1/4
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Claire is thirteen when she first notices it.
She'd mouthed off to her mother earlier – mostly on instinct – and has received a pile of carrots to peel and chop in consequence. She sequesters herself to the farthest corner of the kitchen, as far away from her parents' chatter as possible, absolutely determined in her preteen indignation. She's frowning and muttering darkly to herself, taking out her angst on the poor vegetables, and it's not until she sees specks of red on the white countertop that she realizes that she's been shredding her palm instead of the carrot.
She shrieks and drops everything, but when her mother rushes over, her palm is pink and warm, as healthy and clean as the day she was born. When Lyle asks her what her damage is, it's all she can do to choke out an answer – I don't know.
Her mother sees the drops of blood and frantically runs her hands over Claire, checking for nonexistent injuries, but her father sighs and looks at her sadly. Probably just a hangnail, Sandra, he says. You know how Claire bites her nails.
Right. A hangnail. What she saw…she just didn't get enough sleep last night, that's all. She and Jackie had stayed up with a pile of Gilmore Girls DVDs until the dawn peeked over the horizon, and…that's all it was. TV and caffeine overdose.
Claire's mother says nothing more, just hugs her tightly and nods when her dad tells her that she doesn't have to help cook anymore if she doesn't want to.
--
The second time, she's fifteen and on a field trip to the Natural History Museum. Their class is on a guided tour, grouped together with a class of seniors – seniors! – and she and Jackie huddle together at the edge of the crowd, giggling and watching the older girls toss their hair and smirk at the boys.
Jackie's hair is short, barely reaching her shoulders, and still an unfortunate washed out brown, the result of a failed attempt to reach a Kate Beckinsale-worthy shade of brunette. She'd rescued an old, expired tube of lip gloss from the bottom of her sister's dresser drawer that morning, and the sticky pink was smeared over her mouth unevenly. When we're seniors, we'll be just like them, she whispered to Claire, breath smelling of bubblegum. We'll both have long hair like theirs, and we'll be co-captains of the cheerleading squad, and all the boys will go crazy for us. Won't it be great?
Claire blushes, watching one of the older girls steal a kiss from her gangly boyfriend. Sure, she says, tugging on the long, thick braid that her wild mane of blonde had been wrestled into. It'll be amazing. Jackie narrows her eyes slightly at her.
The tour guide leads the group around a corner and Claire breaks off. Bathroom, she says quickly. Jackie shrugs and rolls her eyes.
She walks over to a railing next to a wall display of fossils, or something, and leans over, looking down over the edge. She can see the other three floors of the museum down below her in the open balcony style, and down down, what seems like miles, is the floor. She squints and thinks she sees a piece of gum stuck to the linoleum.
It's that being Jackie's friend is just so hard sometimes, and she feels kind of like one of those pieces of coal that the tour guide was just talking about, the ones that are buried so far underground that the pressure is so great that it ends up turning it into something completely different. Claire feels a little bit like that piece of coal, only she's not so sure that what she's turning into is a diamond.
So she's thinking about coal and lip gloss and senior cheerleaders when a rush of cool breeze floats up from the open space, and she leans over to capture it, and almost doesn't flinch when a jostle from a stranger sends her toppling over the edge.
It's a hard impact, but it doesn't hurt, and when she opens her eyes, she doesn't understand why she hears screaming. Except when she sits up and sees her leg pointing the wrong way, she starts screaming too.
There are people milling around her now, talking and staring at her with horrified and pitiful eyes, and all she can think of is her class, still on that tour, and how she hopes they don't come down here to see her like this. God, she'd be so embarrassed.
There's a man that pushes his way through the crowd, eyes wide and face pale. He tells everyone to step back and call 911, and he kneels down and tells her not to move, that he's a doctor and he's going to help her.
He asks her if anything hurts and she shakes her head no. His face crinkles into this strange, worried expression and says, you're in shock, maybe. Just don't move, I'm going to help you. Just lay back down.
He helps her lay back down, and she tries to tell him that she's fine, that nothing hurts, because he's looking at her with a vaguely terrified look on his face. Really, what's the big deal? She's more humiliated at this point than anything else, because how many people saw her fall? Jeez, what a graceful move that was.
