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Beautiful. Beautiful, and incredibly terrifying.

I force myself to breathe as I scan the vast Victorian mansion for the second straight minute.

At some point, bravery becomes stupidity, and my reaction to the shaggy vines doesn’t bode well for bravery.

They look appealing in the welcome packet.

In person, they’re more like furry snakes.

I’m not a fan of snakes, particularly giant, wall-climbing ones.

“You don’t have to do this,” my mother says, interrupting my sudden obsession with eighteenth century landscaping.

“I could fit in here,” I say, shifting in my seat. I’ve repeated it to myself so many times over the last couple of months, I’m even starting to believe it.

She lets out an audible breath. “I’m sorry things turned out this way. It’s not what I wanted for you.”

Here we go again. I squint my eyes back at the snakes to keep from rolling them. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but maybe if…”

If, if. That magical word people use to pretend to fix shit.

At least we’re reciting from a familiar script. One last run-through for old time’s sake?

“I belong here. We both know this is my only shot.” I don’t say the rest, the part about what happens if Madison doesn’t work out. We’ve lived it, lost, and now I’m here trying to quell the panic of last chances.

When I glance back from the wall-serpents, she’s wearing the pained expression she has every time we try to talk. It’s one of the main reasons we don’t.

“Bec, I know…”

Cue hesitant pause.

Cue apologetic look.

Cue… nothing.

Yeah, we never get past this part.

I manage a sad smile as I turn back to her one last time. I don’t hate her. I even kind of understand. You’re a freak, Rebecca Carson. What’s a mother supposed to do with that?

“We’re doing the right thing, Mom.”

She searches my face for a long moment—then does something new. Yes, she reaches out, fingers extended toward my cheek as if… See? There it is again. If. As if a mother could touch her child without fear. Her fingers curl into a fist inches from my face.

She blinks and drops her hand back to her lap. “I hope so. Have them call if you need a ride home.”

Awkward goodbyes complete, I feel only relief in the lobby.

The air smells old, but not the kind of old in your neighbor’s creepy backroom where she stores the oatmeal and laundry detergent.

More like a library. A well-kept kind of old crawling with secrets I’m already dying to explore.

That’s another symptom of freakdom—curiosity—and I have to force myself to refocus on the task at hand: finding the director.

Things get sticky when I give my imagination too much freedom.

My mom says it’ll get me in trouble one day.

Then again, she also says that about my lack of ironing skills, and so far I’ve survived that landmine. Fingers crossed.

You’d think they’d plaster big signs for an important place like a director’s office, but they’ve clearly spent their sign budget on framing things instead.

I scan a few and learn Connecticut gives awards for being awesome, all ex-presidents have the same handshake-smile, and you can spell “honor” in more ways than I thought.

I also learn someone made a killing designing embossed seals which is strangely comforting.

Embossed seals mean I’m in good hands. It means I’m special, not a freak.

That maybe Madison Academy is a promise that will finally be kept.

“I’m looking for Director Clausen,” I say to a guard at the security desk.

It’s normal that the main entrance is supervised by a security desk instead of a reception desk, right?

Right. Just like the intercom and triple door lock to get in was normal.

Never know when the school will lift off into space and require a full-on airlock.

You’re overthinking this, Rebecca. Stop being you for once.

“Name?”

“Rebecca Carson.”

The guard punches something into a computer and scans me slowly.

“You have your ID?”

I hand him my passport and wait as he swipes it and studies me and the screen some more.

“Okay, they’re expecting you. Go ahead back.

” He hands me my ID, and the nerves continue as he tracks my progress with a watchful stare.

I stuff my passport in my pocket, trying to ignore the effect of his heavy gaze as I slink into the empty office he indicated.

Once inside, I breathe a sigh of relief and settle into a massive chair in front of a desk that seems just as impractically large.

What’s with this place and big, extraneous things?

