Emily did as she was told. "I was really little, only five. It was in the morning, and my father was just about to leave for work. I remember that he wore a suit and carried a briefcase. I had a vision that he was going to be hit by a car just in front of our house, and I didn't tell him. And he was struck by a speeding car and was killed."
Amanda could see the tears forming behind Emily's thick glasses. Despite herself, she felt sorry for the girl, and she became nervous. She had to do or say something right away or she might find herself inside that spacy girl's body.
"You shouldn't feel bad," she declared quickly. "I mean, it's not like it was your fault."
"I feel guilty that I didn't tell him about the vision," Emily said.
Amanda waved a hand in the air as if to brush that notion aside. "Get over it. Like you said yourself, it was the first time you had a vision.You couldn't have known you were seeing the future."
Emily whispered something.
"Speak up, Emily," Madame said again.
"What if. . . what if it wasn't the first time?"
Madame looked interested. "What do you mean?"
"I keep thinking . . . maybe I had visions before that. Like I remember one day, my mother said she was going to bake a cake, and in my mind I saw a burned cake, and she forgot to take it out of the oven, and it did burn. And another time, I could see the people who would be living in the house next door even before it was sold . . ." Her voice was trembling now. "What if I had told my father what I could see in his future? I could have saved his life!"
Jenna spoke. "Emily, you were five years old! You didn't understand what was going on inside your head."
"You can't feel guilty about it," Tracey declared. "Even if you'd told your father that he was about to be hit by a car, what makes you think he would have believed you? Who listens to little kids making predictions?"
"They're right, Emily," Madame said. "You're not responsible for your father's death."
"I just wish I knew what he thinks," Emily said. Suddenly, she drew in her breath sharply, leaned forward, and tapped the shoulder of the boy sitting in front of her.
"Ken, you talk to dead people, don't you? Could you maybe try to find my father and ask him if he's mad at me? And tell him I'm sorry I didn't warn him?"
Ken's brow was furrowed as he turned around and faced her. "I don't talk to dead people, Emily. Dead people talk to me!"
"You don't talk back? I mean, haven't you ever had a conversation with one of them?"
"Are you nuts?" Ken exclaimed. "I don't want to encourage them--I want them to stop!"
Amanda listened to this exchange with interest. It was clear to her that Ken didn't like having a so-called gift any more than she did.
"But if you could just--"
"Emily!" Madame interrupted her. "This is inappropriate. As you well know, there are people out there who would want to exploit us if they knew about our gifts. We do not exploit one another. Ken, will you tell us about the first time a dead person spoke to you?"
Ken squirmed in his seat. "I really don't remember."
Charles stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, give me a break. You don't remember the first time you heard a dead person talking to you?"
Ken didn't look at him as he responded. "No. Um, I guess maybe they've been talking to me since I was born, so I never noticed."
Little Martin Cooper turned to Ken. "What does it feel like, hearing dead people? Is it like having ghosts inside your head?" His expression was fearful, as if he was afraid that the ghosts might suddenly pop out of Ken's head and start haunting him.
"It's not fun," Ken said shortly.
"Is a dead person talking to you right now, Ken?" Tracey asked.
He flinched. "Jeez, you make it sound like I'm a crazy person, hearing voices. No. Maybe. I don't know--I don't listen."
Amanda was skeptical, and she could tell that Madame didn't believe him either. Personally, she didn't care one way or another. She was too busy contemplating Ken from another angle. As a boyfriend.
Why not? He was cute, he was cool, and her friends would be impressed if she hooked up with him. Even Nina would have to show her some respect. Being with someone like Ken Preston would definitely put her back on top. And it wasn't as if she'd suffer in the process of creating a relationship with him. ..
"Amanda? When do you first recall experiencing your gift?"
Amanda began to tell her story about the beggar she saw when she was five. As she spoke, she kept glancing at Ken. Maybe he'd be impressed with the fact that she could feel so sorry for people. But he wasn't even paying attention.
She didn't tell the part about how she had been Tracey Devon--she couldn't bear the thought of Ken picturing the old Tracey in his mind and connecting the image with Amanda. Even the new-and-improved Tracey wasn't up to her standards.
Then Tracey's hand went up, and Amanda's stomach fell. Fortunately, it was almost time for the bell.
"We'll hear from you tomorrow, Tracey," Madame said. "And from Jenna and Martin."
"What about Carter?" Charles wanted to know.
Martin started laughing, and Madame shot him a warning look. Then she looked at the boy whom no one knew.
"Carter, will you give a report on your gift tomorrow?" she asked.
There was no response to her question, and like the others, Amanda wasn't surprised. They couldn't be sure he had a gift. For as long as he'd been at Meadowbrook, he hadn't spoken. No one even knew his real name. A teacher had found him wandering on Carter Street. Not only mute, but he appeared to be an amnesiac, too. He was a complete and total mystery, which meant that he was very weird, and Amanda knew that was why he'd been put in this class. With the other weirdos.
Who, in a million years, would ever believe that Amanda Beeson might have anything in common with someone like Carter Street? It was truly sickening. She had to get out of here. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to have a partner to help her plan how to make her-- their --exit.
Her seat was closer to the door than Ken's, so when the bell rang, she hurried out and then waited for him. As soon as he emerged, she began walking alongside him and spoke casually.
"I can totally relate, Ken."
"Huh?"
"With what you said in class today. I really do understand."
He looked at her in puzzlement. "Dead people talk to you, too?"
"No--I mean, I don't want my gift either."
"Yeah, well . . ." He looked away, and she understood. The busy, crowded hallway was no place for a discussion about something so personal.
"I was thinking, maybe we could talk about it sometime," she ventured.
There was a considerable lack of enthusiasm in his expression. "Isn't that what we do every day in class?"
"Sure, but I was thinking, just you and me …" Her voice trailed off as he frowned. She wasn't even sure if he'd heard her.
"I gotta go," he said abruptly. And he ducked into a boys' restroom.
She supposed he might have really needed to go to the bathroom. Because why wouldn't he want to get together with her? She was pretty, she was popular--most boys would be pleased to find her flirting with them. And Ken had actually kissed her once, at Sophie's pool party the previous spring. Of course, it hadn't meant anything. Some other boys at the party had probably dared him to do it--they were all acting pretty goofy that day--but still …
Maybe he really hadn't heard her. One of those dead people could have been trying to get his attention. But that was exactly why he should listen to her. If she could lose her gift, she might be able to help him get rid of his.