Chapter 1
Out Of The Shadows
just knew today was going to be a bitch, though my
ability to see disasters before they happened had
nothing to do with it.
Professor Stein charged into class, late as usual. In one
practiced move she tossed down her battered briefcase and
snatched up a dry erase marker. As she scrawled out a
chemical formula that looked alien in origin on the room’s
giant white board, she called out, “Yes, this will be on the
test.”
The guy on my right swore under his breath. “Can I
borrow a pen?”
Scuffed Vans and oral board shorts marked him as a
member of the skater crowd. His shoulder-length, tightly
waved hair had probably been black once, but long hours in
the sun had left it tipped with blonde. His one concession
to the cooler fall weather was to throw on a hoodie. This
being Southern California, “fall weather” was a relative
term.
He reached for my spare ballpoint with a grateful smile,
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but the moment his brown-skinned hand grazed mine the
classroom disappeared, and I slipped out of reality.
That was my secret and my curse, what kept me on the
outside looking in. I saw things—emotional, important
events in peoples’ past or future. And like it or not, I was
about to spy on Skater Boy.
The image was faded and jumpy, a sure sign what I was
about to see hadn’t happened yet. He loitered in one of the
school’s parking lots, and as if by magic, a red car appeared
next to him at the curb. Skater Boy leaned into the driver’s
side window, his hands resting on the roof. Maybe his girl‐
friend was about to break up with him. A tragedy as far as
he was concerned, but nothing I’d lose sleep over.
The vision ashed forward again. The paint on the car
began to bubble like soup left simmering on the stove, and
little wisps of smoke curled up from the hood. Then with a
start I was back in Chem 101. Only a fraction of a second
had passed, but it always felt much longer.
Future visions were often tantalizingly obscure, and
usually more annoying than disturbing. It’s why I always
brushed them aside. You try telling someone to cancel a
rager because her parents would be coming home early
from vacation and see the grief you get. Besides, it wasn’t
like destiny needed any help from me.
I suffered a pang of regret when Skater Boy returned the
pen at the end of class. He had warm brown eyes and a
delightfully lopsided smile, the kind that put people
instantly at ease. I would just have to hope he had the good
sense to avoid red cars.
2
THE NINE
THE WARMTH of the midday sun helped burn off the
uneasiness that troubled me the rest of the morning, and it
felt good to stretch my legs on the way to the food court. I
passed buildings with coral tile roofs, graceful archways,
and stucco walls the color of old parchment. A game of
lunchtime Frisbee had sprung up on one of the rambling
lawns, and a few girls had even stripped down to shorts
and sports bras to catch some rays.
“Hello, Blake Wilder.” The guy who fell into step beside
me came out of nowhere. He was tall and lean with short
dark hair framing a handsomely angular face. His navy
cashmere sweater over a pair of dark tted jeans were a
denite step up from the just-rolled-out-of-bed look the
rest of us strived for.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.
He smiled with such warmth my body heated up in
response. I might not have much experience with the oppo‐
site sex, but it wasn’t for lack of interest on my part.
“I know a lot about you,” he said in the same posh
accent as the actors in my favorite BBC shows. “For
instance, I know you saw something today no one else did.”
The blood drained from my face, and I stumbled to a
halt. The main reason I’d applied to a small state college
almost three hundred miles from home was for a chance to
reinvent my life. If my new set of classmates found out they
went to school with the main character from a Stephen
King novel, I’d go right back to being a social reject faster
than you could say Carrie White.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s not true.” The
lie sounded weak even to my own ears.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” he said.
“That’s because there’s nothing to tell. Now leave me
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KES TRESTER
alone.” I bolted for the food court. My best friend Scarlett
would be waiting, but I’d suddenly lost all interest in lunch.
She’d staked out a booth by the café’s windows, a
glossy magazine open on the table as she took yet another
of those ridiculous quizzes (Good Girl/Bad Girl: Which One
Are You?). I threw myself onto the padded bench across
from her.
“What’s wrong?” She calmly checked off another box
on the questionnaire.
In another era, Scarlett would have been a battleeld
nurse, dodging bullets and slapping on bandages without
breaking a sweat. She never blinked at all the drama in my
life, and as a theatre kid, she once joked being clairvoyant
was easy; it was comedy that was hard.
My ngers dug into the seat cushion. “I’ve been recog‐
nized, and somehow he knows what I can do.”
“Could be worse. According to this,” she said, tapping
the magazine with her pen, “I’m a ‘caged tiger waiting for
someone to show up with the key.’”
I scowled at her. “I’m serious.”
“Me too! You try living on skinless chicken and carrot
sticks, and then we’ll talk about what’s important.” The
diet she’d started months ago had resulted in curves I
envied. She’d always been pretty with vibrant red hair and
a dusting of freckles across her cheeks, but now her gure
turned heads.
“There was a guy,” I reiterated. “He knows what I am.”
She raised a brow. “At least tell me he was hot.”
“Scarlett!”
“Okay, okay.” She dropped her pen and leaned back in
her seat. “We’ll gure something out, but let’s order lunch
rst. Caged tigers think better when you throw us a naked
green salad with a scoop of tuna.”
4
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