The Sententia: Second Thoughts Part 19

She looked down at her still-full plate. "So you're going."

"Yeah. I'm going."

"Great. Happy birthday." She twirled her finger in a sarcastic woo-hoo circle and that was when Caleb gave up.

He grabbed his tray and stood. "Thanks. I'm done. Later."

"Wait!" Amy reached for his hand, but seriously, she should have done that a long time ago. Caleb let her take it but he didn't really hold hers back. "Are you coming to the bookstore later?" The bookstore being the only place Amy could go that felt the least bit like having fun.

"I have tutoring," he said and walked away.

She made a fist with her hand that he'd just dropped. "UGH!" she ground out, but I honestly thought she was more mad at herself, which seemed valid to me. She glanced at me, the silent witness on the other side of the table. "Are you going to be there?"

I shook my head. "I have therapy. Sorry," I added, and I picked up my tray and left too.

In the weeks since the vision returned, instead of focusing on a number of important things I was running out of time to do, like make necessary decisions about the future, or work harder to solve the still-hanging mystery of Mark Penrose, or reconcile with my best friend, I'd thrown myself into physical therapy and killing things.

I practiced planticide with the same pa.s.sion I'd devoted to practicing my volleyball serves over the summer, approaching my theory as scientifically as I could and working up to my end goal. I started with the poinsettia, killing whole plants. I killed plants from all angles, by touching the stem, touching the leaves, touching the tiniest, slimmest piece I could find. Where I touched the plant didn't matter; they all died with ease. I tried touching just the dirt, but that had no effect.

Next I moved on to the first true test of my theory-I killed just one part of the plant. The first few attempts failed, and the whole plant died. I was too nervous and didn't have the right focus for my Thought. I had to hold the intention in my mind and concentrate until I felt the energy, the essence of just the piece, not the whole.

In a major breakthrough, I managed to kill a branch of a large plant in the entryway to the Auditorium. Under the pretense of visiting Aunt Tessa's installation, I watched it carefully to see if killing the branch eventually killed the entire plant. But it didn't; the branch withered as if I'd snapped it off, but the rest of the plant continued to vibrate with life.

After that, confident I could affect a reasonably large piece of a whole, I moved on to the huge, beautiful umbrella tree-I'd asked one day what it was called-outside Dr. Stewart's office suite. I made excuses to visit, including but not limited to requesting off-campus privileges, seeking advice on the merits of my favorite schools, and updating her on my progress in physical therapy, and had killed fully half the leaves before the entire plant began to die. If she thought my sudden reappearance in her daily life was strange, or noticed the slow demise of her waxy-leaved plant, she said nothing.

In fact, if anyone noticed my new interest in horticulture, they didn't mention it. I'd tried to be discreet, which wasn't hard, because it took no more than a pa.s.sing touch for me to wield my gift and take a plant's life. The more I practiced killing in segments, the faster I became at that skill as well.

The more I practiced, the more I scared myself.

In fact, I scared myself so much, I gained a new understanding of the Perceptum, which scared me even more.

There were people whose Sententia abilities were so profoundly dangerous their very existence was a danger. I was one of them. I epitomized them. I hadn't truly understood it before. The one time I'd used my gift, it had been a moment of wild desperation. Almost a fluke. I hadn't even been sure it would work. Now I was using it regularly, and just like with practicing my Diviner half, I was getting better at it. It took less concentration every time, became more of a reflex. That was my goal-I needed that level of control if my theory had even a chance of working-but it was a frightening goal.

I knew I'd never turn the full power of my gift on another person, not unless it was literally life or death-that's why I was practicing. But I recognized the substantial level of trust it would take for someone else to believe that. I knew, too, that there were plenty of people not deserving of that trust, who would use their gifts not just for personal gain, but for the detriment of others. I understood, deeply, why Senator Astor had sworn off using his gift at all.

I understood why Carter hid.

I understood why all of Sententia hid.

Most of all, I understood why the Perceptum wanted me.

There was even a moment when I really thought I'd join them. I understood. Finally. But I wasn't ready. I wouldn't play executioner, no matter how horrible the person was.

