Chapter One

How Soon is Now?

Ember

Late May, 1989

I pulled the Three of Swords tarot card today while doing my lunchtime three card spread. Because of course I did. Three swords piercing a heart, surrounded by dark clouds and unrelenting rain, just about sum up my high school experience in one word: brutal. It’s one of the many reasons I sit alone at lunch. Always. I’m fine with it. The fewer people I have to talk to, the easier it is to hide what needs to be hidden. And looking around the chaotic lunchroom, I know I’m better off keeping to myself. 

I’m in my usual uniform, Dress: black. Boots: black. Hair: black. Skin: pale. Lips: bloody red. I’ve cobbled together a wardrobe of cast-off clothing to suit my “Island of Misfit Toys” vibe, topped off with the long scarf I knit way back, in one of those bonding moments with one of my many foster mothers.

I notice white bread crumbs in my lap, stark against my black dress, and quickly brush them to the floor. My hands halt as two of the popular girls slow their walk as they encounter my table, “Nice Devil cards—freak!” followed by the voice of the other one: “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the weirdest of them all?” 

It’s Traci, or Tammi, or maybe Tori? It’s one of those “T” names that ends with an ‘i’ that they dot with a heart. Anyway, I don’t know them, but they sure know me. They all know me. I am, after all, the goth scene at my school. That’s right, it’s just me, and I’ve put the target on my back. I don’t care if it keeps them from getting near me. Whatever. 

Instead of trying and failing to fit in, I spend my time making stuff—art, clothes, hand-knit accessories, imaginary worlds, and, you know, drama. But the drama is accidental. It’s just my way, I guess. 

Looking down again, I notice the laces of my Doc Martens boots are untied. I’ve totally modded them, a flaming heart painted on one and three swords stabbing a heart on the other, like the Tarot card. All-Seeing Eyes, pyramids, and other iconic symbols round out the imagery. The symbols haunt me though, like they hold all the secrets of the universe. I don’t need more cryptic messages coming from the universe than I’ve already got—but I’ll get to that in a minute. So I draw and paint my hearts and icons, shutting out the world with each new creation. If it’s not visual art, I’m behind my sewing machine, instead of pretending I care about high school football or Nintendo Legend of Zelda.

No matter what I’m working on though, I spend too much of my time imagining my secret world, dreaming it to life, then drawing it in Art class. My private world is different, yet somehow familiar, existing in the same space as this world, only slightly off. Looking out the high windows along the cafeteria wall, I squint my eyes, hoping I can find just the right angle to see my secret world. I swear, sometimes that works.

Rummaging around in my bag for my walkman, my hand closes around a bulky shape. What the… Did some jerk slip something gross into my bag? Looking into my bag, I see that it’s a large padded envelope, the corners a bit ragged and beat up. Colorful stamps of the Queen cover the upper right corner. My heartbeat picks up a little more, but this time in excitement. Mrs. B must’ve shoved this into my bag last night or something. 

It’s addressed to (dec)Em-burr wRight. He spells my name differently every single time. What a cheeky bloke! Tearing open the envelope, I stifle a squeal of delight. My British penpal, Rory, sent me a mixtape, and I just know it’s going to be brilliant, as he would say. I quickly switch it for the Bauhaus tape I had been listening to.

I arrange my hair to cover the foam covered discs, it seems futile, but I still try to hide the shock of bright orange. Standing up from the lunch table, I pick up my half-eaten pb&j and walk to the trash, dread growing in the pit of my stomach, wishing that Nico shared my lunch hour. Nico is rad. She’s my best friend, except for Mr. Whitley. That doesn’t exactly count though because he’s kind of my godfather. Plus, I work for him, so there’s that. But really, how many lame friends do I need when I’ve got Nico? Unfortunately, our only shared class is Creative Writing. I swear it’s like the only thing that I’m better at than her. She’s super talented and unshakable and nobody even tries to bully her, even though she’s far from normal. It all just rolls off her back. I try to act like that, but people know when you’re faking it.

“Outta my way, foozler!” I command the wannabe jock who decided to step out in front of me, harassing on his mind.

Looking only at the floor and then to my Egyptian hieroglyphics-covered book bag, I click the play button, and the music begins. The Smiths drowns out the rest of the world, including the random things I occasionally hear about people in my head. That’s right, I hear things about people, and I really don’t want to. And what’s worse is that the things I hear are true. Occasionally, I’ll be walking by someone, and I’ll suddenly know something about them that I shouldn’t. Like there’s a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering to me. And before you get too far into telling me that it’s not normal to hear that stuff, I’ll tell you that I’m not normal. Whether it’s a secret they’re keeping or a deep-seated fear, I randomly hear it. I know it as sure as I know my name, December Roisin Wright, and yes, at the beginning of every new school year, I have to tell all my teachers to please, please, call me Ember.

And before you ask, it’s pronounced Ro-sheen.

I’m fine with not fitting in. It’s the easiest way to guard my secrets—like the eight oval scars that start at my temples and work their way up to my forehead just below the hairline. They’re more like blotches, really, unmistakably lighter than my skin, shimmering when the light hits them just right, fluctuating and shifting reality ever so slightly when I look at them too long in the mirror. I avoid looking at them. They leave me feeling unsettled and shaky, if you can believe that weirdness. I wear a thick fringe of bangs just above my eyebrows, covering my forehead and temples, because no matter how much makeup I wear, I can never be sure that others won’t see them.

