Sister Assassin (4 page)

 

Everything hurts. I can't tap tap tap my fingers because something happened to my left arm and it is nothing but pain now, bright, swimming pain. I crack my eyes open and—

Oh no. Oh no, oh no. I didn't do it. I didn't kill Adam. He's sitting next to me, driving (I let him drive? Why did I let him drive?) and very much alive.

Annie, please be okay. I'll figure this out and I'll save Annie and Adam can be safe, too, because now that I remember I didn't kill him, I also remember that I'm glad I didn't kill him. It was the right choice. I'm not sure how it'll end up being the right choice, just like north getting me shot was the right choice, but I know it's the right choice.

I giggle. I can't help it. My arm hurts so bad and I got shot and I'm riding toward James in a car with the boy I was supposed to kill but didn't and my entire world is shot and I'm going to have to figure it out really fast or we'll all be dead.

“You're awake,” Adam, says, looking over at me with surprise in his soft gray eyes.

“You have pretty eyes. I'm glad you're not dead.”

“Uh, yeah, me too.”

“I feel fuzzy.”

He shifts uncomfortably, eyes on the road. “I might have overdosed you. Just a little. I needed to think.”

Hmm. He drugged me. That's interesting. I felt like I was safe with him. I still do. My instincts are totally cracked from years of misuse. Maybe I'm trying to kill myself? I'm not brave enough to try again in real life, but maybe my subconscious is braver than I am and it's trying to do me in.

Oh! Adam has long eyelashes. Long arms. Long legs. Long fingers. Everything about him is long. Eden would make a dirty joke. I giggle imagining it.

Focus, focus, focus. “You drugged me.”

“I almost pulled over at three different hospitals. You're bleeding through the bandaging.”

I look down at the black sleeve of his shirt; it's wet. “Ruined your shirt. Sorry.” I giggle again. I haven't giggled in years. Maybe I should let Adam overdose me more often. It's nice.

“I'll get a new one.”

“Why didn't you pull over? Or call the cops?”

He's quiet for a while, knuckles tight on the steering wheel. “Because I've been trying to figure it out. I believe you—about the hit—I probably wouldn't if those other guys hadn't showed up, but it's all too weird to be fake. Plus I, uh, looked through your purse. Another knife in the lining, along with a few thousand dollars. Four different IDs. Is that picture of you and Annie?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“She's the one they'll hurt if you mess up.”

“I already messed up. She's the one they'll hurt if I don't fix this. Wait, how do you know her name?”

“You talked. I mean, when you were out. I asked you questions, and you answered them.”

I glare suspiciously at him. “You should know I lie all the time.” Most people lie with words; I lie with my whole body. I lie with my thoughts and my emotions; I lie with everything that makes me who I am. I'm the best liar in the whole entire world. I hope I lied to him, whatever he asked. “What did I say?”

“Have you really killed three people?”

Tap tap tap I need to tap tap tap I need to get out of this car. I can't breathe. “Why didn't you stop at a hospital?”

“I know why I'm in the middle of this.”

Why is he still talking to me? He should be scared, he should get away from me. “Oh?”

“My research. What I've been working on. I told you it was with MRI and tracking chemicals in the body to examine brain disorders, right? What I didn't tell you is there's a very specific focus. I'm mapping the brain functions of people who claim to have psychic abilities. It started as a focus inspired by this crazy aunt on my mom's side, more to disprove it than anything else, but, well, there were patterns. Specific areas of the brain more active than others, certain chemical markers present. Only in women. So I was going to expand it—start gathering information on huge segments of the population to see if I could find the same patterns in women who don't claim to be psychic.”

I close my eyes, rest my head against the window. If they had that information, if they could access medical records and find women without depending on sketchy news reports or rumors or the muddled visions of their Seers, they could find all of them. No one would be safe.

“They shouldn't want to kill you,” I whisper. “You're their dream come true.” And now I know I have to keep him hidden no matter what, because if Keane knew, if Keane got him . . .

“I'd really like to look at your brain,” Adam says.

I snort. “That has got to be the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I mean, in an MRI. I'd like to run some tests. On you and on Annie, if I can, if she's really psychic like you say she is. What is it you can do, again? I wasn't clear on it.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I see why it has that messy look. “I'm not really clear on any of this, honestly. I was still viewing it as a specific set of mental disorders that we could actually see in a scan. But if it's all
true
. . .”

“It's all true. Promise. And there's nothing special about my brain. If you scanned it, you'd probably see a swirling black mass.” I close my eyes and imagine my brain. It'd be dark, all of it, black and red with bright shining spots you'd want to cling to, but all they'd do is illuminate things I never want to see again. My brain scan would give him nightmares.

“But you said you had perfect instincts.”

“I'm nobody. I'm collateral damage with a lot of training.” Chicago looms up ahead of us, old buildings and new buildings and cars and trees and lake, and I am so tired and my arm hurts so much and I have to go home and somehow keep my thoughts and emotions safely hidden.

No problem.

“As soon as we get into the city, pull over and get out. You can take the cash in my purse. Let me see your wallet and your phone.”

