stares at me as if I’m somehow familiar, and for the span of a millisecond, something like disbelief flickers in the grass green of his irises. He cocks his head slightly, a small furrow divoting his brow.

“Th-thanks,” I stammer.

He gives me a slow nod before the girl on his other side jots something on his notebook. He shifts away, his mouth turning up at the corner, and writes something back. It doesn’t seem possible, but even the way he moves his pencil is enticing. I find myself wishing his notes were to me, or that I could at least read them. The girl keeps the string of back-and-forth writing exchanges going until the bell rings. Then she strikes up a conversation and they walk out into the hallway together. I stare after him. I really can’t seem to help myself.

Leela gives me a nudge with her elbow. “You’ve been Luka-ed.”

“What?”

“It’s a term some of the senior girls made up. His name’s Luka Williams.” Leela fans her cheeks. “A gorgeous specimen, isn’t he?”

Understatement of the year.

“He moved to Thornsdale at the beginning of freshman year. All the girls are in love with him. All the guys want to be him. Even the jealous jocks.”

We filter out of the class with the rest of the students. “Jealous?”

“Luka can run circles around them and their varsity letter jackets.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the best athlete in school. He can throw a football way farther than Matt Chesterson. You should see him in gym class.”

“Who’s Matt Chesterson?”

“Our annoyingly arrogant quarterback. Which is so beyond ironic, seeing as our team didn’t win a single game last year.”

We turn a corner and Leela takes a drink from the drinking fountain. “We have Ceramics next. Guess who else is in the class?” She wipes the moisture from her bottom lip and gives me another friendly nudge. “His initials are L.W.”

I ignore the jab, and the giddiness expanding inside my chest. It’s a silly feeling. If ever a boy was out of my league, it’s this one. “Why isn’t he on the team?”

“His mom is one of those super overprotective types. He’s an only child. Nobody really knows what his dad does for a living, except it must be something important because they are loaded. And I mean, loaded. They live in Forest Grove, which, if you haven’t heard about already, you will soon enough. It’s a gated community. I’m not even kidding.”

The heat in my ears creeps into my cheeks.

“You’ve already heard of it?”

I shrug.

She blinks. “Do you live there?”

“My dad works for Safe Guard.”

Her eyebrows inch up her forehead. “As in Safe Guard Security Systems?”

I nod.

“Wow.”

Yeah. Wow. I don’t bother to tell her he stands on one of the top rungs of that particular corporate ladder.

There’s a stretch of awkward silence, where we are walking side by side, but I don’t know what to say. I hope my living in Forest Grove doesn’t make Leela think differently about me. I can’t imagine she has anything against rich people, considering all those cars in the parking lot. I think I saw a Lamborghini. We may live in Forest Grove, but my parents would never be that pretentious.

“I’d love to see what it looks like in there,” she finally says.

I jump on the words. “You can come over if you want. After school.”

“I’d love to!” She smiles big and waves me along. I follow her into a stairwell, down a flight of steps into the basement, past floor-to-ceiling windows which reveal an indoor swimming pool, and inside our second classroom. This room is bigger, with dusty, laminate flooring, a hodge-podge of tables, and several pottery wheels. It smells like must and chlorine. “Hey, maybe we can go to the game together. We’ll probably get demolished, but you’ll never find a student body with more school spirit.”

Football games. I hate—no, I loathe football games.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Leela urges.

I can hear my mother’s voice asking the question. How will you ever fit in if you spend all your time hiding in your room, Tess? I take a deep breath. “Sure. That’d be nice.”

It doesn’t seem possible, but Leela’s smile grows bigger and I decide I really like this girl. We toss our bags on an unoccupied table. “So, how old is your brother?” she asks.

“He’ll be sixteen next month.”

She looks like she wants to ask more, but pinches her lips together instead. It’s not until I’m working the bubbles out of a hunk of clay that I see him, dodging bits of eraser playfully tossed his way by a pretty blonde. Then, for no reason at all, his attention flits to me, so suddenly I’m caught off guard. For the briefest of moments, we look at one another—his stare open and curious, mine startled, until I come to my senses and drop my gaze, beyond embarrassed to be caught gawking. For the rest of class, I keep my eyes down on my project, attempting to regulate my heart rate. I don’t dare peek at him again.

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