Seizure (6 page)

The contrast between the two could not have been starker. Night and day. Literally.

The thought was startling. Prefer? Where did
that
come from?

“Tory!” Jason strode to the boat. “Ah, and Ben.” Tight smile. “Always good to see you.”

“Ditto.” Ben flipped a line at Jason’s head. “Make yourself useful.”

“Sure.” Jason ducked, but deftly caught the rope. “But why tie up? I assume you’re not staying.”

Ben’s scowl darkened. Jason didn’t usually go there.

Holding the line in one hand, Jason offered me the other. When I’d stepped onto the dock, he flung the rope back onto
Sewee
’s deck.

“Adios.” Jason had already turned his back. “Safe ride.”

Wordlessly, Ben reversed engine and chugged
Sewee
away from the pier.

“Thanks, Ben!” I called. “See you later!”

Without turning, he threw me a wave.

Jason took my arm. “Shall we?”

I didn’t move. “Can you two
try
to play nicer? This is getting ridiculous.”

“Sorry about that.” Jason grimaced, embarrassed by the lack of manners he’d just displayed. “But you saw him throw the rope at me. Plus, it’s baking out here. Let’s get inside; the buffet just opened.”

“You and food.” I allowed myself to be led. “Is that the only reason you attend these parties? Free apps?”

“One of them.” Half smile. “Now march.”

The Palmetto Yacht Club was tucked away on the eastern edge of Charleston’s downtown peninsula, where East Bay Street became Battery. Four sturdy piers jutted into the water, hosting a swarm of seven- and eight-figure pleasure vessels. The club’s main building was a majestic three-story horseshoe of old brick and new stucco. Its wings surrounded a long, manicured lawn with a spectacular harbor view.

The day’s fundraiser was an outdoor event. Though the mid-August heat was stifling, ancient magnolias and ocean breezes kept the spacious common reasonably cool.

For most, anyway. I was already sweating. Naturally. Tory Brennan, Olympic-level sweater.

As I walked beside Jason, I peeked inside several of the white canvas tents that formed two rows on the lawn. Art auction. Raffle. Each venue had its own theme. Based on the level of activity, the American Heart Association could expect a healthy deposit.

Expertly coiffed debutantes mingled with their upper-class beaus as well-monied parents looked on approvingly. The atmosphere reeked of privilege, extravagance, and self-satisfaction.

I couldn’t have felt more out of place.

Jason beelined to one of the trestle tables, presumably worried that shrimp cocktail was a scarce commodity. And I was alone again. Of course.

I pulled sunglasses from my purse and slipped them on, hoping polarized lenses would mask my misery. Determined to make the best of a crappy situation, I walked a slow circuit, searching for friendly faces.

Found zip. In fact, things were worse than usual. I recognized classmates, but none said hello.

I could feel eyes on my back. Sensed whispered exchanges. I moved faster, as if a quicker pace had some tangible benefit. But there was nowhere better to go.

Distracted, I nearly took out a waitress. She stumbled, one arm flailing, crab cakes shifting wildly on her tray. I hopped backward, shades falling to the grass.

“Sorry!” I snatched my glasses, trying for invisible.

Massive fail.

Behind me, I heard snickers. Snuck a quick look.

Three junior boys, all lacrosse players.

Blood rushed to my head. My face burned with embarrassment.

Flash.

Bang.

T
he flare struck hard.

My senses vaulted into hyperdrive, exploding all at once, like a car started with the stereo on full blast. System overload.

Pain slammed my frontal lobe, dissolved. I breathed a barely audible whimper. Sweat glistened on my skin.

My heart rate quadrupled.

Terrified of discovery, I slammed my sunglasses into place. Golden eyes hidden, I checked for open mouths and pointing fingers. Listened for frightened screams.

No one so much as glanced at me.

A waiter passed, hoisting a platter of veggies. Two tents away, the lacrosse guys were discussing a prize wheel. Nearby, a gaggle of blue-haired ladies compared hats while sipping from champagne flutes.

The party rolled on, oblivious.

Hands shaking, I smoothed my hair and resumed my circuit around the yard.

This hadn’t happened before. I’d never burned in the open. Hell, in a freaking
crowd
. Madness. Suicide.

To flare so easily, without a spark? Triggered by nothing more than a bump and a few snickers? Why here, why now?

This was incredibly dangerous. From now on, I’d carry sunglasses everywhere, day and night. What if I hadn’t brought them today? What would have happened?

My haphazard wandering brought me to the clubhouse entrance at the end of the lawn. To my left, a garden bench was tucked among a stand of dogwoods. I hurried to it and sat. Perhaps alone, in the shade, I could pull myself together.

Data bombarded from all directions, demanding attention. The world was etched in crystalline detail. Slowly, carefully, I sifted through the sensory muddle.

I could see individual blades of grass, the stitching on my classmates’ clothing. Could smell a perfume of oleanders, human sweat, iced shellfish, and bruschetta. Could hear whispers, the clink of silverware, the crunch of gravel underfoot. Could taste ocean spray on the wind. Could feel the gentle weight of the sliver necklace hanging from my neck.

It was incredible.

For the first time that day, I didn’t feel overwhelmed by insecurity. These snobs couldn’t do what I could. Couldn’t even fathom the experience.

Confidence restored, I decided to take another spin around the yard.

Without straining, my ears teased snippets of conversation from the general din. Had anyone noticed my fit? Was anyone watching my movements?

No and yes. Though my flare had gone undetected, plenty was being said about me. Classmates spoke behind their hands. The words weren’t pleasant.