When the next note arrived, it was a big surprise, as big as the first one had been. The headmaster handed it to me, right after I finished killing her plant completely and just before I headed out of her office to be driven to my twice-weekly physical therapy. It was a ridiculous contrivance and waste of Academy funds, forcing me to be chauffeured to the doctor's and back, but the seeming one iron-clad rule of the Northbrook academic year was no cars for students, and though mine was parked behind the bookstore, it may as well not have existed.

I clutched the note between my hands until we were out of the gates and past the bookstore, as if somehow, someone might see me and ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. The further we got from the Academy, the safer it felt to open it, as if being off the grounds would make it less real.

I'd stopped expecting them, the notes. I'd never expected them, but for a while they'd been thrilling, so I antic.i.p.ated them in a not unpleasant way. Now that they'd come to feel sinister, I was surprised again. Afraid. Almost as much as I was afraid of the future, or myself. I finally opened it slowly, the way you opened a door when you were afraid something dangerous was behind it.

It was short and to the point, and like the others, wasn't overtly threatening. Anyone else looking at it would think it sweet, maybe a joke. It's just that I was reading it with new eyes.

Lainey, he wrote, We're all waiting on you. Don't keep us in suspense.

-D.A.

The notes were the only direct contact we had, Dan and I, and were only one way. I'd never replied, not personally. While I had the means to contact him directly, if necessary, it hadn't seemed expected. Not yet.

But if the calendar I marked off every morning didn't remind me, the note in my hand was an alarm sounding a clear warning I was running out of time.

I WAS STILL thinking about the note later, and what Mandi had said to me, while I stared at Ferny, who sat un.o.btrusively and content in the sunny corner of our room.

I was afraid Mandi was right, that secretly I liked the attention. So much seemed to revolve around me right now and maybe I wasn't trying hard enough to make that stop. Carter had said I was afraid of deciding, and that was true, but was it because at least part of me didn't want the decision-making attention to go away? I thought I hated it, but love and hate were such close cousins.

Whether I wanted the attention or not, my time to have it was almost up. I had to make choices. And I still wasn't ready. I actually did hate what I was about to do, but I couldn't put it off any longer. The most perfect test subject had sat in my room since the New Year, a comforting green presence that recently seemed more Amy's friend than I was.

Since I'd decided to use Ferny, I'd spent some time only touching him, stroking his spiky fronds, and feeling out his energy. And mentally apologizing for making him an innocent victim. A nice plant in the wrong place at the right time.

I gripped one slender leaf, barely a hairsbreadth wide, and Thought.

Then I touched another one and Thought again. And again. And again.

One by one, as I touched them, the tiny pieces lost their spark. Some fell off immediately and I collected them. It wasn't an accident. I hadn't tugged too hard and pulled them loose. Each one told the story of how I killed it.

Close. I was getting close to what I thought I could do. If I could discern such a small, truly tiny, leaf of the fern, out of I couldn't even guess how many thousands of leaves, maybe I really could- And that was when my phone rang and changed everything.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Do you think you could bring my watch back when you come over later?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My watch," Carter repeated. "I left it there after the Ball. Thanks to your roommate's antics, I haven't been back since."

I'd have laughed at the bitter tone in his voice, if I hadn't just been killing things and he hadn't caught me by surprise. Carter's watch. It was in my room. The watch I'd surrept.i.tiously been looking for, in his room, since the Ball.

"Anyway," he continued, "I guess you didn't notice it? In your nightstand?"

I pulled open the drawer I pretty much never used unless Carter was visiting, and sure enough, there it was. Carter's watch.

Except the thing was, this particular watch wasn't just his-it was his father's first.

Carter wore it only for special occasions, though it wasn't very fancy. At the Ball was the first time I'd ever given it a second look. When I'd joked about getting him a new one for his birthday, he told me whose it was. It was the kind of watch his father had worn every day.

The watch Mark Penrose had likely been wearing the day he died.

"S-sure. I'll bring it over."

"Thanks." When I didn't say anything more, he added. "You okay? You seem a little distracted."

