She pulled out her schedule. She had an appointment in thirty minutes with Dr. Sands, the school psychiatrist. She wondered what she would confess to this stranger: that she was struggling with the symptoms of withdrawal; that she was puzzled by her birth parents’ genetic background; that she was scared she wouldn’t be able to hack it here.
Teddy took a deep breath. I can do this.
She took off her shoes and sat on the meditation lawn. She tried to ignore the pounding headache and the relentless nausea, tried to clear her mind. And promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Teddy arrived late to her next appointment. Again. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Dr. Sands, who welcomed Teddy back to Fort McDowell and ushered her into a comfortable chair upholstered in white damask. “I was trying to meditate, and I fell asleep.”
“It’s fine.” Dr. Sands, the kind of naturally elegant, soft-spoken woman who made Teddy feel sloppy, sat down in a similar chair and made a note on her clipboard.
Normally, Teddy didn’t care about being a little late or being judged for it. But she couldn’t help wondering if this was the kind of thing that could get her sent home and get her whole deal with Clint revoked. If she would have her kneecaps broken by one of Sergei’s men just because she fell asleep on a goddamn mediation lawn.
“It’s not going to count against me, is it?” Teddy asked. “I’m still trying to adjust to being off my meds and—”
“Apology accepted.” Dr. Sands put down the clipboard and smiled. It was a genuine smile, the kind that would put a normal person at ease. But Teddy wasn’t a normal person.
“I’m not usually like this,” Teddy said.
“Like what?”
“You know—overly apologetic.”
Dr. Sands sighed. “This isn’t that kind of session, Teddy. I’m tasked with assessing whether or not you’re a good candidate for Whitfield. I’m going to ask you some questions to get us started. Where were you living when you were recruited?”
“In an apartment. By myself.”
Dr. Sands held her pen above her clipboard, as if waiting for Teddy to elaborate.
This lady totally knows I live at home.
Why had she lied about it? Teddy hadn’t accounted for the fact that her whole life was probably spelled out in her file.
“It was in my parents’ garage,” Teddy added quickly, “but I had my own entrance. And I paid rent.”
When I didn’t gamble it away.
“Tell me a little bit about how you handle stress,” Dr. Sands said.
“I held my own against the best poker players in the world. You think I can’t handle the classes at Whitfield?”
“I didn’t say that.” Dr. Sands made another note. “Have you ever had a vision or a vivid or recurring dream?”
Teddy let out a breath, relieved that the conversation had changed direction. She thought of the dream that had awakened her that morning. “Sometimes I dream about a house,” she said.
“And how does it make you feel?”
It makes me feel safe.
“It’s familiar. Like I might have been there or something.”
Dr. Sands made another note.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“There are no wrong answers, Theodora.”
Teddy tried not to squirm, but something about these overstuffed chairs made her feel like she was about to be swallowed whole.
“Any other unexplained incidents? Moments when you felt like you could predict the outcome of a situation?”
Gambling.
“I sometimes know when people aren’t telling the truth,” Teddy said.
“And does that affect your relationships?”
She’d always known the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus were bogus. She’d never had a long-term boyfriend. She kept friends at arm’s length. Never mind the “Do I look okay in this dress?” question; the million other small lies that people told throughout the day were enough to drive her crazy. She could tell when her parents were disappointed in her, even when they said they weren’t. “How could it not?” Teddy said.
“And what happens when you know someone’s lying?”
“I feel . . . anxious.” Teddy swallowed. “As a kid, I hated that feeling. Medication helped. But I tried to, I guess, not put myself in situations where I’d feel that way.”
“So you didn’t have many close relationships before Whitfield? How do you think that will affect your ability to work with a partner?”
Teddy’s throat tightened. “Clint said that it wouldn’t be the same around psychics. And I haven’t felt like that since I arrived at Whitfield.”
Dr. Sands made a few more notes. “I think we’re done here.”
Done? Like done done?
Teddy had to make one last move in this game she suddenly found herself playing. She cleared her throat. “I can read a table. I know how to egg another player on in order to increase the pot. I know how to bet. I can feel it in my bones when it’s time to fold. And I know—” She ran her hands through her hair. “God, I know it’s not time to fold yet.”
Dr. Sands took her time placing her notepad on the table next to her. “It’s clear that the choices you’ve made have led you down a path that—” Dr. Sands frowned. “Well, it’s a path most parents wouldn’t be happy to see their child take. You’re impulsive, disdainful of authority, and have difficulty trusting others. I believe those behaviors grew from an instinct to protect yourself from getting hurt.” She looked up at the ceiling, and blinked. It was a trick she’d picked up somewhere, to stop tears from sliding down her face. “They’re learned behaviors, Teddy. So you can unlearn them. That, combined with Dean Corbett’s recommendation—”
Teddy swallowed. “Does this mean I passed?”
Dr. Sands looked amused. “There’s no passing or failing. There is simply gathering the information we need to decide if Whitfield is a good fit for you.”
Bet on me.
Teddy had to bite back the words. She waited in silence, her heart beating erratically, until Dr. Sands spoke again.
“I’m technically not at liberty to say whether or not I’ll recommend you for admission. But between us,
