THREE
Drop it, I tell myself as I walk down the nearly empty hallway. It was nothing.
I take another deep breath, trying to calm the anxiety I feel tingling up my fingertips and toes. But the daymare comes anyway. His dirty hand over my mouth. A serrated knife pressed to my throat. His humid breath whispering threats in my ear. I can almost feel the cold steel of his blade on my flesh; tiny, warm drops of his spit in the curve of my ear. I close my eyes and try to make it go away, but the horrific scene continues to play out in vivid detail. He pushes the knife harder against my neck, nicking my skin and drawing blood. I try to run, but my hands and feet are tied. I try to scream, but only a muffled cry echoes against steel walls.
Stop, stop, stop, my mind begs for it to be over. I put my right hand over my face and violently shake my head, trying to erase the scene, as if my brain is an Etch A Sketch that can be cleared with a few shakes. The daymare finally begins to break apart.
“Are you okay?” I hear a voice say, pulling me back into reality. Luke is standing in front of me, his eyes wide, his right arm reaching out to steady my shoulder. I lower my hand from my face and silently hope he hasn’t been watching me long.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly and return my fingers to my temples. “Just a migraine, I think.”
He squints and cocks his head slightly, examining my face. I force a smile that would satisfy most, but Luke knows me well. Probably too well. My Black Angel psychological training doesn’t always work on him.
“You sure you’re okay?” Luke asks again, moving his hand from my shoulder to my back, his fingertips slowly running along the curve of my spine.
“No, I’m totally fine,” I say and shake my head, my brain searching for a lie. “When I get stressed, I get a migraine.”
“What are you stressed about?” Luke asks.
“I guess I’m … uh, just … nervous about my interview at Templeton this weekend,” I stumble through my lie. With Luke, the lies don’t fall as easily off my tongue. It’s unnerving. He has a way of almost pulling the truth out of me. Almost.
“Ahhh … the dream school,” Luke repeats another lie I’ve told him. He returns his hand to my shoulder and gives it a friendly squeeze. “You’ll do great, Mac.”
“Thanks. The premed program there is unbelievable,” I answer more confidently, sticking to the carefully crafted script of my cover. We begin slowly walking down the quiet hallway toward the biology lab. “I guess I’m just a little nervous about blowing the interview.”
“Come over Friday night and we’ll hang out and do some interview prep,” Luke replies, nodding.
“Okay,” I say, his invitation parting my lips. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Prepping helps. I was so nervous for all my interviews at West Point. The last interview for the nomination with the congressman was intense. I hope I didn’t sound like an idiot.”
“I’m sure you did amazing,” I say and place my hand on his strong, exposed forearm. And that’s all it takes. One little touch and that spark runs through my body. I keep hoping that this rush will disappear. But it doesn’t. That ache is always there, lingering below the surface of my skin, waiting to rise.
“Given any more thought about the kind of doctor you want to be?” Luke asks. We’ve talked about it a few times but I can never narrow it down. Probably because the dream for me isn’t real. My future is all but written.
“Maybe an ER doctor,” I answer, which is only half a lie. If I did choose to go to college instead of the Black Angel Training Academy, that’s the type of doctor I’d love to be.