The vines, the wall hangings, the furnishings…

security. It all seems geared toward intimidation.

Or.

That imagination again.

Yeah, I definitely made the right decision to come here. I’m tired of being afraid of vines and big chairs. If these people want me to believe I have a gift, then they have my permission to prove it.

I turn at a rustle in the doorway.

“Rebecca Carson. I’m so glad you’ve finally decided to join us.”

“I am too, Director.”

Director Clausen bustles inside, shorter than I remember.

Older too. His thin-framed glasses barely balance on his beaked nose, and a flurry of silver-streaked hair bristles wildly around his head.

He has a thoughtful face, though, and I let down my guard enough to reach for the hand he offers after only a slight hesitation.

He knows, right? That’s why I’m here. I’m normal here and can do normal things like shake someone’s hand without trepidation. I touch his fingers and—

The vision slams into me before I can even regret not wearing gloves.

No! Just—

I withdraw in horror, unable to breathe. To think. The room spins dark and too bright all at the same time. Liars! All of them! I’m not normal. I can never be normal. I’m a freak. I’m— I shove my hands beneath my thighs and clamp them against hot, sticky leather.

“Are you okay? You look pale. Was it a vision?”

I pull in air while trying to twist my lips into something. I hope it’s a smile, but it’s hard to do anything when your lungs burn. I should tell him. Most people want to know things like that. They do, and then they hate you for it. Blame you for it.

This is your last chance, Rebecca. You can’t afford to be the freak here, too. They’re here to help you with this, remember? Just follow the script. You can do this. Same as every other time.

I force my lips apart. “I’m fine. It was nothing. Still a little carsick, I think.”

Director Clausen’s gaze narrows on me, and I force my smile brighter. It’s not like he doesn’t know why I’m here. It’s not like my file isn’t inches thick with all the reasons he should be a lot suspicious and a little terrified right now. Just… Please have mercy. Please don’t pry. I’m not ready.

Air sieves back into my lungs when he finally averts his gaze to glance at his watch. “I’m so sorry, Rebecca, but I have another appointment. We were expecting you later tonight.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The traffic wasn’t as bad as we—”

He waves away my explanation. “No apologies necessary. We’re thrilled you’re here.” He leans over an intercom on his desk phone. “Maria, would you please come to my office?”

My heart pounds in the silence when he looks back up. I see the questions still swarming in his head. Me, carsick? Kind of ironic when I’m the walking car-wreck people study as if they expect to find a mangled arm or severed leg somewhere. Which is he hoping to see right now?

Our standoff comes to a quick end when a stern woman appears in the doorway.

“Ah! Maria, this is Rebecca. She’ll be moving into the Birchwood Suite.”

The woman’s eyes widen before she recovers with a quick nod. “Birchwood. I see.”

Is Director Clausen sending her a warning look?

But his smile is easy, genuine when he turns it on me. “Your belongings should already be in your room. Maria will guide you. Welcome to our family, Rebecca. We’re so glad you chose Madison.”

“Thanks, Director. I’m glad to be here.” I kind of mean it. I absolutely would have if I’d worn gloves.

With a fatherly pat on my shoulder, he leaves me alone with Maria.

“Shall we?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, and soon I’m scurrying after her tightly coiled silver bun.

“Is Director Clausen gifted?” I ask as we walk, happy for any distraction that puts my fairytale back on track.

Maria glances back at me, but doesn’t slow her pace. “You mean, like you? No. He’s just dedicated to helping those who are.”

“What about you?”

“No.”

“Are any of the staff gifted?”

“Some are. Most aren’t.”

“Which ones are?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Which ones aren’t?”

I smile to myself at her annoyed look. The thing is, it’s hard not to ask questions when you constantly get answers you don’t want. I know it’s a problem, and that’s reason number seventeen I’m here. I’m about to try something less controversial like ballpoint versus gel pens, when I freeze.

Reason number one nearly tramples us in the main hallway.