and I don’t try to stop them. I’m frozen solid with fear feeling cowardice drape me in its sad grip. He’s gonna … Remi? Oh no. Remi, please. You can’t win this. Please don’t. He’s … a … Holy … I’m dizzy. I can’t take deep breaths. It feels like I might hyperventilate. Remi, don’t be stupid, just go. GO NOW! They’re coming. Don’t you see them? Remi? Oh my God. What did you do?
Then I was shivering, shaking my head, trying to push away the memory of what I had just seen, vivid as if I had been there. I felt the wind in the air and the fear, like cold pinpricks on my skin. My heart pounded in time with the pounding of Remi’s feet on the frozen earth beneath him. And then it stopped. Remi’s feet—not my heart—I don’t think. I wiped frigid tears with my sleeve. Looking down, I saw that my hands were fists, my knuckles devoid of color, as that of the dead.
Normal is Relative
A small voice came from the other side of the two-way mirror. “What just happened? Someone get the power back on in there. Is she OK?”
“Are you OK to continue, Grace? Do you need a break?” It was Mullane this time.
I must have blacked out or something. In the darkness, the overhead lights flickered and buzzed in protest, and the video camera’s red light was out. My heartbeat quickened as someone in the room with me whispered, “Memento mori. Respice post te!”
But there wasn’t anyone there. I knew enough Latin to know the phrase had to do with death, my death to be exact, and felt a sickening sense that whatever had spoken was determined to keep his word.
The fly from earlier landed on my hand. I considered swatting him for leaving me in the dark, but I preferred the company. “No … I’m okay.” I cleared my throat.
Just then the lights came on. I looked around, and there was still no one there that I could see. But then, I heard faint breathing, and it wasn’t the fly.
“Go ahead, Grace. Just finish up now,” Vivienne urged through what I imagined were tight lips.
***
Aside from the visions and ability to levitate things and the voice in my head, I considered myself pretty ordinary. And judging by the two dates I’d had since officially entering the “scene” at age fifteen, my status as ordinary seemed to be well confirmed by the boys at school. Leave it to my mother, Vivienne Lenore Crescent, to give me, Grace Anne Miller, the most ordinary name in the world. Dad, on the other hand, seemed to truly believe I was special.
“One day, you are going to find out just how special you are,” he would say. “Your life has meaning, Grace Ann Miller, whether you ultimately decide to accept it or not.” He told me that when I was nine years old—the day I’d first heard His voice. Special or not, when I heard the voice for the first time, I locked myself in the closest, blasting music, as loud as it would play, through my headphones. Remi found me hours later, passed out in pee-stained shorts.
Deep down I knew Dad was right, at least partially. There was something different about me. I was either gifted or crazy, and if it turned out that crazy won out over gifted, well, hiding in my closet seemed like the best solution.
By the time high school rolled around, I had reconsidered. Perhaps my dad was mistaken. I’d seen the movies and read the books, so I knew the drill. No one was after me, I wasn’t guarding any special jewelry or ancient egg, and no one had invited me to wizard school—yet. Quite frankly, how special could I be? Aside from hearing voices and seeing things, I was as normal as anyone.
The You Know What Hits the Proverbial Fan
Remi struggled to divide his attention between music, girls, and hockey. After all, at fourteen, what else is there? He even took Mom’s abandonment of us in stride, saying, “Seriously, Grace. If Mom doesn’t want to be here, there’s not much we can do about it. You can’t make people be what you want them to be. They just end up hating you for it in the end.”
Remi sounded wise and somewhat melancholy. He held me as my shoulders slumped in a ball of regret, shame, and nothingness. I was more exhausted than sad. I’d expended most of my energy