Prophecy Girl (Lacuna Valley #1)

Chapter Six

 The right side of Sam's head had a short, stabbing, lightening bolt of pain throbbing up to her eye. Her stomach responded to it with waves of nausea, and the thought of sitting through the day at school wasn't appealing to her at all. Mary and Leigh were standing over her tossing a mandarin back and forth. Their laughter was loud and pushing Sam's patience over the edge. She gripped the book tighter in her hands and tried to concentrate on her breathing.

The whole world was different. Couldn't they see? How could they go about tossing around fruit when everything was so awful? It was callous.

She stared at Mary's smiling face. Mary. Mary didn't know. Was Mary going to want to be her friend anymore once she knew? Oh, god, could she see it on her face? Sam looked back down at her lap.

The sound of her breathing started to soothe her anxiety, and then she caught sight of the little green book in her lap. The words she'd read were clear in her mind. She closed her eyes, desperate to think of anything else, and the streak of lightening pulsing through her head pounded harder and faster. The words, and the pain, were unavoidable.

Everyone was going to know—about her mother, about her, about Violet, about everything. Violet. Oh, Violet. The misery was a fire burning up through her chest, consuming everything she had. She couldn't breathe.

“Hellooooo? Earth to Sam? Anybody home?” Mary gently tapped the side of Sam's head. She jerked down and gripped the book tight in her hands. “What's that?” Mary reached for the book, still smiling at Sam, and tried to tug it out of her grasp. Sam's teeth clenched. She managed to say no, but Mary didn't seem to hear it. Sam felt the instinct to yank the book away and hit Mary in the head with it, and her teeth ground down fighting it. Couldn't she see Sam was in pain? Didn't she know everything was wrong? Mary kept tugging, and Sam couldn't think of what to do. The pain was too great. With the book firmly tucked under her arm, Sam pulled herself up and took off running. She pushed through the doors at the end of the hallway without looking back. She barely noticed the steep hill, or the passing woods, as she tumbled through the snow as fast as it would let her through.

The cold air ached in the bottom of her throat and after her fourth or fifth fall she didn't try to get back up. Each breath was loud and labored, which made it easier for her to focus on. The side of Sam's face was resting on the snow, numbing her head enough that the lightening bolt dimmed, as did her thoughts. They were still there—just quieter, making them easier to manage.

She sat up and tried to wipe off the snow, but couldn't tell how well she was doing with her numb hands. The book sat in her lap, mostly unharmed. The sight of it made her close her eyes.

She knew this had to be about her mother, but she never could have imagined this. She never should have read the book. How was she going to look her mother in the face now? It would have been better not to know. Why did her mother hate her so much? The question had of course occurred to her before, but now things were different. Everything was different. Since coming to the valley she'd been amazed by how surreal everything seemed. It was nothing compared to how surreal it was now.

She wrapped her arms around her legs and cradled her head on her knees. Softly, she whispered to herself, every other word cracking in her hoarse, cold voice, “I'm not her, I'm not her, I'm not her...”

It was hard to convince herself when she thought of the rage she'd felt toward Mary. Was she any better than her mother at all? She tried to tell herself she wasn't like her mother; she wouldn't have hit Mary. The guilt in her gut made her close her eyes and repeat it to herself some more, as if saying it would make it true.

Eventually the silence took her voice and thoughts away, and Sam grew so still that for the first time in her life she felt the peace of belonging somewhere. She belonged here, with the trees and the rocks and the clouds that never moved.