Sleep No More. Aprilynne Pike

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      Can’t think about that now. I suck in air slowly, like I’m breathing through a straw, and stare straight ahead. I visualize grabbing a black curtain and pulling it over my inner eye—my “third eye,” as Sierra always calls it—to block out the vision. Mental visuals seem to help.

      I’ll be affected by the foretelling no matter what, but if I black out my mind, fill it with darkness, then I won’t see it.

      And if I can’t see, I won’t be tempted to do anything about it.

      As an added bonus, when I fight it, the vision generally passes more quickly. Which, when I’m at school, is the number one goal.

      Sierra spent years trying different methods to help me block out my visions: a big, black paintbrush; turning off an imaginary switch; even covering my third eye with imaginary hands. The black curtain works best for me.

      But no one can see what I’m doing on the inside; they only see the outside. And on the outside I’m some girl, kneeling on the dirty floor, my head against my locker, completely still with my eyes wide open.

      I can’t close them. Closing your eyes is a gesture of surrender.

      I cling to the words I used to resent:

       Never surrender.

       Never give up.

       Don’t close your eyes.

      I say them over and over, focusing on the words instead of the force of the vision fighting to get into my head.

      An incoming vision feels like a huge hand squeezing your skull, trying to dig its fingers into your brain. You have to push back as hard as you can—with every ounce of concentration you have—or it’ll find a soft spot and get in. The pressure grows to a fever pitch, and then, just as it gets truly painful, it starts to fade. That’s when you know you’ve won.

      Today, as usual, I win. It’s so normal, it doesn’t even feel triumphant. As the sensation ebbs away, my body belongs to me again. My lungs cry for air and even though I want to gulp it in, I do the breathing-from-a-straw thing so I don’t hyperventilate. Made that mistake once in fourth grade and passed out. Not my finest moment.

      A few more seconds and I’ll be able to see again. Hear again. The noise filters in like turning the volume up on a radio and, as soon as I have the strength, I straighten my spine and let my eyes dart carefully from side to side to see if anyone noticed.

      No one’s paying attention. I reach for my backpack and my hand covers a shoe instead. I look up to find Linden Christiansen towering above my head and holding my backpack.

      Mortification and delight fight to drown me.

      He reaches out a hand and I wish it meant anything other than that he’s a nice guy helping a girl up. But as soon as I’m on my feet, he drops his arm. “Migraine coming on?” he asks, handing over my backpack.

      The lie that rules my life. “Yeah,” I mumble.

      He’s looking at me and I let myself meet his gaze—and thus risk turning into a babbling moron at the sight of his light blue eyes that remind me of a still pond. “I t-took some new meds this morning,” I stammer, “but I guess they haven’t quite kicked in yet.”

      “Do you want to call your mom?” he asks, his forehead wrinkling with concern. “Go home?”

      I force a smile and a shaky laugh. “No, I’ll be okay. I just need to get to class and sit down. They’ll start working soon.”

      “Are you sure? You want me to carry your backpack or anything?”

      I’m tempted to let him. Anything to buy a few more minutes. But the vision has passed—I’m completely fine now. And my ego rebels against faking weakness for a guy.

      Even Linden. Who I’ve liked since before my age reached two digits.

      It’ll never happen. Even if by some miracle he were interested, there’re those stupid social lines that are practically stone walls separating us. I’m in the Artsy-Semi-Nerd pen. Linden is in the Super-Popular-Don’t-Even-Try-It pen. Despite the fact that he’s so nice. And talks to me sometimes. In choir class mostly. When he’s bored. He doesn’t actually sing very well, he just needs an arts credit.

      But he wouldn’t ask me out or anything.

      And what would I do if he did? I can’t date anyone. What would I tell the guy when he asks why I’m always so tense and jumpy? That I’m always on guard for unwanted foretellings of the future? Yeah, that’ll break the ice.

      How about why I don’t want to go to a movie? Ever. Somehow telling someone I don’t like dim places because—like closing your eyes—they make the visions harder to fight, feels even more embarrassing than the lie that I’m afraid of the dark. Which is what I had to tell friends who used to spend the night—only once, of course, before they realized how weird I was—when they asked why I sleep with my bedside lamp on.

      Not night-light. Lamp.

      “You’re positive?” Linden asks, and I nod, hating that I want to cry inside. He throws me a grin—a real one, a nice one—and says, “I’ll see you in choir then.”

      I wave lamely and watch him walk away. I wish I could just be normal.

      But I’m not. I’m Charlotte Westing and I’m an Oracle. The kind you’ve read about who once imparted wisdom and advised great kings and queens and assisted brave knights on their quests. But those Oracles existed a long time ago. When they could actually reveal their foretellings and use them to make lives better.

      The world is different now. And our role is different. Oracles once worked with the leaders of civilization to mold, shape, and change the future for the good of mankind. But corruption led to several disasters like the fall of the Roman Empire and the Mongol invasion of China, so the Oracles withdrew their power. From then to present-day, the Oracles have followed an ancient vow to allow the future to unfold as it will. Now, Oracles believe it’s best that no one sees the future. So that no one’s tempted to change it.

      So that no one dies because an Oracle doesn’t have the strength to resist that temptation.

      A hollow sadness fills my chest and I force it away. The past is gone. No one, anywhere, can do anything about what has already happened.

      But the present? That’s what I have to deal with. The visions are part of my life—have been since my first at age three. As soon as I was capable, my aunt Sierra started teaching me how to resist them.

      A child should never be burdened with knowledge of the future, she told me, and I tried to believe her even though at the time I was excited that I could “do magic.”

      I know better now.

      

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