“There you are,” she whispers in a warm, raspy voice. “I’ve been looking for you, Philomena. The others were much easier to find, but it’s you I need to talk to. My whispers were taking too long, so I hope you’ll excuse my impatience.”
When I open my mouth, no words come out. I gasp and touch my throat.
“You’re very intricate,” she says as a compliment. “So I’ll need your permission.”
I try to ask who she is, what she wants. But I’m silent apart from my desperate intakes of air.
How is she inside my head?My thoughts are scattered, swirling around in a tornado.
“Now, open yourself up,” she says lovingly. “Let’s take a peek at what you’ve got going on inside that metal brain of yours.”
She reaches toward me, and I want to scream and tell her not to touch me. To get out of my head.
“Mena!” Sydney’s voice calls, beckoning me back.
My eyelids flutter against the bright lights of the cafeteria, and I hold up my palm to block them, unsteady on my feet. For a moment, I have no idea who I am.
“Mena,” Sydney repeats. “Mena, you’re bleeding.”
I’m confused as thoughts ping around inside my head, still half in a dream. “I’m bleeding?” I ask.
My eyes slide closed again. The image of the woman is there, but she begins to fade into darkness, dreaded darkness. She grips my forearm to stop me, her nails digging into my skin.
But I’m already gone.
Instead, I’m falling backward. Unconscious when I hit the cafeteria floor.
6
The ceiling is a collection of stars. That’s my first thought as I stare upward in a dark room, glow-in-the-dark stars attached to the ceiling tiles. Despite the safety light on in the corner, the room is too dim and my heart rate spikes. I imagine hands reaching for me.
I sit up quickly, and it only takes a second for the headache to catch up with me. I wince, doubling over on the small, padded table.
“Ahh … you’re awake.”
I jump at the voice of a woman and find her silhouette in the doorway. She flips on the light and I groan at the sudden brightness, even though I’m grateful for it at the same time. The shadows fade away.
“Take your time,” the woman murmurs as I try to sit up again. She comes over to put her hand on my back as I adjust my position. She smooths down my skirt when it rides up, as if that’s the more pressing concern.
“I’m the school nurse, Mrs. Louis,” she says. She lowers her arm, studying me. She smells strongly of lavender, and sweaty heat radiates from beneath her fuzzy, oversized sweater.
“I cleaned the blood off your face,” she says, “but you’ll need a new shirt. What exactly happened, Miss Calla? You don’t appear to have any injuries.”
I blink, trying to remember. I got a call. Then there was … that sound. No, not just a sound. A feeling. Something invading and improper. Something terrifying. Something familiar. A woman asking to be let inside my head.
But I can’t tell the nurse any of this. When I look at her, she presses her lips together in a sympathetic smile.
“Was it one of the boys?” she asks. “They don’t know their own strength sometimes.”
I can feel the color drain from my face.
“I’m certain theydoknow their strength,” I say. “But no, this had nothing to do with them.”
My answer bothers her, and she straightens. She doesn’t like my criticism.
“Then what was it?” Mrs. Louis asks, her tone having cooled.
“Headache,” I say simply. “That’s all.”
