Chapter 3
Irub my eyes and chug the last of my lukewarm coffee before exiting my car and making my way into the plant nursery.
I barely slept last night as I replayed the strange events of the day over and over in my head, attempting to apply logic to the impossible.
But the more I consider the explanations, the more I’m afraid to know the true answer.
Walking into the nursery, I inhale the calming, familiar scent of potting soil and plant compounds before I go to the back room to clock in.
My coworker Jaz is on her break, slumped in one of the plastic chairs and nibbling at a sandwich while she scrolls on her phone.
When the door swings closed behind me, she glances up.
“You look like shit. Are you sick?”
I shake my head. “Just couldn’t sleep last night. I have a lot going on at home.”
She nods in understanding. We’ve worked together long enough that we’ve developed one of those strange relationships unique to coworkers and classmates. When we’re on shift together, we’re friends who share personal stories and details about our lives, but we never talk outside of work.
I slip on my apron from the hook in the back room then find my manager, Kara, and check in with her about what needs to be done for the day.
“A shipment came in this morning, so those need to be organized and put out, and there are some calatheas in the greenhouse that aren’t looking great. If you could work your magic on those, that would be awesome.”
Her phrasing on the last request makes my stomach turn. She means nothing real by it, only indicating that I have a reputation for being able to revive the plants that most would see as lost causes. But her use of the word “magic” throws me off.
It’s a thought that I’ve been afraid to entertain since yesterday, the idea that maybe I was the one who caused those events to happen. I had attributed the flare of energy inside me to adrenaline and fear, but what if it was something different, something stronger?
The idea feels too absurd to even consider, but at the same time, so does the fact that tree roots dragged a man underground.
“I’ll handle those,” I say, turning to walk toward the greenhouse before I get roped into small talk. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but today, I won’t be able to pretend to care about anyone’s boyfriend drama or coworker gossip.
The humidity of the greenhouse is a comfort compared to the dusty, arid air outside. Moisture clings to every surface, condensation dripping from the panels overhead. Everything about this space calms me, even as sweat beads on my forehead almost immediately.
My T-shirt clings to my skin as I make my way to the tables near the back where the new shipments of tropical plants have been placed.
I can already tell some of them need to be repotted while others need more water or less light.
I’ve become intimately familiar with the different types of plants and what they need over my years of working here.
The familiar routine of tending to the plants in the relative quietness of the greenhouse is meditative, soothing my anxiety and giving me something productive to focus on, but the niggling curiosity at the back of my mind won’t recede entirely as my thoughts cycle back to the same question: What if it was me?
The thought seems even more ridiculous to entertain during the light of day, but I’m beyond rationality, which leaves me with one option—to consider the irrational.
In all of my science labs, it was said that for a theory to be proven, the results had to be replicable. Which means there’s only one way to test if I’m the variable.
Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I’m alone, I take one of the almost-dead calathea plants and set it directly in front of me.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, focusing on replicating the energy I felt yesterday.
I allow my thoughts to drift to that moment, the terror I felt as I was shoved against the tree and the bizarre horror of watching the roots snake around the man’s neck as he clawed to get away.
Placing my fingertips directly in the soil, I hone in on the plant, directing my attention and the turbulent energy building inside me toward it. Just as I’m about to give up and laugh at myself for even considering a possibility so ridiculous, something happens.
It’s faint at first, the sensation of a low-frequency buzz coursing through my palms and into the dirt beneath, but as it intensifies, the wilted, dry leaves darken into a deeper green, lifting into strong, full leaves that look perfectly healthy.
With a sharp gasp, I stare as the plant grows impossibly fast, nearly pulling away in shock but desperate to exercise this impossible power.
Stranger still is the way I can feel the calathea, sensing the water moving through its vascular system and the slow growth of the roots as they reach deeper into the soil to seek nutrition and stability.
My coworkers have always claimed that I’ve had a sixth sense with the plants, but I never would have considered that might actually be the case, that I’d have some sort of magic that others don’t.