My good mood evaporated.

To be fair, I’ve never been part of the “in” crowd. No Viral is. Bolton preppies mock us relentlessly. They call us things like peasants, or island refugees. They know we aren’t rich, and never let us forget it.

Tuning in that afternoon, I discovered that recent events had made me even
less
popular, which I hadn’t thought possible.

To many Bolton students, I was “that girl.” As in, “that girl who broke into Claybourne Manor.” Or “that girl who got Chance arrested.” But I had other titles as well. “The young girl” or “the little kid.” Or my favorite: “the science weirdo.”

From what I could eavesdrop, I was practically a villain. The blue bloods were horrified that a boat kid from Morris had taken down members of their circle.

Stories reached me, burned my ears. Wild tales straying
far
from the truth. I couldn’t believe some of the rumors. Everyone had an opinion, none complimentary.

Disheartened, I tried to shut out the whispers.

I drew air through my nostrils, careful not to snort. Usually I could ferret a few scents from the breeze. Fresh-cut grass. A cloying perfume.
Creed?
Sweaty underarms. Melting butter.

Good. Safe, familiar scents.

Then the odors changed. New smells entered my perception. Trace odors, lurking just below the top layer. Undefined and faint, the aromas were difficult to pin down. Yet recognition danced on the tip of my consciousness.

My mind tried to dissect the new olfactory input. Failed. To put it more clearly: my nose stopped making sense.

That sour tang wafting from the red-dressed debutante talking with her boyfriend. Was that . . .
nervousness
?

And the dull vinegary smell oozing from the toddler by the koi pond, the one randomly dropping pebbles into the water. If forced to pick a label, I’d go with . . .
boredom
.

I couldn’t explain it, but I smelled . . . something. And my brain was insisting on the connections. I dug deeper.

A door banged open in my brain. Thousands of trace scents poured through.

Dropping to a knee, I grabbed my head with both hands. The torrent of information was more than I could bear. Straining and quivering, I tried to shake off my flare. I had to make it stop.

The power receded. My senses normalized. It was over.

I pulled off my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes, feeling like I’d been through a ringer. When my lids opened, the Tripod of Skank was three feet away.

Courtney Holt. Ashley Bodford. Madison Dunkle.

Three spoiled brats playing at princess. My personal nightmare.

They didn’t like me, and I
loathed
them. These girls were the last people on earth I wanted to see.

“What are
you
doing here?” Courtney seemed genuinely astonished. Which, with her intellect, was routine. “Surely you can’t debut now? Not after what you did to Hannah.”

“After what
I
did?” I spoke without thought. “To
her
? Seriously?”

Courtney nodded, wide-eyed, blonde curls bouncing. Her microscopic blue dress struggled hard to cover a perfect figure. Sapphire jewelry sparkled in the afternoon sunshine.

“You’re a criminal,” she said, dead serious. “You make people go crazy!”

The Tripod stood shoulder to shoulder before me. I felt trapped.

“I don’t know
how
you stayed active.” Ashley brushed glossy black hair from her eyes. “But what I can’t get is
why
. No one wants you here. You must know that.”

Madison giggled. She was the nastiest—the Tripod’s front foot. Hair, nails, and makeup flawless, she practically glowed with expensive excess.

Madison also had a crush on Jason. His fascination with me did not go over well.

Where
was
he? I could’ve used his attention right then.

“The word’s out, Tory,” Madison said cruelly. “Everyone knows you’re a freak. Whose house do you plan to rob next?”

Enough. Three against one, and they weren’t pulling punches. Time to retreat.

To my left was a clubhouse door. I strode over and tried to shoulder it open. It didn’t budge.

Laughter erupted behind me.

“Try pulling, sweetie.” Madison.

“And don’t muss your rented clothing,” Ashley added.

“That
is
a nice dress,” Courtney said, oblivious as always. “I wonder how she got it? Is there, like, a Goodwill thing for debs or something?”

Our face-off had begun to draw a crowd. I hated the attention.

Madison, however, relished an audience. She moved in for the kill.

“Maybe you should find another activity, Tory.” Chilly smile. “One more suited for someone like you.”

Ashley and Courtney nodded.

Humiliated, I yanked the door open and fled inside.

“So long!” Madison called. “We’ll be here all season!”

Spiteful giggles followed me into the air-conditioned darkness.

T
he doors banged shut behind me.

I sped down a red-carpeted hall, past trophy cases, model ships, and massive murals depicting ancient ocean voyages.

The setting barely registered. My emotions were on tilt.

Get away. Get calm
.

The cowardly mantra kept looping inside my head.

Eventually the hallway dumped me into a lavish dining hall. A gigantic mahogany table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by chairs adorned with embroidered cushions. On the far wall, sunlight poured through huge windows overlooking the harbor. The air reeked of wood polish and fresh linen.

The grandeur of the chamber stopped me in my tracks.

“Swank.” The empty room swallowed my whispered comment.

Hands on hips, I breathed deep, trying to regroup mentally. Slowly, my shaking legs steadied.

I considered my options. Return to the party? No chance. I was done with awkward circling for the day.

Bail? Sure, but how? My ride wasn’t due for an hour.

As I dithered, undecided, a painting caught my eye. Bold and colorful, it stood out from all others decorating the walls.

I stepped closer for a better look.

Oil on canvas. Cedar frame. Old, more weathered than the surrounding paintings, but somehow more vibrant as well. All blues and reds and splashes of yellow. Eye-catching, but clearly not a masterpiece.