The Vision (2 page)

chapter 3

I sat in English by myself. Just like I sat in computers and Spanish and history. I was still getting used to the size of Franklin Parris High School. There were almost three hundred kids in my junior class. I'd made friends with three of them.

I started right after Thanksgiving break, eating lunch alone at one end of a long table each day. I kept my head down, pushing food into random patterns, and thinking about my small school in Ashville. About lunches with Tasha, who'd taught us geography via foreign curse words, and Jack, whose fingers laced through mine made me hate the two hours and fifty minutes separating us from another lazy afternoon together.

Not that it would have been like that anymore. Or could have been. I needed anonymity. But it sucked being
this
alone.

On Friday of my first week, a girl with a white-blond ponytail caught up to me after chemistry on my dreadful walk to the cafeteria.

“How'd you do on the quiz?” she asked.

“Not good.” It had been a surprise, to see if we were “on our toes.” I wasn't.

“Yeah, me either,” she said. “Not my best subject.”

“Right. Mine either.” I glanced over. She was tall. Most people are to me, but this girl was at least five eight or nine. She had smooth, pale skin and almost colorless hair. Fluorescent light sparkled off rhinestones on her black cat's-eye glasses. I looked away so she wouldn't catch me staring and know how desperate I was for company. I'd never had to
make
friends in Ashville, having gone to school with the same kids for as long as I could remember.

“I'm Liv,” she said, rescuing me.

“Cassie,” I answered.

“Yeah, I know. You're new.” We'd reached the lunchroom by then. I hesitated, scanning the crowd as if for friends. “Come sit with us,” Liv invited, adding with a wry smirk, “Unless you like sitting alone.”

I followed her to the food line and loaded my tray with spaghetti, Cheetos, and chocolate milk, hoping we'd have something to talk about once we sat. Liv turned, surveying my choices. “FYI,” she said, “Hannah and Erin are gonna tell you that's gross.”

“What?” I studied my lunch. I loved Cheetos. And chocolate milk. As far as I was concerned they went with whatever was on the menu. But I could see how Hannah or Erin—whoever they were—might not agree. I checked Liv's tray. “But”—I looked at her, confused—“you have the same stuff.”

“Yup.” She winked. “That's how I know what they'll say.”

She led me to a table near the middle of the cafeteria where two girls were hunched over half-slips of paper.

“Ugh,” Liv said, plunking her bag beside them. “You are
not
talking about the PSATs.”

The redhead looked up, freckles dusting her button nose. “Did you get yours?”

“Of course,” Liv said. “They sucked.”

The girl winced and bit her lip. “Sorry, Liv.”

Liv shrugged, waved it away. “Whatevs.” She gestured for me to take a seat. “This is Cassie. She's new. From …”

“Pennsylvania,” I said.

“Pennsylvania,” Liv repeated. “Cassie, this is Erin …” She pointed at the redhead, who smiled. “And Hannah.”

“Hey,” the other girl said, twisting her dark, wavy hair into a thick spiral and eyeing my tray. “Did Liv make you get that?”

“Yup.” I nodded. “She said it's what all the cool kids eat.”

Liv snorted.

“I'm just kidding.” Sarcasm might be more welcome later, I realized. After Hannah decided whether she liked me. I smiled and shrugged. “I guess we just have the same weird taste.”

Erin reached across the table for Hannah's PSAT scores and slid them above hers for comparison.

“So how bad were they?” she asked Liv.

“My parents,” Liv said, meatball paused midair, “are going to completely
freak
.”

“Maybe you don't tell them?” Hannah offered.

“As if they haven't been asking every day if I've gotten them?”

“Yeah,” Hannah agreed. She looked at me, her blue eyes framed dramatically with dark shadow. “Are your parents as crazy about stuff like this as Liv's and Erin's?”

“No.” I hesitated. Here comes the conversation killer. “Actually, my parents died when I was little. I live with a friend.”

All three of them stared at me. I waited for the questions—
what kind of friend? how'd they die? where's the rest of your family?
Or worse, the awkward silence.