A voice rings in my ears. This time it’s an unbidden memory, bringing with it the visual accompaniment, like a movie clip. I’m a little kid, playing on the monkey bars during recess, maybe in third grade. My hair hangs down, away from my face as I practice feats of daredevilry, suspended from the bar by just my legs. “Look at Ember! She has spots on her forehead. Weirdo!” A young boy’s voice echoes in my mind, shouting as loudly in my memory as he did that day. I’ve never let the spots show since then.

I make it out of the lunchroom and pull the headphones off my ears to rest around my neck. Walking the nearly silent halls to the Art room, frustration wells up in me at the unwelcome memory replaying itself. When will my mind ever stop showing me things I don’t wanna see, not to mention seeing things at all? C’mon brain, can’t we just be friends?

Turning the handle I find Ms. Ragana eating lunch at her desk, halfheartedly sketching a figure onto a canvas in front of her. She casts her striking golden brown eyes in my direction and looks up, unsurprised to see me. 

“Hi Ember. Back to work on your landscape?” She turns back to face her own drawing: her grandfather, as she’d shared with me. Taken from a photo later in his life, his hair worn in a close-cropped afro, his brown skin echoed perfectly in Ms. Ragana’s skin tone. She’s wearing her hair as she often does, in large braids that twist themselves into a sculptural updo.

“Yes, Ms. Ragana.” As I glance in her direction, I see the oversized woven shawl she always wears, draped over her chair with one end drawn out and laying on the floor. I turn to pick it up, but as my fingers near the multicolored fabric, my mind’s eye floods with images: Ms. Ragana as a young woman, likely even my age, seated in a large open room with walls covered in tapestries and what looks like hanging looms. The young woman holds a long narrow shaft of wood wrapped with yarn in her idle hands, a spindle for spinning yarn from wool, by hand. But the sight is such a strange and incongruous vision, compared to my teacher, who sits sketching.

I quickly jerk my hand back with a startled gasp. “Weird!” I exclaim without meaning to. Because what was that? I could only hope that she hasn’t witnessed my bizarro-world moment. But of course, she has, saying, “What’s that, dear?” piercing me with knowing eyes. The look she wears is inscrutable as she studies me. Then, her face opens to a smile.

“Oh—oh, n-nothing. I just wanted to pick up the end of your shawl from the floor, and I saw…well, never mind. Here’s your shawl.” I extend my hand, my heart beating faster at my near admission of seeing things. It’s bad enough that I hear things, but lately, I see things as well, like I’m some kind of psychic or something…except the Visions that pop into my head are entirely useless, if they’re Visions at all. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.

But Ms. Ragana interrupts my thoughts, saying, “Thank you, Ember. That was thoughtful of you to notice.” Her eyes continue to bore into me, and I feel my pulse quicken and my cheeks flush. 

“You’re welcome,” I reply and quickly walk away, avoiding her stare. Before I can get too far, I turn on my heel. “Ms. Ragana, do you knit? Or spin yarn?” It feels dangerous to ask the question, though I know she can’t know what I’ve seen.

“As a matter of fact, I do, Ember. Why do you ask?” There’s that inscrutable and appraising look again.

“No reason, I was just curious. I knit, too.” My answer is awkward, and she smiles as though she knows the true meaning behind my question yet chooses to say nothing.

Turning away, I walk quickly to the back of the room, pulling my art from the slatted storage shelves and an easel from the corner. I set it up in front of my assigned table, sitting on, rather than behind it. Pulling my graphite pencil set out of my book bag, I begin to shade the surreal image of an ultra modern building erupting through the city’s abandoned mental institution. This is what happens in both my dreams and daydreams. If I stare too long at the sanitarium, I  sometimes see a haze dancing around the field of my vision. But something always distracts me, interrupting the effect. It’s another of my secrets and one I hold closely, fearing that if I told anyone, I might well end up in an actual mental hospital

… guarded words heard in a dream

 a secret no one speaks

is there light in the dark

or is it a fire to burn away the secret

leaving only ashes in my hands… 

“Ugh, not today!” I mutter to myself in disgust as I drop my pencil, causing Ms. Ragana to look over at me quizzically. 

“Oh, sorry, just having a disagreement with my drawing.” I hide the larger unexplainable truth within a smaller truth, hoping that I just sound distracted as I pick up my pencil. 

Why is this my day? Like I need this stupid song loop stuck in my head. No secret messages today, please. This is so not what I need.

Another secret is that I, like most people who love music, get songs stuck in my head. I read something once, while researching the phenomenon that referred to it as Stuck Song Syndrome. But when I get an earworm stuck, playing over and over, it’s more like a premonition than an annoyance. Actually, it’s both. But whatever the song is about comes true in some way, a warning of what is to come. I figure it’s an extension of the whole “hearing secrets about people” thing.

Once, I got part of Wham’s Careless Whisper stuck in my head for weeks just before my foster parents, or the flavor of the month as I call them, announced their impending divorce due to cheating. The divorce landed me in yet another home, with new foster parents and a new school. The song played over and over in my mind, and then it happened. And I don’t even like that song. So it’s an added insult to injury.

 I try to ignore the ear worm and continue to shade the dramatic building eruption scene. This is different from my normal drawings of different parts of the city. There’s so much diversity in the buildings, some towering, some ornate, but always at the center of my drawings is a vast squat building with a domed turret that looks like a planetarium. Tall statues guard the four corners of the buildings: two men and two women dressed in old-fashioned garb. It feels like a Temple or a public auditorium, but I can never decide what purpose this imaginary building serves. I wish I could just visit it and know what it is.