Teddy’s medication sat on her bedside table. She glanced at it but didn’t move to open the bottle. What if Clint was right? What if she wasn’t epileptic but overstimulated? Because—and here was a terrifying admission—he had described exactly what her seizures felt like. Not a misfiring of neurons but a sensory overload.
Psychic.
Even though the medication made her feel as dull as a rock, some essential part of her continued to rebel against it. Against everything. She could not settle into the life her friends had embraced. Deep down, she knew she could never be happy like that. Maybe that was why she seemed to sabotage every attempt at a normal life. Getting expelled from Stanford. Leaving one job after another. Failing at relationships. Racking up insane gambling debts. The depths to which she was sinking kept getting lower and lower. She looked at the ridiculous costume piled in the corner and shuddered. If she hadn’t already hated herself, she did now. Nothing like stealing from your parents to make you feel like the worst sort of person.
At least Whitfield Institute offered a possibility that she might finally be able to turn her life around. Fool’s gold, knowing her luck, but a possibility was better than nothing. Something had to change—and if she was honest with herself, she knew that something was her. Clint’s words came back to her now: The world needs people like us to show up, Teddy.
She saw a light turn on in the main house and wondered if her dad was awake. Lately, she’d been coming home to find him puttering around the house, fixing a broken lamp, flipping through the pages of some American history book. Teddy knew it would be so easy to walk over, to strike up a conversation, to mix the batter for pancakes. It would be harder to tell him about the money she owed, about Sergei, about Clint and the school in California. Her dad would listen with his usual measured care before launching into the “I’m disappointed in you” speech. He’d tell her to do what she thought was right. But if she told him all of that, she’d have to also tell him that she’d stolen from him. And she wasn’t ready to own up to that.
Teddy must have drifted off to sleep, for she woke abruptly, feeling dazed and disoriented. The wispy remnants of a familiar dream stayed with her—an image of a young woman standing before a yellow house, a cottage, really, beckoning her inside. A soft lullaby had drifted through the air.
Teddy rolled over. Her bedside clock read five-thirty. She shook her head clear of the dream and leaped out of bed. When she’d fallen asleep, she hadn’t been sure what she would do about Clint’s offer. But now she knew this really was her last move. She could show up. She was going to Whitfield.
Teddy pulled out her phone and summoned a Lyft. She gathered her makeup and toiletries and dumped them in a bag. She threw her clothes into a suitcase. She paused only long enough to stuff her costume and padding in a trash bag; she’d toss that out herself.
Finally, she placed her official Whitfield Institute letter of admission (personally addressed to Theodora Cannon—a thorough, if presumptuous, touch on Clint’s part—and stuffed inside the pamphlet along with her plane ticket) on the kitchen table, where her parents would find it, along with a handwritten note. The letter didn’t mention psychic stuff, so Teddy felt like she wasn’t breaking any rules by sharing it with them.
Mom and Dad,
Didn’t want to mention this until I knew, but look—I got in! I’m giving school another try. Heading out this morning. I’ll call as soon as I can.
Outside, the Lyft driver gave a quick honk, and she paused, thinking back to Clint’s insistence that the world needed people like him. She corrected herself. Like us.
Until now, she had thought of herself as someone who needed people, not someone who other people needed. But for a brief moment she let that idea carry her away. She knew she wasn’t Wonder Woman or Superman or anything, but maybe she could learn to make a difference, in a small way. She reread her note and added a quick postscript: Next time I come home, you’ll be proud of me.
CHAPTER FIVE
TEDDY DODGED BETWEEN GROUPS OF tourists who filled the bustling San Francisco pier. Ignoring the shops hawking cable car ornaments, Golden Gate snow globes, and T-shirts proclaiming the wearer had just escaped from Alcatraz, she made a beeline for the nearest coffee shop. She’d dozed a little on the plane, but it had been a short flight. She’d barely closed her eyes before touching down at SFO.
She ordered a triple mocha espresso, hoping the combination of caffeine and sugar would knock the sluggishness from her brain and eliminate her headache. It wasn’t bad yet, just a dull pain behind her right eye: her body’s normal way of reminding her that she hadn’t taken her meds in over twenty-four hours. Only this time she’d deliberately forgotten to take them. All based on a highly nonmedical diagnosis from a cop who didn’t even know her.
You’re not epileptic, Teddy. You’re psychic.
She touched the small bottle of pills tucked inside her jacket pocket, just in case. She felt more herself today, off her medication and in her own clothes—multiple ear piercings, leggings, combat boots, leather jacket.
There was a blast of a boat horn, a final call for anyone who wanted to board the ferry to Angel Island. Last night—wait, was it really just earlier this morning?—when Clint had told her the school was in San Francisco, she’d assumed he meant in San Francisco. Not on some tiny