Liv was the first to speak. “Well, can I trade lives with you for the rest of the year?”

I might have hugged her if I'd known her for more than ten minutes. “The PSATs are just practice, you know,” I said, indescribably relieved to talk about something normal. “They don't actually count for anything.”

“They count for National Merit,” Erin piped up.

Liv rolled her eyes. “If you're a genius.” She popped a Cheeto in her mouth, talking while she chewed but somehow avoiding being gross. “Yeah, I know they don't count for anything. Except in my house. There will be
hours
of discussion about ‘good schools' ”—Liv framed the word with finger quotes—“and ‘my future.' ” More quotes. “I'm not sure what kind of ‘discussion' it is since I never get to talk.” She kept her bent fingers up after that last one for emphasis.

“It's really more like a monologue,” Hannah said.

“Or soliloquy,” Erin added.

“That's why you got a sixty-eight on verbal,” Hannah told Erin, who beamed.

“Either way,” Liv said, hands in her lap now, “what
I
want isn't up for discussion.”

“And what you want is …?” I asked.

“Oh, who knows?” She sighed. “Art school? Maybe? It's the only class I'm any good at.” She frowned. “What I
really
want is just not to have to think about it so freakin' much.”

“Well … what's wrong with art school?” I asked.

“
They call them starving artists for a reason,
” Liv said snippily, obviously mimicking a parent.

“You don't have to be a
fine
artist,” I said. “I'll bet there are lots of jobs you could do with an art degree.”

“Maybe you can tell that to my parents,” she said. “ 'Cause they sure won't listen to me.”

The conversation turned to less contentious stuff after that—what Erin should wear to her MIT interview, which Hollywood stars Hannah was crushing on. I mostly listened, clueless about both.

Liv waited until lunch was over that day, Hannah and Erin near the hallway sorting their trash, to nudge my arm. When I looked up, she nodded toward a table a few rows down with a raised eyebrow and sly smile.

“He's smokin' hot, right?”

“Huh?”

Liv rolled her eyes. “Puh-leeze, Cassie. Don't think I didn't see you looking. You've barely taken your eyes off him all period.”

It wasn't true. Not really. Though I had been watching the table of kids. Not only at lunch, but in the hallways around school. I'd noticed them my very first day, their dark hair and distinctive features strikingly similar to mine. They were just who I was looking for. Greeks. And I knew exactly which one she was talking about. “Who is he?”

“Zander Dasios, but don't even think about it,” Liv said firmly. “He's a total player. You want no part of that.”

Zander. I weighed the name, something about its unique sharpness fitting him perfectly. His hair was lush, wavy, and disheveled, long enough that he could just tuck a piece behind his ear, only to have it slip forward again. He had a way of looking out from behind that fallen hair to catch you staring and smirk, his eyes saying that he'd known you were watching all along.

“I wasn't looking at him anyway,” I told Liv, picking up my tray and walking toward the trash can.

“Uh-huh.”

That was three months ago. Liv, Hannah, Erin, and I had sat at our same table every day since, and the Greeks sat at theirs. I had no clue how to approach them, so I studied them instead, looking for an opening.

Petra had found me something much better in the girl at the hospital, though I was dreading my visit today. Even more so when I saw Liv by my locker after English, bouncing from one foot to the other, full of her usual excess energy. “Only six more classes and we're off to Chi-town!” she sang as I approached.

Shit
. I'd totally forgotten we were supposed to go shopping. And, yes, I was still going to the city, but there's no way I could bring Liv along to see Demetria Kansokis.

She read it on my face. “Uh-oh, what is it, Renfield? You look like your cat died.”

“I don't have a cat.”

“Not anymore,” she said cheerfully.

“I'm sorry, Liv.” Which was true. “But I can't do the vintage stores today. I've gotta meet Petra at the hospital.”

Liv turned serious. “Is she okay?”

“Completely. The hospital she works at, not one she's been admitted to.”

“Oh. Okay. So what's up?”

