1
“Kill it, Cass!” Tina Robbins yells over the pulsing music. My tank top–clad teammates scramble into position, shoes squeaking across the gym floor.
The ball is a high lob. I take three running steps to the net, inhaling the scent of sweat and deodorant. Adrenaline hums in my ears as I swing my arms, jumping. My palm slices through the air, pounding the ball.
Straight into the net.
I grind my teeth, biting back a curse.
Ever since Coach started trying out new girls in my spot, I’ve been training day and night. But I’m jittery; this practice is my only shot at tomorrow’s starting lineup. Coach’s hand is plastered over her forehead. I’m one screwup away from my new friend, the bench.
Laura Gellman, our setter, crouches in the back row, ready for the next serve. She sneers and murmurs, “You can’t say the K word around Cass. It’s like a trigger. It’ll give her ideas.”
As I find my position, a memory coats my thoughts in a smoky haze. I turn to glare at Laura, but her eyes aren’t small and hazel anymore.
They are massive, like a doll’s. And bluer than the sky.
Not now.
I blink hard, trying to clear my vision.
Stephanie Reed squats beside Laura, up at the net. But her eyes have gone impossibly cerulean too. Long, spidery lashes line her unblinking lids. The smell of smoke tickles my nose, and a swell of heat crawls up my skin.
“Cassidy, pay attention!” shouts Coach. I pivot, wrenching my mind from the hallucination to focus on the ball spinning over the net. Stephanie dives for it and sends a crisp pass to Laura, who sets it up my way again. I skitter into place, my steps timed to the beat of this über-inspirational ’80s song from our practice playlist.
Three, two, one. I jump again.
But the phantom smoke swirls around me, filling my eyes, my lungs. Its tendrils expand into a thick black curtain as I soar through the air. Every voice drowns beneath crackling fire and the groan of the buckling gym ceiling. I search for the ball in the thick darkness, but my face collides with something real, and I fall backward. All around me, flames dance and leap and ash rains down.
I land flat on my back, face stinging. Gasps trickle through the buzzing white noise. I rub my eyes to find everyone hovering over me. Laura is in the middle, pink lips tugging at the corners like she’s holding back a smile.
But her irises are back to small and hazel. The smoke has cleared. Not a single flake of white ash clings to my T-shirt or sprinkles the wooden floor.
I get up—much too fast—and shove my way through the swarm of volleyball players. I spot Gideon at the back of the gymnasium, clothed in football practice gear, and rush toward him. The panic starts to fade with each step closer.
Laura scurries ahead of me, flinging her chestnut-colored ponytail and impeding my path. “Cass, are you okay? Do you want me to call the nurse?” Her sugary voice brings on a wave of nausea.
I brush past her, my legs wobbly. Do not lose it. “I’m great.” Other than the total-humiliation thing. In front of the whole team and the boy of my dreams.
When I reach Gideon, my voice barely emerges over the lump in my throat. “Can we get out of here?”
He studies me for a moment, his olive skin flushed, dark eyes concerned. Then he nods and slings an arm around me.
We exit the gym, the chatter behind us fading, and stop at our lockers to grab our backpacks. “What were you doing in there?” I whisper.
“I knew today’s practice was important, so I skipped warm-ups to watch.”
My face ignites. “Pretty impressive, wasn’t I? You know, I’m the only volleyball player to nail the triple-axel double backflip mid-spike.” I tilt my head. “Minus the spike part.”
Gideon squints down at me. “Cass, what happened back there? You can hit that ball with your eyes closed.”
“Nothing. Let’s just go.” Technically, this counts as skipping school because we both have sports for the last period of the day. We sneak down the hall and out the double doors to our bikes. We don’t need to exchange a single word about where we’re going—we’re headed to the underground hideout we built as kids, our one escape.
Any trip to the hideout includes a quick stop at my house for snacks; Gideon is always hungry. My mom’s car isn’t in the driveway, but we park our bikes against the back gate just in case. The fact that my brother Asher’s car is out front doesn’t worry me. Before he graduated last year, Asher would have ditched school with us. He was an accomplice in all of our shenanigans.
Asher was accepted to UCLA and NYU but turned them down to start a property management company. My parents were skeptical. Everyone was skeptical. It’s difficult to imagine someone with only a high school diploma telling grown-ups how to run their investments. But Asher’s not most people. My parents said he could live and work from home until he got his company up and running.
We reach the kitchen, where the burnt-toast smell of breakfast lingers. My eyes still sting. How did I let that shiny-haired attention fiend get to me again? I browse the contents of the pantry, tossing bags of chips into my backpack.
“Are we ever going to talk about this?” Gideon’s voice is low and gentle. “I couldn’t hear what Laura said, but I can imagine.” He reaches for my shoulder, and I spin into him, a few tears leaking onto his green hoodie. I look up, and his deep brown eyes wear me down.
I can tell him. He’s the one person I can trust with anything. I just don’t exactly know how to tell him. Gideon, I hallucinated flaming doll people. Not quite right.
“Gideon, I think…I might be…” New tactic. “I think I have ‘the shine.’” Gideon arches a brow. “You know how Jack in The Shining sees creepy stuff around every corner, and he’s not sure if it’s really there or if he’s hallucinating?” I take a deep breath and spit it out. “I had a similar premonition in the gym.”
Gideon shoots me a wry look. “You saw demonic twins in the school gymnasium.”
“More like I saw the gym go up in flames,” I say somberly.
“Wait a minute,” he starts, leaning toward me, but the wooden hallway floor creaks and we jerk apart.
Asher saunters in, wearing dark jeans and a crisp gray polo. He stops when he sees us, eyebrows cocked, and gives a curt wave. “I thought I heard voices.” His gaze travels to the wall clock above the counter. “Shouldn’t you two criminals be somewhere?”
“Uh,” I stammer, “yeah. We were—”
“Cass had a rough day,” Gideon cuts in.
“What happened?” Asher’s skin is paler than Gideon’s, but their furrowed brows match.