To stay in the light. To leave this dark and dangerous life. Or at least have the power to choose.
“I don’t know,” I lie. I’m thankful I’m lying down because I can feel my legs weakening, trembling under the weight of my thoughts, my words, my lies. I push my head further into the plush decorative pillows, no longer perfectly arranged on the bed. Sam is quiet on the other end of the phone. I can hear her breathing, hear her thinking.
“What are you so afraid of?”
My eyes close as I listen to the sound of my breath going in and out of my lungs. I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of angering my parents and wasting my talent if I choose college. I’m scared of a life full of constant fear and alienation if I choose the Black Angels. I’m scared of never falling in love and never being happy.
“I don’t know,” I lie again, my voice soft and distant.
I hear Sam sigh on the other end of the phone followed by the click, click, click of her biting her thumbnail. One of her emotional ticks. I wonder if she even notices she does it but I certainly do. She stays silent, waiting for me to get uncomfortable and fill the quiet with the truth. It’s a psychological secret we both know. Cops and reporters know it too. Watch any interrogation or interview. They stay quiet because people hate silence. It makes them squirm. They’ll almost always fill it with the words on the tip of their tongue, even the words they don’t want to say.
“You only get one life,” Sam finally says. “No one’s going to be able to give you a road map and you can’t live it for somebody else. You’ve got to live it for you.”
“But my parents, my training—” I begin.
“Reagan, I’m not going to lie to you,” Sam cuts me off. “Your talent is unprecedented. It would be a huge blow to the agency if you didn’t choose this life. But if your heart isn’t in it, you’ll be no good to us either.”
The early warning sign of tears sting the corners of my eyes. I quickly close them before those salty drops have a chance to fully develop. I keep my eyes closed and breathe deep, digging my fingers into my hip bones and forcing them back down.
“The moment will come when you’ll know what to do,” Sam finally says. “When it does come, pay attention. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t let it slip away.”
“Okay” is all I can muster.
“Good luck at Templeton,” Sam says. “I’ll be here if you need anything. Love you, Reagan.”
“Love you, Sam,” I say and touch my screen to end our call. I toss the phone to my side, fold my hands across my rib cage, and feel shallow breaths forcing my body up and down. I’ve never really bothered to think about what I want for my life. It’s never felt like an option. Becoming a Black Angel is the only future I’ve ever known. But the thought of your future shouldn’t make you physically ill, should it? I’ve blown it off as nerves. As lingering paranoia left over from Philadelphia. But maybe it’s more than that.
My fingertips run along my left hand until they reach the bracelet on my wrist. I press the hearts between my fingers and try to steady my breath. I have to make a decision, I know I do. Sam just handed me a ticking bomb and time’s about to run out.
TEN
“Old Templeton is the oldest building on campus,” Katie, our Templeton sophomore tour guide, says, standing in the shadow of the massive stone building. With its proud spires, heavy wood doors, and arched windows, Old Templeton is the crown jewel of the gothic-style architecture on campus. “Old Templeton provides housing for upperclassmen and is said to be one of the most haunted buildings here. So hopefully you won’t mind if your roommate is a friendly ghost or two.”
The small group of parents and prospective students politely chuckle at what can only be a canned joke Katie repeats on every tour. I look up at Luke with a smirk. His blue eyes return my silly smugness with a wink.
“Well, that concludes our tour of Templeton College,” Katie says, clapping her hands together. “Hope you enjoyed it and hope you have a wonderful day exploring our beautiful campus.”
If Katie was hoping her handclap would signify the end of our hour with her, she was mistaken. A foursome of uptight, East Coast, old-money parents in expensive trench coats and heavy knit sweaters swarm Katie and immediately begin firing off questions before she even has a moment to breathe.
“The acceptance rate is twenty-three percent, so how good do your ACT scores have to be? What were your ACT scores?”
“Tell me about the sororities on campus. Does Templeton have Delta Gamma? I’m a legacy.”
“What’s the food like here? Is it all organic? Do you have sushi?”
“I’m not pleased with the size of the rooms here. Could we purchase two rooms? And make one room a closet and dressing area for our daughter? Maybe knock down a wall?”