“Nothing major,” I said, ad libbing an excuse. “Just some paperwork for our lease. Our landlord is doing something financial with the property, needs us to come sign some stuff …” It was a lame excuse, but I could see Liv's eyes glaze at the word “financial,” like I'd hoped they would.

“Well, that sucks,” she said. “Can't you just sign the stuff and then go?”

I shook my head. “I wish I could, but Petra isn't sure how long it'll take and we can't risk losing the place …” I let it dangle, hoping the reminder of my unusual and tenuous—at least compared to Liv's—living situation would be enough to hold off more questions. It was.

“Oh, all right.” Liv sighed, rolling her eyes. “Maybe I'll see if Erin or Hannah want to go instead.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a twinge that I'd miss out. “That's a good idea.”

She scouted the hall, then leaned close, whispering conspiratorially, “But Hannah's mom won't let her wear ‘used clothing' and Erin's a sweetie, but she just has”—she did another melodramatic visual sweep—“bad taste.” Liv clapped a hand over her mouth and gave me an exaggerated wink. “I like shopping with you better.”

I couldn't help smiling, though the reminder of how I'd be spending my afternoon instead made my stomach churn. I nodded sagely and stage-whispered back, “It'll be our secret.”

chapter 4

The El was nearly empty, rush-hour riders going in the opposite direction. I grabbed a seat at the back of the car and flipped open my history book, but after reading the same sentence about James Madison for the third time, I gave up and looked out the window instead. Houses, shops, and streets slid by, faster and faster as we accelerated toward the city. Dusk had fallen and everything was tinged with the crisp, bluish hue of winter, harsher than I remembered it being at home. Jack would be at basketball practice now. Sometimes afterwards he'd come to my apartment or find me in the library, wrapping his freshly showered body around me from behind, wet hair teasing my ear, his cheek scratchy against mine.

I wondered what he did these days.

I knew his phone would be tucked in his backpack, hanging in the locker room, but I texted anyway, the connection making it feel like a small part of him was here, keeping me company: “freezing today, but going to chicago anyway. how r u?”

Twenty minutes later—far too soon—I was there.

I trotted the block to Vauxhall Hospital, slowing only as I slipped into the warmth of the lobby and that too-familiar hospital smell. I wound through the maze of corridors and stairwells, stopping at the swinging doors of Demetria's ward to mentally rehearse the lines Petra had coached me on: I was a friend from school, Demetria and I sat next to each other in history class.

“They won't ask you to prove it and unless Demetria refuses to see you, you'll get in,” Petra had said. “We like to encourage patients to interact with familiar faces from the outside world.”

“But what if she does? Refuse, I mean?”

Petra shrugged. “Then you leave. But I don't think that'll happen. She's been pretty unresponsive to just about everything from what I heard.” Petra paused, then added, “If you see you're upsetting her, though, you've gotta get a nurse involved. Especially since we're on ground that's a little shaky, ethically speaking. After all, you're
not
a school friend
or
a familiar face.”

Petra was silent and I could almost see her rethinking this plan. I jumped in before she could change her mind.

“I'll be careful. Really, Petra, I promise. And if she gets worked up, I'll get someone.”

“I trust you, Cass, which is the only reason I'm going along with this,” she said, still hesitant. “The more I think about it, the less kosher it seems, but I think you're sensitive to the situation. And visiting this girl might do you
and
her some good. An unfamiliar face might actually be more help.” She shook her finger at me, only half teasing. “But I'm counting on you to do the right thing if you see it's not.”

So it was with all that in mind that I approached the nurses' station, worried I'd be tossed out on my butt before I even got to see her. But the nurse gave me only a cursory glance, inspected my bookbag, had me fill out the visitor log, and checked my ID.

I was in.

Demetria Kansokis was sitting on a scratchy-looking sofa, the TV blaring from its shelf overhead. They were never down low, Petra said. Safety reasons. Demetria was staring past it anyway, her dark hair long like mine, hanging in thick, scraggly waves. It looked like she might have showered last week. I didn't blame her, though. Who knew what she'd seen that brought her here.

