Page 1 of Flickerstate

Chapter One

Eight months before they feed me to the machine, I visit the Academy for the first time.

After a long drive through lush woods, the shuttle drops us outside a granite mansion, pearl gray with arched windows. A sign reading THE ACADEMY OF NAVIGATION—ADMISSIONS & ADMINISTRATION stands on the mansion’s lawn. To the left and right loom stone buildings with turrets, gargoyles, and wrought iron curling everywhere like vines.

Mom adjusts the handbag strap cutting into her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do,” I say. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

Actually, we’re going to be three minutes early, my favorite arrival time. Arriving three minutes early says that you’re punctual but not neurotic, eager but not desperate.

I mean, Iamdesperate.

But that’s just another reason to wear my game face.

“One second.” Mom smooths the wrinkles on her dress. The faded rose print looks like someone flayed Grandma’s sofa. Earlier, in the dark before the airport, I had suggested more flattering options. But Mom said the dress would be comfortable for travel, and she looked so tired that, for once, I didn’t feel like arguing.

Since Dad, she’s been sleepless.

Inside Admissions, a thick emerald carpet sucks the sound from our footsteps. Office doors line the gleaming wood-paneled walls. On the atrium’s far side, a staircase ascends to the balcony level.

The nearest door bears a shiny plaque: DR. MARISSA LANGMORE—NAVIGATION PROGRAM DIRECTOR.

I check my phone: 10:57 a.m. Three minutes early, as predicted.

I knock.

No response.

I hesitate. If there’s a waiting room behind the closed door, I should enter and introduce myself to the administrative assistant. If there’s only Dr. Langmore’s office, I should wait till 11:00 a.m. sharp and knock again.

I want to believe that if I commit a minor faux pas, it won’t tank my chances. But the Academy accepts just ten senior transfers a year, even though most navigators don’t manifest their abilities until at least sixteen. The Academy has the oldest high school navigation program in the world,andit’s tuition-free. Thousands of would-be transfers are clamoring to fill those ten spots. Who can say how the Academy chooses among the finalists? Maybe an ugly haircut or an annoying voice sends your application straight to the incinerator.

God knows I can’t rely on my luck.

“What’s the holdup?” Mom asks.

I check my phone—10:58 a.m.—and knock harder.

“For goodness’ sake.” Mom steps around me and flings open the door.

Inside the office, Dr. Langmore sits behind a sleek desk. Framed pictures adorn her cream walls: ink drawings of the campus, a North Carolina Symphony poster, and a huge photo of the Academy’s groundbreaking ceremony. In the photo, Dr. Langmore cuts a green ribbon with giant scissors. Famous donors—a tech billionaire, a media mogul, a retired senator, just to name a few—bare whitened teeth behind her.

Dr. Langmore must be over sixty, but the French twist pulling her forehead taut makes her look younger. She wears a double-strand pearl necklace and an elegant oatmeal pantsuit. Across from her sits a square-jawed man. Another donor, probably. I don’t recognize him, but every shiny detail announces his importance, from the distinguished silver at his blond temples to his two-tone gold watch, which must have cost more than Mom’s Corolla.

Dr. Langmore and the man stare at us.

Mom draws herself up to her full height (so, five feet flat). “We’re here for the interview. For Norah Sullivan? At eleven?”

Dr. Langmore checks her watch—thin, tasteful, only costhalfa Corolla. “Could you wait outside for…two more minutes?”

“Sure thing!” I say from the threshold. “Sorry we bothered you.”

As soon as Mom retreats, I shut the door and stalk deeper intothe building.

“It’s not a big deal, Norah,” Mom says too loudly.

My jaw tightens. I keep walking.