That was an understatement. "Um, yeah. Sorry. I was...in the middle of some pretty intense homework. I'll see you later, okay?"

I barely waited for him to say goodbye before I hung up.

Here it was, the clue I'd been waiting for, I'd looked for, hiding in my room.

The watch and I stared it out for a little while. I was afraid to pick it up. I didn't know what it might show me, but I already knew the end was not a happy one. Taking a deep breath, I plucked the watch out of the drawer and closed my eyes.

Of course, it was even worse than I imagined.

I didn't need more than a few seconds to see all I needed to see, every heartbreaking detail. Like all death-connected objects I'd touched since the spark, the tingling sensation that told me there was something about this watch was there. It was different from the others, from the couch that constantly buzzed in my room, but similar. More painful, not in strength but emotion. I knew I'd learn to understand the subtle differences in the electric hums over time, but today all I could feel was devastation.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I rubbed my fingers across the smooth metal links of the band. The watch seemed warm to the touch, maybe because I was gripping it so hard, and under different circ.u.mstances, I'd have pretended it was because Carter had just taken it off. I wanted to a.s.sociate this piece of jewelry with good memories, but that would never happen again. In fact, I wasn't sure how I'd ever be able to see him wear it without crying.

Mark Penrose had poisoned himself.

I watched him do it: pouring tea into the mug I'd broken at the beginning of the year. Mixing in a spoon of sugar and a splash of milk. Going to his room-the room that now belonged to Melinda and Jeff-for the small bottle of poison hidden in his nightstand and emptying its contents into the mug too.

He sat down at the kitchen table as if it was any other day, as if he hadn't just done the thing that would kill him by morning.

And sitting across from him was Daniel Astor.

DANIEL ASTOR HAD made Mark Penrose do it. Had Thought him to it.

The whole story was there in a series of images, a silent movie for me to decipher. There were Mark and Dan in a heated argument. There was Dan hugging a younger and thinner, and sobbing, Carter, hugging him like he was the most precious thing in the world. There was Mark in a new-agey apothecary I actually recognized, a local place, still in business, chatting familiarly with the owner and carrying a bag out to the car. There was Dan smiling and chatting with the same woman. There was Carter again, younger still, talking to Dan and nodding, rapt at whatever his uncle was saying. There was, interestingly, Mark Penrose sobbing over his wife's grave. It was snowy and on a few nearby stones I saw wreaths. I wondered if it was Christmas.

I stopped there. I'd watch the vision again later, really study it, but I needed some time to recover, to keep myself from completely breaking down. My migraine problem was officially cured, but that didn't stop my head from throbbing for different reasons. Shock. Anger. Fear.

Daniel Astor was a murderer.

Carter's hero, my uncle, was a murderer.

Just thinking the words made me want to retch. I'd dined with him, talked with him, granted him influence over my future, given him the opportunity to ingratiate himself with my family, and, if I was being honest, let the idea of him worm more than a little ways into my heart. I had even entertained the idea that I might someday be ready to join the Perceptum. And that was only about me. He was practically like Carter's second father.

This would ruin Carter. Ruin him. I didn't know how I could ever tell him what I saw, nor even if I should. And I knew now what had happened with my vision. It was no impending accident, no fortuitous s.h.i.+fting of fate, nothing we thwarted or changed or managed to evade at all. With this final, d.a.m.ning piece of evidence, it all made perfect sense.

Daniel Astor had an idea to kill me.

And to use Carter to do it.

This explained why I could never read any details and why the vision seemed to come and go-it was just an idea. A very real idea, but not a definite one. Carter had been exactly right when he'd said it was our potential fate. Before now, before I'd discovered this very ugly secret, I wouldn't have known why, precisely, he'd want me dead. At first, it was probably because of Jill. Perhaps the moment I first had the vision was when he learned her gift was gone. Maybe killing me had been one potential way of dealing with what I'd done.

But now? Now I knew the potential was even greater than it had been before. It was probably closer to inevitable, and would likely hinge on what I did.

