She blamed it on bad static at first. Several times a day when she touched something, her fingers felt an electric spark—as quick as a pinprick—followed by an intense rush of feeling. A wave of melancholy would fall upon her after turning a doorknob, she’d feel a drag of lethargy from touching a chair. If that were the extent of it, it would have been bearable.
The real trouble came from touching people.
When her classmates’ elbows jostled hers in the hall, when she handed a customer their coffee and grazed their fingers, even when her sisters tapped her bare arm, it happened. First came the little shocks—sparks,she called them. The pain and intensity varied in ways she could not yet predict. Marigold would feel her breath cut off, then her mind would splinter from reality and fall into a dream.
For a few seconds, she saw towns she’d never been to, saw people she’d never met, felt emotions that were not hers. After touching Rosie and being whisked back to their old school in Chinatown, where Rosie was trading her fried rice for asandwich, Marigold began to suspect that these dreams were actually memories. Other people’s memories.
Whatever they were, Marigold wanted no part of them. Her attempts to shut them out were in vain, so gradually she withdrew. She spurned new friendships, she minimized contact with her peers, and as soon as her shift at the bakery was over, she read in the back of the station wagon to avoid her sisters. As the days passed without being waylaid by another strange episode, Marigold thought she was safe.
Then the social dance unit in PE began, a proud tradition at Sutter Middle School. Marigold tried every excuse to get out of it, but Mrs. Jansen was adamant.
“It’s the foxtrot, not the fifty-yard dash,” her teacher said, glancing at Marigold’s doctor’s note. “Nothing’s going to trigger your asthma. Everyone, hand positions!”
All it took was a touch of Peter Tinloy’s palm. Marigold might as well have poked a fork into an electrical outlet. Her fingers tingled sharply and her hands grew hot. Her lungs squeezed tight, the pressure rushing to her head and making the world reel. She collapsed, and when she stopped breathing altogether, the vision began.
She saw a kitchen with yellow tiles and tulip pots lining the window. Peter knelt by the door holding a spot-eyed dog with pointed ears.
Do we have to let him go?
He’s sick, honey. It’s for the best.
Sadness washed over Marigold and tears welled in her eyes. She needed to breathe, that was the only way to get out—
“Mrs. Jansen!” someone was shouting. “Mrs. Jansen! She’s having a seizure.”
As soon as Peter let go of her hand, Marigold came careening back into the present, gasping for air.
The music had stopped. She was lying on the floor. Everyone in the class was staring.
“Marigold!” Mrs. Jansen cried. “Are you all right?”
Tiny coins of light swirled under the gym’s steel rafters, like fireflies on a manic merry-go-round. Marigold closed her eyes, swallowing down the nausea rising from her gut. It felt like a long time before she dared sit up.
“What’s wrong with her?” her classmates were murmuring. “Did you see the way she was convulsing, it freaked me out.”
“I hope she doesn’t throw up.”
“I hope she doesn’tdie.”
“Enough,” said Mrs. Jansen to the class. She turned to Marigold worriedly. “Let’s get you to the nurse’s office.”
Emily and Jenny, two girls Marigold had considered her friends, moved to help her up, but Marigold registered only the danger of hands and arms too close.
“Stay away from me,” she rasped, scrambling to her feet.
She’d never forget their stunned faces as she shouldered past them, or the way the entire gym went quiet as she bolted for the exit, the boom of her footfalls on the hardwood floor echoing.
Only the most conscientious soul such as Marigold would at this point remember she didn’t have a hall pass, or a permission slip to leave. In a futile, last-ditch effort to maintain normalcy, she spun to face Mrs. Jansen. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “Sorry I have to go. It’s... an emergency.”
Without another word, she ran out the double doors for home.
Helen was chopping cabbage when Marigold returned to Three Flowers.
“Your school called,” Helen said, setting down the cleaver. “Said you were feeling sick.”
“I’m fine,” Marigold said briskly. “I just didn’t eat enough for breakfast. I’ll go lie down—”
“You know dancing’s not good for your lungs. I told you to show them your doctor’s note.” Helen wiped her hands on a cloth and finally regarded her. “You’re breathing hard—were yourunning?”
