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But a moment later I feel Owen’s arms wrap around my shoulders, feel his hand brush the line he carved into my arm.
“Are you sure about that?” He presses down. Pain flares across my skin, and the air catches in my throat as I jerk to my feet, my body suddenly unfreezing. The entire class turns to look at me.
“Miss Bishop?” asks Ms. Wellson. “Is something wrong?”
I murmur something about feeling unwell, then grab my bag and race into the hall, reaching the bathroom just in time to retch. My shoulders shudder as I forfeit breakfast and two cups of coffee, then slump back against the stall, resting my forehead against my knees.
This shouldn’t be happening. I’m supposed to be getting better.
Did you really think that a little sleep could fix the ways you’re broken?
My eyes start to burn and I squeeze them shut, but a few tears still escape down my cheeks.
“Hangover?” comes a voice from the next stall. Safia. “Morning sickness?” I force my eyes open and drag myself to my feet. She walks out of the stall and over to the sink as she adds, “Eating disorder?”
I rinse my mouth out as she joins me, hopping up onto the counter. “Food poisoning,” I lie blandly.
“Less exciting,” she says, producing a small container of mints and offering me one. “I’m always telling Cash he shouldn’t buy that cheap coffee from the corner store. Honestly, who knows what’s in it? I guess it’s a nice gesture, though.”
“I’m sure he’s just doing his job,” I mutter, splashing water on my face.
Safia rolls her eyes. She hops down off the counter and turns to go.
“Safia,” I say as she reaches the door. “Thanks.”
“For what?” she asks, crinkling her nose. “I offered you a mint. That’s, like, common decency, not social bonding.”
“Well, thanks for being commonly decent, then.”
The edge of her mouth quirks, and then she’s gone.
The moment the door’s shut, I slump back against the brick wall beside the sink and wrap my hands around my ribs to keep them from shaking. Just when I think things can’t get worse, I feel the scratch of letters in my pocket. I dig the Archive paper out as a second name—Rick Li
Two names, and it isn’t even lunch. Could Agatha be doing this on purpose? Would she go that far to prove a point? I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe anymore. But it doesn’t matter how the names got there; I have to handle them. Besides, clearing this list is the only thing still in my control. My mind spins. The class bell rings in the distance. Wellness. I’ll skip. I know where the nearest Narrows door is now. The only problem is my key won’t work. It’s not my territory. And with Wesley’s access to mine revoked, even if he lets me in to his, I can’t cross the divide.
I find a pencil in my bag and spread the paper out on the sink, tapping the eraser several times against it before finally writing a message.
Requesting access to adjacent territory: Hyde School.
I stand at the sink and stare down at the page, waiting and hoping for a response. I count out the time it will take to get to the door, cross Wesley’s territory into my own, and find and return Rick and Pe
And then the answer comes. One small, horrible word: Denied.
It’s not signed, but I recognize Agatha’s script. Frustration wells up in me, and I slam my hand into the nearest thing, which happens to be a metal tissue holder. It goes crashing to the floor.
“Mackenzie?” asks a voice from the door. I turn to find a woman standing there. She looks exactly like she did in the hospital, from the messy ponytail to the slacks, but she’s traded a name tag that reads Psychologist for one that reads Hyde School Counselor.
“Dallas?” I ask, crumpling the Archive paper before she can see it. The question and answer have both bled away, but the names are still there. “What are you doing here?”
“We had a deal, remember?” She bends down to fetch the dented tissue box and sets it back on the edge of the counter. “I figured I’d meet you at the Wellness Center, but I ran into Miss Graham and she pointed me in this direction. Is everything…?” She trails off, and I appreciate not having to answer the question when it’s obvious that, no, everything’s not. “Do you need a moment?” she asks. I nod, and Dallas vanishes back through the door to wait.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Blue-gray eyes stare back at me—Da’s eyes—but their once-even gaze is now unsure, the blue made brighter by the red ringing them. My cracks are showing. I splash water on my face to cool my cheeks and rinse away any trace of tears, then smooth out the Archive paper and refold it properly before slipping it into the pocket of my shirt.
A few minutes later, when I step out into the hall, I at least look the part of a normal junior. Dallas is eating an apple and pretending to be interested in a Fall Fest flyer on the wall. Cash is front and center in the photo, wearing cat ears, dipping a senior girl with one hand and holding a sparkler aloft with the other.
“When you had me agree to therapy,” I say, tugging my sleeves down over my hands, “I didn’t realize it would be with you.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” she asks, ditching the apple core in the nearest trash bin. “Because it’s me or a middle-aged guy named Bill who’s nice enough, but kind of smells.”
“I’ll stick with you.”
“Good choice,” she says, leading me through a pair of doors and across the quad. The Fall Fest materials are scattered everywhere, and we have to weave through them just to get to the Wellness Center.
“I just didn’t realize you worked here, too,” I say as we reach the building and go in. Instead of heading toward the lockers, she leads me down a hall to a row of offices.
“Most nights and weekends I belong to the hospital,” she tells me as we reach an office with her name on it and go inside. There’s a chair and a couch and a coffee table. “During the week, I’m here. As long as we’re meeting, I’ll be taking the place of your Wellness class, since this is, in fact, addressing wellness of another sort.”
“And how long are we meeting?” I ask.
“I suppose that depends on you.” She slumps into the chair and retrieves a notebook from the coffee table. “How are the battle scars?”
“Healing,” I say as I sit down.
“And how are you?”
How am I? Three—possibly four—people have been dragged into voids because of me, my only theory as to why is crumbling, the assessor of the Archive is determined to find me unfit, and my nightmares are becoming real. But of course I can’t tell Dallas any of this.
“Mackenzie?” she prompts.
“I’ve been better,” I say quietly. “I think I might be losing my mind.” It is the most honest thing I’ve said aloud in days.
She frowns a little. “Still having bad dreams?”
“These days, everything feels like a bad dream,” I say. “I just want to wake up.”
TWENTY-THREE
BY THE TIME I get to lunch, everyone else’s trays are stacked in the Alchemist’s outstretched arms and they’re sitting in a circle, chatting about Fall Fest. I’m surprised to see Safia on the steps, Amber’s elbow locked through hers as if holding her hostage.
“Hey, we missed you in Wellness,” says Cash as I climb the steps. “What happened?”
“I had a meeting,” I say, sitting down in the gap between Amber and Gavin. I pick at my food, watching bits of rice slide through the tines of my fork. “What did I miss?”
“Let’s see,” says Gavin, who usually spends most of Wellness stretched out on a weight bench, people-watching. “Amber tried to teach Cash yoga, Wesley boxed, and Saf flirted with a senior ru
Safia pitches an empty soda can at his head.