Chapter Five I defy you, stars
CHAPTER FIVE
I defy you, stars
BEFORE THAT NIGHT IN THE alleyway, I’d only ever seen my future once: when the fire killed my family.
My mother, a stage mom whose psychic powers I’d inherited, had mapped every detail of my life until that moment.
Unlike me, her powers let her channel far into the future.
Every booking we’d gotten, every audition, she claimed she’d seen it in my lifeline.
According to her, I was ordained to be a star.
But just as stars shone brightly, they burned too.
So when she’d spitefully booked me on a talent show for former stars on the same day as my audition to Westfield—even after I’d told her I wanted to retire my Baby Mozart act—I took things into my own hands.
I’d snuck out, paid the fare for the bus, and taken the fan boat to Westfield.
But of course, she found a way to track me down right before I was set to perform.
“Our lifelines are connected, Sianna,” she’d whispered to me at my audition.
Westfield’s recital hall was massive, including a backstage packed with dressing rooms and intersecting mazes that led to center stage.
My mother followed me, my father close behind, as I sped through its hallways, trying to get onstage before my audition started.
“There’s still time to get you on the talent show,” she said. “Don’t do this, Sianna.”
At the time, her visions of the future had gotten worse, more frequent, overpowering. And so too had her migraines and nosebleeds.
With her symptoms came paranoia.
I didn’t want to be a singer or an actress or a performer.
I didn’t want my powers to one day manifest and make me lose touch with the present, to see the past in everything and chase a future that would never become a reality.
I wanted to be normal. As normal as a fourteen-year-old attending college seemed to be at the time.
And that meant getting the Westfield University judges to offer me a full ride in their music program so I could finally pursue music for me, instead of for my parents or anyone else.
Other child stars I’d met were even younger than me when they’d emancipated themselves from their parents.
School would be my freedom. School would save me from the deathly rungs of fame.
“Sianna, you will not get on that stage,” my mother said, her voice louder now, more determined. “We are leaving.”
She took my hand, but I yanked it away.
“I’ll scream. I swear I will.”
The two of us locked eyes, facing off. I knew she wouldn’t want to make a scene by dragging me out of the concert hall. And when the judges called my name, I tore away from her, pushing back the curtain and taking the stage despite her and my father’s pleas.
Even now, years later, the moments of that fateful piano performance played back in my mind like a film: the captivated silence of the audience, the burn of the spotlight glaring down on me.
My fingers danced across keys as I played the final half of my piano rendition of Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges’s Violin Concerto op.
3, no. 1. The swell of music was intoxicating, a sweet melody of lavender and springtime that spelled the audience into a trance.
In the crowd, faintly, I made out an impression of faces; there at the front of the auditorium sat the faculty from Westfield.
I should’ve been nervous or scared. But for some reason, I couldn’t stop smiling.
Because in the quick moments when I caught the eyes of the faculty watching, it was clear: They were riveted by my music, and, backstage, even my parents were too.
I was going to get in.
But then, my index finger struck the next note. I was sucked into a vision, the first I’d ever had. Fire. And it was everywhere.
My mother had once warned me that our powers manifested when death and life became concurrent. I’d never understood what she meant, until that very moment. And she’d been right.
The flames had started somewhere in the building before my performance, and in the midst of my audition, my vision showed the fire reaching the auditorium.
Apparently, I’d started to scream even as music streamed from the piano keys.
But no one had believed my warning about the fire.
At the time, I didn’t know what I was seeing—whether it was the past or the future.
But it didn’t matter. Because when I finally managed to detach from the vision and return to the present, the world had already melted into a ball of fire and ash.
Shrieks tore through the auditorium, and the scorching embers of flames were all-consuming.
Maybe predicting the inevitable made it so.
Perhaps the fire wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gone to Westfield that day.
And even now, I wondered, if I hadn’t saved Kasem Saint James in that alley, maybe my powers wouldn’t be unraveling as they were all these months later.
Maybe I wouldn’t have to return to the place where tragedy first upended my life.