But why involve Carter? It seemed cruel. I already knew he was cruel, but he loved Carter. Maybe it was convenient. I'm sure he could easily have poisoned Mark Penrose himself, but it was neater not to get his hands dirty. To make it look like something Mark had done, if the question ever arose. To make it be something Mark had done, I realized. That was why touching Dan had never produced a vision. He was ultimately, but indirectly, responsible. I wondered what he'd made Mark Think the poison was.

I wondered what he'd make Carter Think happened to me.

Daniel Astor was a murderer, past and future, and I didn't know why or what to do. One thing was certain though-I couldn't do anything if I was dead.

ALL THE WAY across the street I repeated the mantra I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry, I will NOT... and it worked. For a few minutes anyway. Carter's watch was in my bag, wrapped in a silk scarf to protect it and so I wouldn't have to touch it again.

I went in the back door, just in case. I'd calmed down and cleaned myself up to the point that I looked not good, but not like I'd just had a major breakdown or uncovered a murder. The refrain in my head was helping me stay that way and the dim back rooms of Penrose Books would help disguise me further. Plus if I couldn't hold it together, I didn't want to be standing in front of the whole school. There was even a chance my roommate was here, and I really didn't want to see her like this.

Instead, I saw Carter. And Melinda and Jeff.

The entire family was there.

Melinda leaned her back on the counter, talking over her shoulder to her nephew while he laughed. Seeing the two of them together, with all the features that would re-create Mark Penrose's face between them, I couldn't help but cry for them once more. Jeff stood just off to Melinda's side, watching her with an expression that broadcast devotion. They were nothing short of beautiful together, and I loved them all. My mantra crumbled like wet paper.

Carter must have heard me because he turned around. He smiled when he saw me peeking from the shadows of the back room and stepped into the doorway. "Okay, this time you're crying."

It was a sweet joke, and I loved him desperately for it, but all I could do was cry harder. When he realized this had to be serious, he immediately switched gears. "Hey, hey. You're really crying. What is it? What can I do?"

"I have to tell you something."

"Okay. It's okay." He pulled me to a seat on the dusty floral couch and I buried my face in his chest. I'd glimpsed Melinda hovering in the doorway and Carter's helpless expression, telling her he didn't know if he needed her or not. "Did something happen? Did you and Amy fight again?"

"No, it's not that. I..."

I almost told him. I faltered, the confession on the brink of spilling from my tongue, before huge, racking sobs choked it back.

I couldn't do it. Not yet, and not here. Not while he was at work, in the middle of a bookstore full of students. It was just too terrible. Last year, I'd been a brilliant actress after the Jillian Incident, never once crying or slipping up, but I didn't think anyone in the world was a good enough actress for this secret.

In between rubbing my back and hugging me tightly enough to stop the shaking, Carter said, "Can you tell me why you're crying?"

"I don't know if I'm making the right decision."

"There's not a wrong decision here, Lainey," he soothed. He thought I was still talking about the future, when really it was the past crus.h.i.+ng me now, sitting on my throat so that I couldn't take a deep breath and squeezing my heart so that it hurt to beat. It was almost like last year, like I could feel Jill on top of me, choking my life away. "Trust me. Wherever you choose, we'll make it the right one."

I stayed there, holding Carter and wis.h.i.+ng today had never happened, until I started to calm down. "Deep breaths, there you go. Yoga in, yoga out." I tried not to laugh at that, afraid it would set me crying again, but a ridiculous snort-sob escaped and Carter smiled down at me. "Perfect," he p.r.o.nounced and I did it again.

I shouldn't have been laughing, or close to it, but that was the thing about life. I'd learned it last year and was relearning it again now. Something happens, something that changes you, changes everything, but life still goes on. You feel like the world should stop for the weight of what just happened, but it doesn't. Life doesn't even slow. You laugh again, sometimes even when you shouldn't. You have things you still have to do, like finish your homework and stop putting off choosing a college.

I wasn't sure if I was going to make it there, but I knew where I wanted to go. I even knew what was going to happen the moment I made the decision.

"Carter?" My voice was rough and m.u.f.fled by his s.h.i.+rt.

"Still here, babe."

"I want to go to Boston. For real this time."