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They say I’m special. Maybe I am. Probably they’re full of crap.

Supposedly, I have a “gift,” but that’s a word used by people who don’t have to live with something like “a gift.” If they did, they’d call me by my real name: freak.

See, jumping into other people’s heads is about as fun as taking a microscopic look at the plaque on their teeth.

Trust me, they pretty much agree. It’s why I can’t get close to anyone.

It’s why I’m a nineteen-year-old loner whose own mother can’t stand her presence and whose father…

never mind. It’s also why when Madison Academy promised to help, I believed them.

I had to believe someone, and they used words like empathy and empowerment and other fancy Es that make glossy brochures particularly attractive to a girl more acquainted with the Fs.

(“Fuck you, freak!”) Besides, if you saw the place, you would’ve believed the fairytale too.

Who doesn’t want to pretend to be a princess after a lifetime as an ogre?

Pretending was easy. I’ve been pretending my entire life.

And then I met Daniel.