He pulls them out of his pocket and I check his phone. He hasn't called or texted anyone. Good boy. I open the window and fling them both out as far as I can.

“Hey!”

“Hey nothing. Keeping you alive, remember? And if you want to stay that way, you have to do exactly what I tell you with zero deviation. Find the cheapest hotel you can. I don't want to know where or which one. Set up an email account—[email protected], password north1—and email yourself. I'll check it and we'll set up a meeting. I don't know when I'll respond, but I will. I can't plan things too far in advance or the Seers watching me will pick up on it. If they haven't already.”

“Do you do this often?” he asks, his brow furrowed. “Only for you. Don't screw it up. Don't forget you're dead. I'm risking everything here. Do you understand that?”

He pulls over; we're in an outlying neighborhood, the buildings old brick, the trees not quite blooming and budding yet. It's windy. And cold.

Turning all the way toward me, he nods. His face is open and innocent, and I know he couldn't lie if he tried. “You saved my life, Fia. Or spared it. Whichever. I'm not going to do anything that would risk yours.”

I smile tightly. “I'm glad you stopped to pet the dog.” Then I get out. The wind hits me and makes my arm hurt even more as we get out and pass around the front of the car. I peel off the shirt and hand it to him with an apologetic shrug. I can't show up in it. I don't look down at my arm (the blood, I hate the blood, at least it's mine this time).

“So, I'll talk to you soon, then?”

“If I'm not dead,” I answer brightly, then, on impulse, which is how I live my life, I go on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek. It feels . . . nice. Really nice. I wish I could keep that emotion, treasure it up inside, try to figure out what it means to me. But it's not a safe emotion to bring home.

I get back in the car and drive toward the single most dangerous place in the world for me right now. I should be terrified. I should turn around and go anywhere else. I should curl up in a ball and cry. Instead, I think about everything in the whole entire world that makes me angry—there is a lot, oh, there is a lot—and I start singing Justin Bieber at the top of my lungs.

I can do this.

“IT'S NOT FAIR.” I STAND, FEET PLANTED, ARMS
crossed. I will not be scared of Ms. Robertson. I don't care how broad her shoulders are, how tight her bun is, how many students whisper that she knows you're cheating without even looking at you. She doesn't scare me (she does, and I hate it).

“What's not fair?” She raises a thin eyebrow at me.

“Why is my test all essays? Everyone else has multiple choice!”

She smiles; it doesn't touch her eyes. It is a lie of a smile. She is a liar. Everyone here is a liar. I hate this place, I hate it, it's wrong, every day it's wrong and I feel sick all the time. I hate the two postcards Aunt Ellen has sent us in the three months since we came here, saying she's in Egypt and isn't it great that the school will do all holidays and summer breaks for us. I hate the beautiful dining room with the fancy food, I hate the laundry room with the spinning washing machines, I hate the classrooms with too few students and too much attention.

Annie loves it all. She has a private tutor. They've talked with a geneticist about her eyes. She is happy.

“Well, Sofia, part of our goal at this school is to challenge our students. And you have demonstrated that you excel at multiple choice. You never miss a question. Ever. On any test in any subject.”

“Are you accusing me of cheating?” I don't break eye contact. I won't. I have never cheated in my life.

“Of course not. I'm simply saying you have an uncanny knack for answering multiple-choice questions. If everything comes easily, how will you ever learn?”

I barely hold back my eye roll. Annie wouldn't approve. She tells me to roll them as much as I possibly can and makes me tell her when I'm rolling them at her. But Annie doesn't understand. She's not sick all the time, doesn't have these thoughts bouncing around in her skull making her crazy. She doesn't feel like the bottom has just dropped out of the room, like she can't quite get enough air to breathe. I do, ever since we came here. I'm crazy. But I am not a cheater.

“Fine. Whatever.” I stomp back to my seat, my stupid plaid skirt swishing. The girl I share a table with, Eden, scowls. There are only five of us in the thirteen-year-olds' class. I don't get to know them. I don't want to. I wish I had classes with Annie.

“Stop being so angry all the time,” she whispers. “It's distracting.”

“Why do you care?” I hiss. “I'm not mad at you!”

“No, but it's . . . I don't like feeling that way. Just calm down.”

Everyone here is insane. I am the insanest of the insane. I'm going to run away tonight. I'm sick of the way the staff stares at me like they're seeing straight into my head, and I'm sick of the bizarre classes they've “designed” specially for me that have me picking stocks instead of learning math, and practicing self-defense instead of gym. And I am
so sick
of feeling sick all the time.

But Annie is happy. She loves her staff mentor, Clarice, and the loads of braille texts and the pamphlets of information from the doctor I have to read out loud to her over and over again. She's bonded with Eden and they hang out constantly; you'd think
they
were sisters. She'll be happier here without me dragging her down. Maybe Eden is right—maybe I am so angry that other people can actually feel it.

I'm going to leave. I have no money. Whatever. I'll figure it out. Just planning to leave tonight I feel better already, lighter, not as jittery in my own head. There's a camera and an alarm and a security guard at the main entrance to the huge school building. But a window on the second floor has a balcony under it. Ten-foot drop. I can do a ten-foot drop. Then I'll climb the rest of the way down. The brick is old and uneven. I can do it.

