Page 59 of Flickerstate

“But it’s not only the navigator who determines how their nav manifests,” Bree says. “It’s also the person looking at the navigator. So maybe it’s Vik giving you wings.”

“And everyone else is, what, setting me on fire?”

It’s a snide question, but Bree takes it seriously. “Their intimidation is, maybe.”

“I’m not intimidating.”

She chortles. “You know your class nickname is Intense Girl Norah?”

“Class nickname? We have cutesy alter egos?”

“Not all of us,” Candace says. “I have not been so blessed.”

“What about you, Bree?”

“I’m Weak Sauce,” Bree says. “Because I didn’t siphon anyone during the screening. I guess…people think I didn’t deserve to make the trials.” She forces a smile, pretending the joke doesn’t sting. Candace puts a comforting hand on her arm.

I rub my knuckles over the hummingbird, grounding myself in the carpet’s nubbly texture. “You guys don’t find me intimidating, right?”

“Kind of?” Bree says. “You are intense. Which isn’t always bad! But when you talk about the trials, you get laser eyes. And your face goes all…”

“Lapidary,” Candace supplies. “But no, you don’t intimidate me.”

Her chill makes me feel better. I wrench my mind from my other classmates, who have apparently been whining about my scary personality. “Well, overlook my face and imagine my nav as something nice, okay?”

Candace laughs, a sharp huff through her nose. “We can but try.”

The days till the trial fly past. Candace, Bree, and I work on shifting our flickerstate concepts. Candace imagines me as a burning red sun, powering her plantlike nav through magical photosynthesis or whatever. On our fifth try, I still singe her leaves, but she navigates through a fourteen-card draw with what she takes from me. She imagines Bree as a pink wooden trellis supporting her, andthat helps too—but not much. The lattice keeps softening, suspiciously fabric-like, and collapsing.

“I see objects if I concentrate,” Bree explains, “but when I lose focus, it’s disco lights.”

“Then don’t lose focus,” I say.

She snorts. “Okay, Laser Eyes.”

***

That Thursday, Candace, Bree, and I go to the September Birthdays Party.

Candace believes in fashionable lateness. By the time we leave for Zipporah’s block on the second floor, we’re the only people in the stairwell.

Party sounds reach us: music, laughter, the splash of a dropped drink. When we exit onto the second floor, I see that Zipporah has commandeered the block opposite hers as well. Seniors spill from both doors, crossing the hall between them.

“Let’s say hi to Zipporah,” Bree says, heading for the door on our left.

Our blocks aren’t big enough for class-wide parties, but half the seniors I know have crammed inside this one anyway. Four girls sit on the common-room armchair, two squashed together on the seat, two perched on the arms. Seven kids have piled onto the sofa. Zipporah, in the middle, sits enthroned on her blockmate’s lap. More kids stand against the walls. Vik, as promised, lurks in a corner, talking with Antoine and Jacqueline.

“Zipporah!” Bree hails. “Happy birthday. Thanks for having us.”

“If we were civilized people, we would have brought gifts,” Candace says. “As it is…”

Zipporah laughs. “Sodas are in the minifridge. Forbidden drinks are under the bed in room A.”

“Where’s the dancing?” Bree asks.

“Across the hall.”

Bree turns to Candace and me. “Want to check it out?”