Page 8 of Flickerstate

But beyond that?

We don’t even know what beastslooklike, not really. They have no stable form until they manifest in the real. In flickerstate and during manifestation, they churn through different creature-feature bodies like absolute goddamn nightmare fuel. The form they eventually take depends on who’s observing them—and it’s not like we’ll ever see them when we’renotobserving them.

We do know, from statistical analysis, that they’re more likely to manifest when someone navigates, but there’s no evidence for the superstition that they manifest when people discuss them. Just like there’s no evidence that the bittens’ increased risk of death catches bystanders in the crossfire causing mall shootings, roof collapses, and other mass-fatality disasters that wouldn’t have occurred otherwise.

Despite the lack of evidence, our friends and neighbors are acting like medieval peasants who see a red plague cross marking our door. They think getting near us means risking their lives. A couple of Dad’s coworkers have phoned with condolences, but nobody’s come to see him. Last year, when a drunk driver T-boned Tara O’Malley’s mom and shattered her ribs, families from Saint Cat’s organized a rotating schedule of car pools and casseroles so Mrs. O’Malley wouldn’t have to drive or cook while she recovered. After Dad was swarmed? Not one frozen lasagna. And my ex–best friend, Anna Mayer from three blocks down, who used to study on my and Jo’s bedroom floor every afternoon, hasn’t responded to my texts, let alone shown her face.

I wouldn’t describe myself as bitter, per se, about everyone ghosting us. I’m more…so furious I may bite the next person who looks at me sideways. I won’t bow to their superstitions. Dad shouldn’t either. And maybe if I walk out on him, I can wake up his fighting spirit—make him want to get stronger, if only so he can win arguments again.

I’ve hopped off the bed, about to storm away, when my phone vibrates in my jeans.

Caller ID blocked.

The last time a caller with a blocked ID popped up on my phone, it was a prerecorded message claiming to possess urgent information about a problem with my auto insurance. But what the hell. If it’s a scam, I can hang up. Right now, I’d enjoy hanging up on an annoying call mid-sentence. “Hello?”

“Norah Sullivan?” It’s a woman. She sounds familiar.

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Langmore. I’m sorry we kept you waiting. You must have been on tenterhooks.”

More like a meat hook. “Oh, no problem.”

“The thing is, you were on our wait-list, and there was a slim chance a few transfers we’d accepted would choose a navigation school closer to home.”

Is this woman for real, rubbing it in that I wasn’t a first choice? That Plan A was to string me along and reject me?

But.

Hasn’t this conversation already lasted too long to end in a rejection?

Dr. Langmore clears her throat. “The applicants we accepted plan to enroll, but one of our current juniors…he won’t be returning next year. We have an extra spot in the senior class, which we’re offering to you.”

The Academy covers room and board as well as tuition. It’ll save Mom and Dad more than what they’ve been paying Saint Cat’s. Jo won’t have to switch schools, and I—

“Norah?” Dr. Langmore sounds confused by my silence. “Are you there?”

“Yes.” I grab my throat. Blood pounds up my neck into my head. “I accept the spot.”

I’ll have a chance to find a cure for possibility wounds in Highwall’s restricted-access papers. I won’t have to worry every night about whether Dad will wake up in the morning. I won’t chew my nails until they bleed, skip periods from stress—

“Excellent,” Dr. Langmore says. “We’ll email you about next steps.”

“Thanks,” I say to no one. She’s hung up without a goodbye. I thought people only did that in movies.

Dad swallows an unambitious bite of his sandwich. “Who was that?”

“The Academy,” I say. “I got in.”

He whoops hoarsely.

***

The celebratory mood lasts a couple hours. Mom takes us to a cheap chain restaurant, Kev and Irene gorge on cheesecake, I poke their bellies till they giggle and hit me—fun and games. After we get home, I check on Dad. Then I climb the stairs to my and Jo’s attic room, cramped with a sloping ceiling.

Jo sits at the desk, her back to the door. She doesn’t look up when I flop onto my bed. The air feels staticky, charged with badfeelings.

I didn’t lie when I told Dr. Langmore the Sullivan kids were close, but I’m closer to Jo than the twins. Don’t get me wrong; I love Kev and Irene. When they were little, I taught them peekaboo and read themThe Very Hungry Caterpillar. Now that they’re older, I ask them about their soccer practices and their classes at Sacred Heart Grammar. But since I started high school, I see them forty-five minutes a day, tops, at our family dinners. The rest of the time, I’m grinding through drills at basketball practice or sitting in bed, hunched over problem sets and conjugation worksheets. Since Jo and I share a room, she’s right there with me, fighting through homework at our desk. We’re like two miners swinging picks in the same dark shaft.