Her leg doesn't hurt at all, but it looks gross, sticking out all weird like that, so she turns her face toward the doctor guy instead. He's running his hands over her neck, his face chalk white.
What's your name, darlin'? he asks.
Claire.
Claire, can you tell me what year it is?
She rolls her eyes. 2000.
How many fingers, Claire? He holds up three fingers.
Three, she repeats blandly. He frowns and runs a hand over her neck again, and that's getting a little creepy. Could you stop touching my neck? I'm fine.
His face gets a little paler, if at all possible, and he swallows several times before answering. Claire, honey, your neck is broken.
What? That's ridiculous. She wants to laugh. You're crazy, she says.
No, he says. It's then that she notices the rest of the crowd, staring at her with wide, scared eyes. She hears someone sobbing, and a mother to the left of her vision has got her hands around her son's face, clutching him tightly.
There are tears in her eyes. What's happening to me?
The doctor, the kind old doctor, isn't touching her neck anymore. He's not touching her at all, instead he's standing and backing away from her. I don't know.
--
The next thing she remembers after that is waking in the hospital, and her father – oh, Daddy.
You fell off the first floor balcony, Claire-bear, he says, voice firm with a wavering undertone to it. Your wrist is broken, but other than that, the doctors say you're fine. You're very lucky, Claire, that your tour group was on the first floor.
No, she wants to say. That's not right, I was on the fourth floor. I remember counting the numbers in that huge elevator, because I was pressed up next to Mike Brennan, who smells like fish – and I fell, Daddy, and that doctor said I broke my neck, and everyone was scared of me and I think there's something wrong with me, Daddy, something's not right –
But the words cut off in her throat, dry as sandpaper. Instead she merely nods and accepts her father's hug, catching a glimpse of a tall, dark man disappearing from the doorway of her hospital room.
Three weeks later, she sees that doctor, the one who'd helped her, at the mall with his family. She goes up to him, wanting to thank him, but when he looks at her with blank eyes and tells her I think you've got me confused with someone else, darlin' – that's when she starts to suspect.
--
For awhile, she thinks she might be crazy. Hallucinations don't happen to teenagers from small towns in Texas, they happen to drug addicts and psychotic serial killers. She's imagining things like horrible wounds and bloody accidents that never happened, and teenagers from small towns in Texas don't fantasize or imagine things like breaking their own necks or conversations with doctors that never happened.
She thinks that maybe she's suicidal, like that junior girl Rachel who changed her name to Raquella and now wears all black clothes with thick eyeliner, even in the midst of summer. So she steals one of her dad's shavers and pries the blade from the holder. She sits on the edge of her bathtub and stares at it, trying to figure out if she wants to use it or not. She holds it against the skin of her wrist, her throat, her stomach, but she feels only the cool steel. No creepy thoughts, no urge to press and cut and maim. No dark shadows or depressing music. Just an overwhelming feeling of awkwardness. She puts the razor back in her parents' shower, feeling stupid.
But on the first day of her sophomore year, she's sitting in the gym for the opening year assembly. It's hot and boring, but she's in the last row, her back practically pressed up against the cool, cement wall. She looks down at her feet and notices a mouse trap sitting in the corner, one of the heavy duty ones she sees in the paper warehouses when she goes with her dad to work.
It's easy, so easy, to slip her foot out of her sandal and press firmly on the disc of metal that she knows will set off the trap. The click and whoosh of the trap is too soft for anyone but her to hear, but the guy next to her does hear the quick intake of breath she makes when the metal slams down on Claire's big toe, again, mostly from the sound of the bone crunching rather than any pain.
Are you okay? he asks. Claire snaps her head over to look at him, vaguely remembering him from a class at some point. She vaguely remembers his name. Mac?
I'm fine, she snaps. It's Zach, she remembers now. Leave me alone.
He scoffs, face hardening. He turns back to the front, shaking his head, and crouches as far away from her as he can while still sitting in his chair.
Claire turns back to her foot, reaching down surreptitiously to pry the metal contraption away from her toe. She watches with teary eyes as the bloody mass that once was her big toe slowly knits itself back together, leaving red-stained but healthy skin behind.
She throws the trap aside and stuffs her foot back into her sandal. She bites and tears at her nails for the rest of the assembly.
