Kathy Reichs - Seizure

Basically, my polar opposite.

One of my lab partners from last semester, Jason inexplicably had taken a special interest in me. While flattered—and, frankly, stunned—I wasn’t sure if his attention pleased me or not.

Don’t get me wrong, Jason’s great. He’d step in when the cool kids mocked me or the other Virals. Still, he didn’t haunt my dreams or anything.

I should probably throw myself at Jason . Dating him would keep the Tripod at bay. Of course, that would mean being around them all the time. No thanks .

“Nice tie on Thor,” Ben said. “Guy looks like a cell phone salesman.”

One thing I did know for sure: Jason and Ben did not get along. I’d never understood why, but these two were oil and water. Every time I’d brought it up, Ben just changed the subject. Boys.

Was Ben jealous of Jason for some reason?

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

So which do you prefer?

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.

SNAP.

Damn .

THE 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.

They can’t see your eyes. No one can tell .

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.

Calm. Breathe .

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.