The space in front of my locker is crowded with people and for a moment I indulge the fantasy that they’re waiting to talk to me. But I know better. Robert Jones is one of the most popular guys in school and his locker is on my right—thus the majority of the crowd.

On my left is Michelle.

We used to be friends. Now we have this wary sort of acquaintanceship. Michelle glances in my direction and even though I see her catch sight of me—that slight widening of her eyes—she gestures to the two girls with her and they walk off together toward the cafeteria.

Whatever.

I bodily shove some big guy talking to Robert out of my way so I can get into my locker.

Unfortunately as I touch the scratched metal surface, I feel a tickling at the edge of my brain.

A vision.

Fan-freaking-tabulous. Just what I need before school even starts.

Now it’s a race to get my locker open so I can crouch down and lean against it and look like I’m doing something. Something else.

I spin to the last number and yank up on the locker handle. It doesn’t budge.

Damn it! I start to try the combo again, but it’s too late. I’m going to have to sit on the floor. My legs bend, almost too easily, and I drop hard to my knees. I lean my forehead against the cool metal and breathe slowly, trying not to draw attention to myself.

The visions themselves aren’t that big a deal; they’re usually over in less than a minute. But I hate getting them in public because in those seconds I’m blind to the world. If no one speaks to me I’m fine—no one notices, the vision eventually dissipates, the world starts turning again, and life continues.

But if anyone tries to get my attention it’s a little hard to miss the fact that I’m completely unresponsive. After that, I suffer mockery for days. Or I used to. It’s a little better now that I’m in high school. People already know I’m a freak and just ignore me. The trade-off is, of course, that everybody knows I’m a freak.

Can’t think about that now. I suck in air slowly, like I’m breathing through a straw, and stare straight ahead. I visualize grabbing a black curtain and pulling it over my inner eye—my “third eye,” as Sierra always calls it—to block out the vision. Mental visuals seem to help.

I’ll be affected by the foretelling no matter what, but if I black out my mind, fill it with darkness, then I won’t see it.

And if I can’t see, I won’t be tempted to do anything about it.

As an added bonus, when I fight it, the vision generally passes more quickly. Which, when I’m at school, is the number one goal.

Sierra spent years trying different methods to help me block out my visions: a big, black paintbrush; turning off an imaginary switch; even covering my third eye with imaginary hands. The black curtain works best for me.

But no one can see what I’m doing on the inside; they only see the outside. And on the outside I’m some girl, kneeling on the dirty floor, my head against my locker, completely still with my eyes wide open.

I can’t close them. Closing your eyes is a gesture of surrender.

I cling to the words I used to resent:

Never surrender.

Never give up.

Don’t close your eyes.

I say them over and over like a mantra, focusing on the words instead of the force of the vision fighting to get into my head.

An incoming vision feels like a huge hand squeezing your skull, trying to dig its fingers into your brain. You have to push back as hard as you can—with every ounce of concentration you have—or it’ll find a soft spot and get in. The pressure grows to a fever pitch, and then, just as it gets truly painful, it starts to fade. That’s when you know you’ve won.

Today, as usual, I win. It’s so normal, it doesn’t even feel triumphant. As the sensation ebbs away, my body belongs to me again. My lungs cry for air and even though I want to gulp it in, I do the breathing-from-a-straw thing so I don’t hyperventilate. Made that mistake once in fourth grade and passed out. Not my finest moment.

A few more seconds and I’ll be able to see again. Hear again. The noise filters in like turning the volume up on a radio and, as soon as I have the strength, I straighten my spine and let my eyes dart carefully from side to side to see if anyone noticed.

No one’s paying attention. I reach for my backpack and my hand covers a shoe instead. I look up to find Linden Christiansen towering above my head and holding my backpack.

Mortification and delight fight to drown me.

He reaches out a hand and I wish it meant anything other than that he’s a nice guy helping a girl up. But as soon as I’m on my feet, he drops his arm. “Migraine coming on?” he asks, handing over my backpack.

The lie that rules my life. “Yeah,” I mumble.

He’s looking at me and I let myself meet his gaze—and thus risk turning into a babbling moron at the sight of his light blue eyes that remind me of a still pond. “I t-took some new meds this morning,” I stammer, “but I guess they haven’t quite kicked in yet.”

“Do you want to call your mom?” he asks, his forehead wrinkling with concern. “Go home?”

I force a smile and a shaky laugh. “No, I’ll be okay. I just need to get to class and sit down. They’ll start working soon.”

“Are you sure? You want me to carry your backpack or anything?”

I’m tempted to let him. Anything to buy a few more minutes. But the vision has passed—I’m completely fine now. And my ego rebels against faking weakness for a guy.