chapter one

I have insomnia. Actually, I have something called night terrors. So it’s not that I can’t sleep—it’s more like I’m afraid to sleep. And when I finally do, it’s almost always that kind of half-awake struggle, a fight to find some rest in between the real world and the part of my subconscious where nightmares unfold and wrap themselves around me. It’s always hard to tell the difference, to know where I really am. Most of the time, I wake up gasping for air. Sometimes—but not very often—I’ll find my breath and wake up screaming. My nightmares are always about the same things: fire or water. Never both at once.

It’s an unseasonably warm October in Connecticut. Usually, it’s not uncommon to have snow by now. But this year we’re having a warm snap; the leaves have turned already, but suddenly it’s in the eighties again. My parents’ house isn’t air-conditioned, so I’m lying in my bed on top of the sheets, wearing just a bra and underwear, sweating like crazy. I could swear I’m awake until I see my mother’s face above me, and I kind of brace myself for what’s coming: smoke, flames—then she’ll disappear. In my sleep, I blink and blink, trying to will her out of danger, to help her breathe. I don’t know why she’s in my dreams sometimes, why she would ever be in the middle of a fire, her face obscured by smoke as I reach for her, unable to grasp at anything but thick air.

My attempts to save her never work. I can’t speak or help in any way; all I can do is hope. I don’t know how the dreams end; I always wake up while everybody is still struggling.

“Emily. It’s time to get up.”

But I can’t move. You know that kind of nightmare? Where you need to run away, or wake up—anything for a breath, an escape. It’s a mystery to everyone why I have these dreams. I’ve never been in a fire. I’ve never even come close to drowning, though water has always scared me. I’ve been having these dreams for as long as I can remember, and I don’t think they’ll ever stop.

“Wake up, sleepy girl …” My mother leans over, shakes me, her long brown hair brushing my cheeks. Her hands are cool, her slim fingers touching my cheek in concerned irritation. She and my dad have had to wake me like this a thousand times before. When I was younger, sometimes I used to fight them when they tried to rouse me. I’ve pulled hair, clawed at their faces, smacked and kicked. One time I even gave my dad a bloody nose.

“Emily. I’m really here. Wake up, sweetie. Em!”

And like that—it’s over. I sit upright, staring, eyes wide. I try to catch my breath. My body goes from hot to cold in an instant, my flesh rising in goose bumps as I look at her.

I put a hand to my mouth. “It’s you? I’m awake?”

Mom shakes her head. “This never stops scaring me. The pills still aren’t helping?”

My shrink has me on sleeping pills. My parents don’t know this, but I hardly ever take them. Even though it’s never happened, I’m afraid that, if I were to start having a nightmare after taking a pill, I’d be too out of it to wake myself up. And then what?

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” My precalc book is open on the floor beside my bed. “What time is it?”

Mom gives me a frown. Even though I’ve been a boarding student for years now—I’m a junior—she always gets sad at the end of the weekend. “About that time. Dinner’s in less than two hours.”

My dad is the headmaster here. He likes to pretend that he holds me to exactly the same rules as everyone else, and one of the rules is that everybody has to be at the formal Sunday dinner at six o’clock sharp.

But it’s not really like that. I mean, I’m his only daughter. He’s my dad. No matter how many years I’ve been at his school, it’s almost impossible to take him seriously, especially when most of his orders are followed by a wink. My friends call me a Daddy’s Girl, and they’re right.

“Don’t forget your backpack,” my mom says, as I stand to smooth the wrinkles in my uniform, getting ready to go back to my dorm.

“I’ve got it.” My eyes still feel heavy, a little unfocused. Because it’s so warm outside, the whole day has been like a fog.

My mother and I are eye to eye now, close enough that when she leans forward, our foreheads touch.

She kisses me on the tip of my nose. “Have a good week, Emily.”

“I will.”

“Don’t forget you have an appointment with Dr. Miller on Thursday afternoon.”

Dr. Miller is my shrink, the school psychiatrist. Leave it to Stonybrook to have a school psychiatrist.

“I won’t forget.” Not that it matters if I do; Dr. Miller will just come to my dorm room and get me. She is caring to the point of annoyance.

My mom glances at my clock again. “You should go. I’m sure you have homework to finish before dinner.”

I nod. “I’ve got, like, hours of precalc.” Math is my academic kryptonite. Actually, it’s one of my many intellectual weaknesses. For someone with two reasonably intelligent parents, I’ve always struggled in school. I can recite the notes on my quarterly reports from memory, because they all say practically the same thing: Emily is a bright girl, but she seems unable to stay focused in class. You’d be unable to focus, too, if you were up half the night most nights, too scared to fall asleep, dreading what might happen in your dreams.

Mom nods. She pushes her hair away from her face in a gesture that I’ve witnessed countless times before. But it never gets old; she always looks beautiful, youthful, like an ordinary woman trying to collect herself. Even if it’s just for an instant.

“Okay, Em. See you later.”

“Is Daddy home?”

She shakes her head. “Golf.”

“Oh. Right.” My dad goes golfing almost every Sunday afternoon. It’s kind of like part of his job; usually he goes with a few members of Stonybrook’s board of directors. Still, sometimes he comes home early, just to see me off before the start of the week. We’re close like that. My dad is the nicest guy I know.

I walk back to my dorm alone, sweating as I trudge uphill. For a moment, I wonder what my mom will do with her time alone before dinner. I want to know what happens in those unseen moments—there are so few of them on campus—but at the same time, I’m glad she has them to herself.

Sometimes I think life would be easier if my family lived far away, like every other student’s. Because even though my parents are here, I seem to miss them all the time, aching for something I’ve never had, something just out of reach, even though it’s always been present. My parents and I are as close as can be, but the difference is that I have to share them with everyone. I’m used to it by now; it’s just how life has always been, how it’s always going to be. But, still, sometimes I wish it could be just the three of us.

That’s why it’s important to have friends. They make you laugh. They help you forget, even when you don’t know what it is you’re trying not to remember.

Campus is laid out on a hillside, with my parents’ house at the very bottom, the dorms in the middle, and the school all the way at the top. It’s beautiful, picturesque New England, the kind of place that you can take one look at and fall in love with. To me, the whole place is like home. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember—even before I went to school here, I lived with my parents and could look out my window at night to see lights glowing in the dorms, and I’d imagine what life would be like when I got older and would finally live in the dorms myself.

It is a dream. It is a slumber party every night. I mean, it’s not perfect, but it’s close. I know I’m lucky. When I’m here on campus, surrounded by all my friends, with my parents so nearby, I often feel like nothing can hurt me. That’s why the nightmares are so perplexing. How am I so terrified, when there is nothing to be afraid of? And why do they make me feel so desperately alone, when I have everyone I could ever want right here with me?