But my reality was this: Nearly six years after the events of that fated day, and just three months after the stabbing in the alleyway, I was enrolled in the school that had stripped everything from me…
It was the cusp of daybreak. Remnants of sleep clung to my lashes like dew, and morning still felt like an afterthought. I and the other freshmen stood at a dock deep in Virginia’s swampy wetlands, where Westfield University’s campus awaited.
Ever since the night that Kasem and I crossed paths in that alleyway, my visions had become relentless and less controlled, like my mother’s. I couldn’t escape them, and despite how much Louisa and I had tried, we’d found no respite to ease the migraines that the visions induced.
Throughout it all, I’d thought of nothing but Jojo and what I’d seen that night. But he’d stopped responding to my messages and had vacated his apartment without a goodbye. And just as I’d searched for answers, he’d disappeared with his secrets.
If it wasn’t for my powers unraveling and the constant pain I was in, I probably would have gone with Louisa to Rhode Island and tried to forget what had happened that night.
But something had changed irrevocably within me since I’d saved the Westfield heir. And if my powers had started glitching because of that night, after I’d channeled into his future, then maybe the answers were here, in Westfield, with him.
Which meant that I needed to disappear, to blend in and track him down. And somehow, I’d find a way to fix my powers.
At the dock where all the new admits waited, almost everyone had found pairings or groups. As usual, I was alone. I’d brought with me only my canvas book bag and a suitcase.
“Everyone, line up. The boat’s here.”
Our resident assistant, a skinny blond girl with pale skin, a pixie cut, and the ghost of freckles on her face, waved for us to approach the dock’s perimeter.
The humidity of the swamp dampened the baby hairs on the back of my neck, sticking them to my skin.
Beads of sweat lined my brow. A dull pain throbbed in my head.
I slung my book bag over my shoulder and grabbed my carry-on.
Summer was over.
The semester had begun.
All the freshmen gathered together, starry-eyed and brimming with excitement.
Being here now sent my mind racing. Because as much as I liked to pretend otherwise, at one point, I’d dreamed of being enrolled here for so long.
Westfield was one of the oldest academic institutions in the country—a beacon of innovation and the arts.
Elite, private, and surrounded by the protection of swamplands, it’s where politicians’ kids, the children of celebrities, and new money elite came to rebrand and be taken seriously.
Not an Ivy, but close enough. Yet here I was, searching for its heir, searching for answers from that night.
“Careful where you step, babes,” the RA said as we gathered together. “You don’t want to slip off the dock, especially when the boat arrives. It’s happened to other freshies before.”
The others rushed to line up, and I recoiled from the jostling arms and hands. I was acutely aware that my hands were bare, my fingertips dangerously exposed. But wearing my gloves now would mean standing out or drawing attention to myself.
The roar of an engine sounded in the distance. From the depths of the swamp, a large fan boat weaved through the murky waters and parked at the dock where we’d gathered.
I followed the line of first-years onto the boat.
It was nearly full by the time it was my turn to descend the steps into it.
Rows of seats lined the front, enough for twelve out of the twenty-four of us waiting.
I managed to secure a spot in the middle of the platform, then shoved my book bag under my seat and rested my carry-on next to me.
Our driver, an older gentleman with a mane of silver hair and an enigmatic disposition, whistled for those of us who were standing to take a seat. Of course, when I did, the RA sat beside me.
Her smile was prim and bright.
“I hope that’s not all you’re bringing?” she said, eyeing my suitcase and my carry-on. “How will you survive the semester?”
“Are you supposed to be on the boat?” I asked, ignoring her questions. “Or should you be waiting with the others on the dock?”
The line of freshmen remained restless, some murmuring in annoyance that they’d have to wait even longer to see Westfield.
“Of course I should be here. I’m your RA.
Well, not yours. I’m actually the resident assistant for Ivy House, but I’m at Poppy House most of the time now.
” She paused, catching herself, as if she’d been about to let something slip that she shouldn’t have.
“Since that’s where all the trainings for resident assistants happen. ”
The driver spurred the engines to life and we jolted forward.
“It’s Honey, by the way,” the RA said, holding her hand out for me to take. “Honey Garnier.”