--
She pushes it to the back of her mind. It's sophomore year, after all, and she's old enough to try out for the cheerleading squad now. Jackie spends a lot of time talking about appearances now, and how certain things will look to the popular kids. She ditches the pink backpack she carried around forever in favor of a trendy, camouflage messenger bag that barely holds all her makeup, let alone her books. Claire reluctantly gives up her own teddy bear backpack in favor of a shoulder bag of her own, flinching when Jackie rolls her eyes disdainfully.
You've had that thing since like, fifth grade, Claire. God, it's so kiddie I want to puke.
Jackie talks about their status as high schoolers as if it's some sort of sacred club that they've finally gained entrance to. Gilmore Girls, Claire? Jeez, we're in high school now. Don't you think it's time to spend our time doing something a little more productive?
Like what? Claire wonders. All Jackie does nowadays is practice her cheers and her makeup. It doesn't seem very productive to her.
As it turns out, she has a biology class with that Zach kid, from the day in assembly, and right before the first quiz of the year the teacher pairs them up for a study assignment. He looks grumpy and slams his book down in the desk next to hers, and she thinks back to what she'd said and feels a little guilty. So she smiles and lets him use her notes, which are a lot better than his, and helps him remember the difference between kingdom and phylum. He's sulky at first, but the next day after class he shows her his quiz, where a giant red B is printed at the top, and says, who knew blonde cheerleaders could study? I learn something new everyday.
She punches his shoulder. I'm not a cheerleader yet.
At lunch, she invites Zach to sit with her and Jackie, and he spends the entire period making her laugh by retelling last night's episode of Third Watch in a hillbilly accent. Jackie spends the whole time looking around frantically, and she doesn't laugh once.
After Zach leaves, Jackie pulls her aside and asks her just what the hell she thinks she's doing.
Making a friend? Claire guesses. She never knows exactly what to say when Jackie gets angry at her.
What do you think I've been working on? Jackie whines. Look, if you want to get on the squad, you can't be seen with people like him.
People like who?
Jackie looks at her as if she's just declared that shoulder pads have come back into style. You can't be serious, Jackie says incredulously. He's a nerd! Claire frowns, and Jackie huffs impatiently. If you wanna hang out with him, fine. But don't expect me to sit with you at lunch anymore. And don't even get your hopes up about making the squad. Jackie storms off in a cloud of body spray.
--
The following week, they try out for the squad. Jackie makes it. Claire doesn't.
The next morning when Zach shows up at her locker with his older brother's old Bio notes in tow, she slams the locker door shut and ignores him. She studiously keeps her gaze on the hall in front of her, chin held high, hearing him call her name, first in confusion, then in anger.
It isn't until she reaches her next class that she notices the huge bruise on her wrist. She watches it disappear, and rubs it on her jeans, hoping no one will notice the blood that comes from nowhere.
--
She's been doing a pretty good job, she thinks. She stays away from sharp objects and busy streets, and Lyle teases her sometimes about being a scaredy cat, but she knows he'd be much more terrified if she were to slip up, so she clutches onto his hand tightly and runs across intersections as if chased by a ghost.
And she's popular, now, really popular. It doesn't really matter that she's not on the squad, because Jackie is, and having a best friend with high status is a huge asset. She goes to parties and chats with all the right people, stroking egos and cutting people down when she has to, and before she knows it she can't walk down the hall at school without being stopped by someone. It's distracting and busy and incredibly, fantastically normal. Her thoughts are filled by spirit cookies and dance decoration committees, and broken bones and hallucinations never cross her thoughts.
Then suddenly, it's her junior year of high school, she's sixteen and Jackie flounces into her room with a cheerleading uniform and scathing commentary about Lori Trammel – and her vision is complete. I'm in? Are you kidding?
Jackie smirks, and somehow, the expression is still mean. Claire, destiny is calling you.
But a stupid fight leads into broken glass and a trip to the ER, and as Claire clutches her bloody hand, slowly knitting back together beneath the dish towel her mother has wrapped around it, a feeling of dread settles in her stomach, unlike anything she's ever felt before. Jackie's in the seat beside her, guilty doe eyes skittering away from her whenever Claire turns to look at her.
Destiny is calling you.
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