Chapter 2

The next morning the house was wound tight. Nobody said good morning.

There was a mug waiting at my place before I even sat down. The same tea.

"Drink it before you go," my mother said. "You can't think straight on an empty stomach."

I picked up a piece of toast and bit into it instead. "I'm not drinking that. It turns my stomach in the mornings."

Cole leaned back in his chair. "Wow. Haven't even passed the thing and you've already got an attitude." He smirked. "Faint again today, don't go blaming Mom for not feeding you."

"Honey." My mother's voice went soft and wounded. "I was up at six making that for you. Just a few sips. For me."

"No."

Her face changed in an instant. She caught my arm, fingers digging in, her voice climbing too high. "Sloane. You are drinking this before you leave this house."

The harder she pushed, the more sure I got.

I yanked my arm free—too hard. My elbow clipped the mug and knocked it off the table. It shattered on the tile, tea running everywhere.

The room went silent.

For a second I thought she'd hit me. I didn't move. "Go ahead," I said. "Then I'll call the police and tell them you tried to stop me from getting to my exam. Think I'll make it after that?"

Her hand froze in the air. Her face went white, then red.

I grabbed my bag and walked out without looking back.

My heart pounded the whole way there. But I'd eaten. I'd had coffee. I felt fine—better than fine. I'd won. I hadn't touched the tea, and today I was not going to faint.

The morning section went better than it ever had. My head was clear, the answers came fast. When I turned it in, I thought I might actually crack the top of the list. For the first time in three years I let myself believe it. Maybe it really had been the tea. Maybe it was finally over. I caught myself smiling on the walk back from lunch.

I'd eaten at a diner across from the center and gone back early.

The afternoon was math—my best subject. I sat down, breathed out, and laid my pens on the desk next to the little roller bottle from my bag.

My mother had slipped it in the night before. For your nerves, she'd said—dab it on your temples if you start to feel faint. It was brand new, still sealed. I'd watched the tea like a hawk. I never once thought about this.

Halfway through, fighting the last big problem, I felt the first pull of tiredness. Out of habit I twisted off the cap and rubbed a little on my temples and under my nose.

Cool and sharp, straight up into my head.

Less than five minutes later it came—that same sinking, hopeless dizziness, rolling in like a tide.

No. This couldn't be happening. I hadn't touched the tea. I'd done everything right—poured it out, eaten, slept. And here it was anyway, the same black wave, right on schedule.

I clamped my jaw and tried to push through it the way you push through being tired. It didn't work. It never worked.

I gripped the edge of the desk. The numbers on the page bent and doubled. My chest felt like a fist was closing around it.

I tried to lift my hand. Only a thin, dry sound came out.

Then everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I knew was the smell of disinfectant.

The room was quiet. My arms felt heavy and far away, like they belonged to someone else. My mother sat by the bed, peeling an apple. She didn't even look up.

"Awake?" she said. "Don't bother. It's been three days. The exam's long over."