My heart beat faster as I approached, a nervous rhythm that felt almost visible. I wasn't sure what to say and didn't know what I wanted more: for her to admit she was Fate or have no idea what I was talking about.

There were three other patients on the sofas and chairs nearby. One of them looked up at me expectantly.

“Nurse?” he said.

“Um, no.” I was wearing a gray jersey dress and every person I'd seen in the hospital so far was head-to-toe white. But crazy people have their own reality. Actually, I think that's the definition of crazy.

“Do you have my medication?”

“I'm not a nurse.”

“You look like a nurse.”

No. I don't. Not even a little bit. “Well, I'm not. I'm just visiting.”

“Do you have my medication?”

“No.”

He turned back to the TV and I glanced at Demetria. She and the other two patients seemed like they hadn't even heard our conversation. As if they weren't even in the same room with us, really. Maybe they'd had his medication.

As I slid into a chair, her eyes flicked in my direction, then immediately returned to a spot left of the TV.

“Demetria?”

No response.

“Are you Demetria Kansokis?”

Still nothing. I glanced around the room again, feeling stupid and uncomfortable, but no one was paying any attention to me. Even the nurse by the door was more interested in her magazine. Resolutely, I turned back to the girl.

“My name's Cassie. Cassandra Renfield. That's my father's last name,” I added. “My mother's was Dinakis.” I waited to see if that made any impression, but it was as if I were invisible. And inaudible.

“I thought you might like some company,” I said.

“She can't hear you,” Medicine Man offered without looking at me.

“I think she can.”

“Nuh-uh.”

I ignored him. “I know you can hear me,” I told her. “You don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just thought if you
did
want to … you know, talk to someone who's not part of the hospital or anything …” I trailed off, realizing this was ridiculous. Petra said she hadn't been talking in her sessions. Why on earth would she talk to me? But I didn't know what else to do.

“I just moved here a couple months ago, after my grandmother died,” I said, thinking it might have helped to have rehearsed
this
part more and the nurses'-station part less. “My parents died a long time ago, so Nan was my only real family. I miss her a lot and thought being somewhere different might help.”

Demetria shifted slightly in her seat, but still didn't speak. Or even look at me.

“I don't know a lot of people here,” I rambled on. “I've made a few friends, but I'd really hoped to meet some other Greeks. Nan never told me much about our people and I was kind of hoping to learn. There's a bunch of Greek kids at my school, but I'm not sure how to, you know, get in with them.”

“Why don't you offer them some peanuts?”

Great idea, Medicine Man. I'll get right on that. “I'm not sure they like peanuts,” I said out loud.

“I love peanuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They don't let me have them here.” He leaned over, close enough to whisper. I could smell his breath, hot and antiseptic. “They interfere with my medication.”

“Right.”

I shifted, subtly inching farther from Medicine Man, and glanced at the door, looking for someone who might distract him or, even better, take him away. Instead, I saw a flash of dark, tousled hair. A guy passing just out of sight. He looked like Zander Dasios, who'd been leaning lazily against the wall of lockers around the corner from mine as I'd left school, an image that lingered teasingly in my subconscious. I rubbed my brow. Trouble. Liv was right. I'd asked Erin and Hannah and a few people in my classes about him, too. Casually, of course, in a learning-about-my-new-school way. I'd heard all the rumors: how many girls he'd gone through, how he'd stood up his prom date at another school, can't be trusted, paternity tests, drugs. Everything. Still, I couldn't get him off my mind. Even though we'd never spoken. Even though our eye contact had been only the most fleeting of looks, with me always turning away first.

I shook my head and turned back to Demetria, knowing by her stony silence that if I was going to learn anything from her, it wouldn't be today. “It's been nice visiting with you,” I said. “I'd like to come back in a couple days. If you don't want me to, just say so.” I smiled at my own joke—the kind of thing that'd give Petra a laugh—but then, feeling mean, added, “Really, it helps me to come. Thanks for … listening.”

She hadn't really listened, not “actively” as my new principal liked to call it
,
but you never know where even a one-sided conversation might lead.