By the time I got to school, the shock of the evening before had faded. I tried googling it and I reckoned I’d probably had some kind of panic attack. I mean, it was the anniversary of the Longest Day. And on top of that, there was football.
Danny and I had always dreamed of playing for Cambridge Academy. If we won the game next week, there was a glimmer of hope: it would always be hard to get trials, but a tiny chance was better than no chance.
I was just stressed out. I must have been.
It was easy to forget about it in Art, because Mrs. Bridges constantly watched you and if you stopped working for more than a few seconds, she would come over and ask questions like, “What’s so interesting that it’s stopping you from drawing that apple?”
In PE we played rounders, and the only thing on my mind was trying to smack it farther than Slogger, which was practically impossible.
Then English came around.
I made sure I got a window seat because Mrs. Cole always likes to go on and on for the first twenty minutes. This room had a good view of the football pitches, at least.
I was just sitting down when she flung open the door and strode in, singing, “Shakespeare!”
A couple of kids groaned. I knew how they felt. Shakespeare? It was impossible to understand, even with all the notes down the side that explained what was going on.
Mrs. Cole scribbled Shakespeare on the board in big letters, then underlined it with a flourish. “What’s not to love about that?” she said, bouncing all the way to her desk. She picked up a book and tapped its front cover, beaming round at the class.
Danny caught my eye. He made a gun with his fingers and pretended to blow his brains out. Trying to stifle a laugh, I shoved my hands over my mouth and turned away—
Then froze. My gut . . . it was twisting and turning, just like last night. It swelled up like a balloon, floating higher and higher.
My breath caught in my throat.
One minute I was staring into the courtyard, and the next there was no courtyard. No classroom at all. No carpet under my feet. Just dry, barren ground. A fierce wind stirred up clouds of dust that hung in the stinking air, making me gag and retch. A sudden Caw! rang out. With a flutter of black feathers, a crow shot into the gloomy sky.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My throat tightened, my stomach clenched in shock. I tried to breathe, but my lungs weren’t working. It was like I was strapped in to a ride I couldn’t see, spinning round and round and round.
Then, as quickly as the dead world appeared, it vanished.
My mind whirled, filling with colors. I pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes, trying to shut out the blinding light.
“M-miss,” I stammered, clutching my stomach. Please don’t be sick, I thought. Not here.
Now that the rush of colors in my head was clearing, the classroom came back into focus.
I turned to the board. Shakespeare was scribbled across it, underlined three times. Was I dreaming? I must have been. I couldn’t think of another explanation.
Automatically, I reached for my face, my hair, and—
No! It was wrong again.
I glanced at the window, but it was too bright to find my reflection. Dreading what I’d find, I opened my pencil tin and stared into the gleaming underside of the lid.
“No,” I muttered, my mouth hanging open. I shot out of my seat and clattered into Dean’s table. But even though every pair of eyes was locked on me, they weren’t shocked like I thought they would be. They were just giggling because I’d interrupted the lesson.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Cole said.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Miss,” I said, pinching my hair, the blond hair that wasn’t mine and yet was on my head for the second time in two days.
“Is there a problem?” she trilled. “Have you got lice?”
Some of the class burst out laughing. I ignored them.
“No, Miss,” I said, sitting slowly back down.
Couldn’t they see?
I’m going mad, I thought. This can’t be happening. I turned to Danny, but he only shrugged and made the kind of face that said: STOP BEING SO WEIRD.
“Well, if you don’t mind, Owen, can we get back to Shakespeare?”
The singsongy voice was gone now.
“Yeah . . . sorry, Miss.”
I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the lesson. I kept glancing at my reflection to see if my features had changed back, but they never did. I thought back to the photo last night and wished I hadn’t deleted it. My face was different in it, I knew it was, and it was happening again now. But if that was true, then why could no one else see it?
When the lesson finally ended, I grabbed Danny in the corridor. “Do I look different?” I blurted, eyes wide to let him know that I wasn’t messing around.
“What? No . . . but you’re acting a bit strange, mate. Are you all right?”
I turned, unable to look at him as the lie formed on my tongue.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
By the end of lunch, my features had changed back, but that didn’t stop me worrying. I walked down to PE with Danny, trying really hard to listen as he went through set plays and tactics for next week’s game. But it was so hard to focus on what he was saying.
I wanted to beat Westfield as much as he did, but after what happened in English, more than anything I just wanted to figure out what was going on.
“There’s a video of them on YouTube,” Danny said. “I think one of the players’ dads must have uploaded it. They try to play the offside trap, but if we can lure them in, I reckon I can have that number three . . .”
“Nice,” I said.
That dream—if that was what it was—happened so suddenly. What if another one struck in training? The whole team would think I was nuts.
“Earth to Smithy,” Danny said, wafting his hands in front of my face.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, snapping out of my thoughts.
The clattering of studs filled the sports hall as we approached the main entrance to the changing room. We got into our gear and ran out onto the field.
“Three lines!” Mr. Matthews bellowed.
We warmed up, then broke down into drills, running round cones and hopping ropes. Normally I was quick on my feet—this sort of stuff should have been easy. But when I tried to stop and spin round a cone to get a good burst, I lost my balance. And I got tangled up and tripped in the rope ladder we were supposed to speed through.
“Focus, Smithy,” Mr. Matthews said, but the more I tried to focus, the harder it got.
It all came back—the stench, the crow, the dusty air. It filled my mind and I bent over, stomach churning. I clenched my teeth, desperately fighting off the sick feeling.
When it came to the practice game, I didn’t score a single goal. I barely even hit the net.
Mr. Matthews pulled me aside as the rest of the team headed back to get changed.
“Is something up, Smithy?” he said.
“No, Sir, it’s just—”
“I need you at your sharpest on Wednesday. The team needs you.”
“I know, sir. It won’t . . . it won’t happen again,” I said, turning away because how could I stop it? I didn’t even feel that weird dream coming earlier. And that meant it could happen again without my stopping it.
“I’ve been talking to the academy,” he said. “They’re coming, Owen. If we get to the quarter finals, they’ll take a look. They’ll send a scout.”
I looked up then. His eyes were wide, and I could see myself reflected in them. I imagined walking through the entrance to a giant football stadium, me and Danny, the floodlights shining down on us. The flash of cameras in the crowd.
Then the stadium crumbled to dust, and all around me the ground was barren and dead.
I staggered back, breathing fast. I had to tell Dad what was happening to me. If this was all in my head, then I needed counseling more than he did.