The vibration surges into a current of energy, and I watch transfixed as the plant grows and grows, new leaves sprouting and maturing by the second.
The growth accelerates. Roots surge through the soil, pressing against the sides of the plastic pot as they outgrow the container. The plant expands further, racing through weeks of growth in seconds.
It’s beautiful and terrifying. A small part of me knows I should stop, that this isn’t natural, but I can’t seem to let go. The power is intoxicating, like I’m tapping into some fundamental piece of myself that’s been concealed for years.
The plant seems to swell with one final rush of growth, but then the leaves begin to droop and fade to a color that’s too dark.
Just as quickly as the plant grew, it’s now rotting and dying.
I remove my hands from the soil, but it’s too late.
Within seconds, the entire plant collapses into a blackened pile of wilted leaves and dead stems.
I stumble backward, horrified, and my hip collides with a table behind me, sending a stack of empty pots clattering to the ground. The sound echoes through the greenhouse, making me jump before I kneel to the ground to gather them.
What did I just do?
Nausea rolls through me as the implication hits, and I lean against the leg of the table, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself. I’m suddenly overcome by exhaustion, and my skin is clammy despite the heat of the greenhouse.
What happened on the trail was real, and it was my power that killed that man, brought on through fear and desperation. My lack of control cost a man his life, and even though he had been trying to harm me, the guilt is crushing.
I’m not sure how long I’m on the ground before I hear footsteps and the sound of Jaz’s voice. “Vivian? Are you in here?”
“Yeah!” I shout in a feigned cheerful tone, pushing myself off the ground with an armful of pots.
“When you’re done, can you come out and help with a few of these customers? Calvin got sick and had to leave early, and there are a lot of people with a lot of questions.”
“Sure thing,” I answer, standing directly in front of the dead calathea to hide evidence of my transgressions.
The rest of my shift passes in a haze of customer interactions that I manage to perform on autopilot, but exhaustion weighs down on me, and all I want to do is go home and sleep.
By the time my shift ends at six, I’ve accomplished the task of tending to the new plants (without using whatever strange power I possess).
My chest feels hollow and my head is pounding, and I head to my car without bothering to stay and chat with my coworkers.
I need to go home and make sense of this, somehow.
I come home to the familiar sight of Christopher in front of the TV and my mother preparing dinner in the kitchen.
The air conditioning raises goosebumps on my skin after being out in the heat all day, and as much as I’d love to collapse into bed without a word to anyone, I make sure to say hi to my distracted brother before heading to the kitchen.
“Hey, Mom.”
She turns her head briefly before returning her attention to the stove. “Hey, Viv. There’s some fancy piece of mail on the table for you.”
My brow furrows, and I make my way across the room to the table, where a heavy stock cream paper envelope sits on the table.
Picking it up, I turn it over in my hands, noting the beautiful hand-lettered script with my name and address as well as a black wax seal on the backside of the envelope.
The seal looks vaguely familiar, and I realize it’s the same emblem that was on the bottom of the random email I’d gotten yesterday.
Something akin to deja vu jolts through my body as I examine the expensive-looking envelope.
“What is it?” she asks, feigning nonchalance, but from the way her gaze is burning into the side of my head, I can tell she’s more curious than she’s letting on.
“I’m not sure,” I answer. “I’ll let you know.” Without waiting for her response, I rush to my room in eager anticipation. This is too personalized, has too much care put into it to be junk mail.
My hands shake as I perch on the edge of my bed and slide my finger under the black wax seal, breaking the adhesion, and open the envelope. Inside is one piece of stationery, which I carefully unfold and read slowly.
The letterhead is two bolded words centered at the top of the page in an old-style font.
Arcadia Academy.
I’ve never heard of it, let alone applied to it, and for a moment, my excitement is overshadowed by the overwhelming disappointment that this might be a mistake.
But it’s not, because the greeting addresses me by my full name. Below that, the first line of the letter reads, “Congratulations! You have officially been accepted to Arcadia Academy.”