I know I can.

I'm going to get out of here tonight, and I'll never come back. I'll walk back to my aunt's house if I have to. I'll live there by myself. I'll send Annie stupid postcards, and maybe they'll fix her eyes and she'll even be able to read them by herself. I don't want to be without her—that idea makes it even harder to breathe—but I can't stay here.

I look up to see Ms. Robertson smiling at me, and this time the smile isn't a lie. It's a challenge. Like she knows what I'm planning.

But she can't know.

She knows. It's a physical reaction in me, a certain quivering, empty feeling in my stomach, that tug of my gut. I
know
she knows. How does she know? I have to go now. NOW. I stand, knocking my chair over with a clatter into the table behind me. “I feel sick,” I say, leaving my stuff as I run out the door. Down the long hall, all tile and dark wood. Into the residence wing. Up the stairs that smell like lemon furniture polish. Straight to the window, the one I opened last week to see how far the drop was.

It's nailed shut.

Screw this, I am gone. I sprint up another flight of stairs to the dorms with their warm yellow lights and plush red carpet. I will grab everything I own and I will run straight out the front doors. I will run into the sunshine and I will never come back here where everything is
wrong
for no reason. I burst in, and Annie's there, on the couch, and she's crying.

“What's wrong?” I ask, out of breath. “What happened?”

She looks up, but she's smiling. Why is she crying and smiling at the same time?

“I'm not the only one,” she says. “Fia, it's not just me! Clarice can do it, too. Clarice sees things before they happen. And she's going to help me learn to do it better, to control it. Oh, I knew this school was the right choice.” She stands and holds her hands out for a hug and I stumble forward, letting her wrap me up because I never stay away when she wants me close. “Think about it, Fia. If I had known how to control it before, I could have seen Mom and Dad earlier, I could have understood what I was seeing, I could have . . .” I know what she saw because she's told me so many times, crying in the middle of the night.

She saw their lives smashed out of them. She still blames herself because she saw the accident and didn't change it. (She didn't change it. I am here because—no, stop.)

Maybe this school
is
the best thing that ever happened to her; she can figure out how to deal with what she sees. But why do I still feel so wrong when she's so happy and hopeful? No. It's my job to take care of her. If staying here is what she needs, I'll stay.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I turn to see what Annie's eyes can't. Ms. Robertson is standing, perfectly silent in the doorway, watching me.

 

It's been two weeks since the window was nailed shut. Bars were installed on all the windows, on all the floors. The administration said it was because of an attempted break-in.

Every day Annie chatters to me about what she learned, how smart Clarice is, what an amazing coincidence it is that she'd end up with the one person in the world who could understand her. I do not smile because with Annie I don't have to, but I lie when we are together.

Now I am sitting in class.

I am not doing any of my assignments.

I sit perfectly still and straight, and I do not work, and I do not answer questions, and they do not do anything to me. There is no detention. There are no threats. Except in self-defense, where my instructor hits me and hits me until I finally block and hit back.

I am riddled with bruises under my stiff white shirt that smells of bleach and makes me miss my mom with an ache I didn't think I could feel anymore.

I do not tell Annie. I cannot tell Annie. Annie is happy, and I have to let her be happy. It is my job to make sure Annie is happy.

I glare at Ms. Robertson, standing in the front detailing the upcoming ski trip; I still blame her for the nailed-shut window, though I have no reason to.

Then I have an idea. Maybe Clarice isn't a coincidence. This school is wrong, I know it is. I want to know why, because if I know why, then maybe it won't make me feel sick all the time. If there's a reason why it's wrong, then I am not crazy for feeling this way. (I'm not crazy, I'm
not
.) I lean back in my chair, stare straight at Ms. Robertson's forehead, and think,
I have a knife in my shoe. I have a knife in my shoe. I have a knife in my shoe, and I am going to pull it out and stab Eden. I am going to stab her until she screams. I have a knife in my shoe. I'm going to stab Eden. Right now
.

Ms. Robertson sprints down the row and rips me out of my chair, knocking me to the ground; my head slams against the floor. She pins me, it's not hard—I am all elbows and knees and I am only thirteen. She yanks off one of my shoes and then the other, breathing hard. My face is smashed into the tile. I can't see anything. I can't move.

My teacher swears. “What—why would you—Eden! How is Sofia feeling right now?”

“I don't know! How can I—”

“Just tell me how she's feeling right now!”

“She's—she was totally calm before you grabbed her. And now it's like, I don't know, like she's laughing inside, but she's also really scared.” Eden sounds scared, too, having to admit that she knows this.

Ms. Robertson stands up, and I roll over onto my back, tears streaming down my cheeks from the pain in my head, but Eden's right—I'm laughing.

I laugh and laugh and laugh, and I think about stabbing Ms. Robertson with the knife I don't have in my shoe. Lighting this whole room on fire with the matches I don't have in my pocket. Hanging myself in my room with the rope I don't have in my closet.

This place is wrong
, I think at her,
and I know
.

“Very clever,” Ms. Robertson says, with that lie of a smile. “It would appear you're ready for the advanced placement track.”