Seers

by Kristine Bowe

Genres: YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

On the surface, Leesie’s just another seventeen-year-old orphan, bouncing from one high school to the next. In actuality, she’s a Seer on clandestine missions. Leesie possesses the power to travel into layers of memory manipulating her conquests as directed by the clandestine organization of Seers and her enigmatic preceptor, Tobias.

When challenged by her latest mission, Leesie will be left questioning where her true loyalty lies. Why is it suddenly difficult to obtain the information she needs? What’s allowing her to remember fragments of her hazy past? And why is it so hard for Leesie to see who has been plotting against her all along?

An engrossing contemporary novel, SEERS explores the fine line between friend and foe and the beauty of determining which memories—new and old—make us who we are.

SEERS is the winner of the National Association of Elementary School Principals (NAESP) Children’s Book Competition in the Chapter Book category.

Release date: August 1, 2013

Publisher: Charlesbridge

Print pages: 216

Sample

“Your ID card, please. Miss? Do you have your ID card? Miss? Your card?”
            I come out of it. I am in the office of my new school. My third high school in the past year.
            The way she spit out that last word brought me out of it. I hadn’t been watching or listening or even present, for that matter, but I guess by the look on her face that her questions started out much less curt than she sounded just now.
            “I’m sorry, I . . . here.” I fumble with my wallet and ease out my school ID. She purposely keeps her eyes lowered as she reaches for it. A trick I use as well. A power play. No eye contact. Her allowing me to smile or sweetly plead with my eyes or make some pathetic face for her to see would be her allowing me to make amends. She clearly isn’t in a forgiving mood and isn’t going to give me the opportunity. Fine by me. I don’t want to pretend to care that I held up the nonexistent line behind me or kept her from another doughnut or cup of coffee or from her doodling or texting or whatever else she does to not work at work.
            “Wait here. I’ll print your schedule.” Her voice is more even now. She isn’t pursing her lips as much. She must be telling herself that I am just a teenager and should not be expected to know how to act. She may be mellowing, but I am revving up. Wait here? Where am I going to go? Shall I simply pick a class at the end of the hall and hope I’m interested in the lesson? Hope it’s not something I’ve already been taught? Sure. I’ll wait here for a schedule of classes I don’t care to attend.
            The secretary waddles back, and as she hands me my list of assignments, I notice how the ring on her pointer finger is wedged on so tight that it pinches back the fat like a dam staving off rising water. I can’t hold back any longer. Get a bigger ring. Get your roots done. Get fewer chins. As I try to decide what it is about this woman that has made me feel as if my gut is boiling, I go in.
            Typical brown. Nothing special. No over-activity. No underactivity. Average. Boring. Unfulfilled professionally. Insecure physically. Likes to knit. Knit? Seriously? There’s nothing here. Wait . . . adopted. Interesting. Why? Foster care until age thirteen. Thirteen? That’s old to still be in the system. She must have been a special teenager, a good kid, to have been adopted that old without all the cuteness of a toddler, the rosy cheeks and all. She must know what it’s like to move a lot, what it’s like to be a new kid. I rub my hands over the memory. High-school graduate. Wife. Mother. Now grandmother. Back to boring. I’m leaving.
            When I come back, she is staring at me, of course. I am used to this by now. I glance at my schedule and then look at her. She allows me this time to look her in the eyes. By now she thinks my spacing out may be due to anxiety or social ineptness caused by moving around a lot, and now she is connected to me. Because she moved around a lot, too. And now she wonders about my parents. She wonders if I have the instability she had. She hopes I find the settling down she found. She wants me to be happy. She needs me to be happy. Because the memory I rubbed a second ago is fresh for her now.
            “I hope you have a good day, dear.” Her lips turn up in a half smile. She is secure in her feelings for me but unsure of my response. Do I forgive her for her tone earlier? Do I understand that she was just frustrated? How was she to know that I was just nervous and not one of the tons of insubordinate, ill-mannered punks she has to manage every day?
            “I hope you have a good day, too. Thanks for all your help.” I even smile.
            Her eyes twinkle. Well, the one I went in does. She is relieved. She would have felt badly all day had I not shown her my acceptance and made her feel as if my transition as the new kid has been made easier thanks to the help of the school secretary.
            I don’t enjoy the easy ones anymore.