The Color of Fear (2 page)

Inhale.

Exhale.

Caitlin caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was mortified. Staring back was one fourteen-year-old, inflated- brown-bag-wearing girl with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a tumble of waist-long, cinnamon-colored hair—though the hair was actually quite lovely.

Suddenly the whole episode seemed totally ridiculous to her.

Then again, when you’re reasonably certain you’re dying—or worse, going crazy—you’re no longer concerned how blatantly absurd you might look. You’ll do anything to free yourself from irrational, indefinable, and suffocating fear.

Caitlin slowly lowered the bag from her face.

The bouts of oxygen deprivation had gotten worse lately.

Some were even as bad as that very first one, the
incident
, which she loathed remembering.

She knew her current crisis had triggered this latest attack. She was having major anxiety over the possibility of having major anxiety. All because of—

The masquerade ball.

Tonight.

On Halloween.

At her brand-new, hoity-toity high school.

In a new country.

On her birthday.

My birthday!

The Kingshire American School in London was supposed to put on the most “epic” event of the entire school year; the annual All Hallows Eve Masquerade Ball. Each year, loads of kids from other schools tried to crash this fabled bash.

Some tried making fake IDs to sneak in. Others tried to bribe their way in. She had heard that last year, a few kids traveled all the way from Manchester and offered the bouncer at the entrance fifty pounds to let them pass. But the bouncer was seventy-three-year-old Mrs. Sliwinski, the social studies teacher. She refused the payoff and gave those bribers the swift boot.

Caitlin had a hunch about why the masquerade ball was so popular: for one magical night of the year, kids didn’t have to be something they downright disliked.

Themselves.

They were free to be someone else, which is what most of them secretly longed for every day.

For Caitlin, thoughts of attending the major happening—or worse,
not
attending—had flat-out overwhelmed her.

Dodge the masquerade ball?

She’d blow a grand opportunity to make new friends at the biggest social event of the year. It would be doubly hard to break into any of those cliques that had been forming since the start of the school year. The uppity kids at Kingshire might label her a loner, a loser, and a liability. No one remotely normal or cool or popular would consider befriending her. She hadn’t been any of those things at her old school.

Attend the ball?

Difficulty breathing. Potential panic. Or worse: a strong compulsion to flee a crowded auditorium.

No. Caitlin couldn’t risk it. Not after what had happened at the last Halloween dance she had attended. Too painful. Thoroughly humiliating. She had hoped all that panic stuff would’ve disappeared once she, her father, and her sister moved to London from New York.

It hadn’t.

And then there was her absolute most dreadful fear. The very reason why she was ready to ditch the ball, ruin her social life, and wreck her reputation at her new school.

Dancing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

There was just no way Caitlin could or would dance in front of other human beings. Never. Ever. Not after the
incident
.

And because she was also the new kid at Kingshire, it would guarantee curious stares at the very least. How could she possibly dance and enjoy it while imagining everyone gawking at her, judging her looks, scrutinizing her dance moves, and critiquing her rhythm and coordination? A thousand probing eyes crawling over her body like buzzing beetles? Ugh!

At her old school, no one focused that degree of unwelcome attention upon her. All the kids had known one another since childhood. They’d played tag on the playground during elementary school. Then they’d spun bottles, binged on frozen yogurt and went to movies together through middle school. But here she was enrolled in a brand-new high school where she didn’t know a single soul.

And suppose she did show up but turned down any requests she got to dance? By the next morning, she’d be christened the official wallflower of Kingshire. By lunch, she’d be cast out and consigned to a corner of the cafeteria to eat her lunch solo for all eternity.

And that was the best-case scenario. Suppose no one asked her to dance? Or, worse, she had no one to talk to and couldn’t think of a way to join a conversation? Oh God. She imagined standing all alone at a school dance, looking awkward, feeling like a misfit and being forced to fake texting on her phone so she wouldn’t look like the lonesome loser of London.

Caitlin was totally conflicted. These were uncharted waters for her. She had been well known and well respected at her old school. It was publicly funded, so most kids didn’t really care what your dad did for a living.

The Kingshire American School in London, on the other hand, was privately funded by benefactors such as the Sullivan Family. They were in investment banking. Other bigwigs and dignitaries from the US and abroad, who preferred an American curriculum, sentenced their kids to Kingshire. Rock stars too. And famous athletes. Even Brits grooming their sons and daughters to become international citizens of the world enrolled their kids here.

When Caitlin’s dad had requested a temporary transfer to the UK, his company agreed to cover the costs for Kingshire so that his children’s US education wouldn’t be interrupted.

Ya, right. History class would continue uninterrupted while Caitlin’s social life would suffer a severely spasmodic disruption. She and her superclose friends back home were always secure enough to dress themselves in whatever fashions they wanted. There had been no stress over worrying about whether the wrong outfit or fashion label would make you feel unbearably out of place—or get you shunned at school.

When you walked the hallways at Kingshire, eyes skimmed over you like bar-code scanners at Macy’s or Harrods, calculating the cost of your outfit.

That’s because the kids judged you according to the three Ls:

Label.

Looks.

Legacy.

If your clothes bore the right label, if you were considered attractive, or if you had the right last name, you were accepted by the popular cliques.

Imagine if a new American kid with an ordinary last name, average looks, and a mid-priced wardrobe had a panic attack at the prestigious London school?

There were no viable alternatives here. No options. No escape.
No
oxygen
.

Caitlin’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the window.

“Bird turd!” exclaimed Natalie. Caitlin turned to see her kid sister climbing in through the open window with a camera in her hand.

What the—?

Caitlin pulled the bag from her face and stared wide-eyed at Natalie, who was hopping down from the windowsill. She started wiping globs of green goo from her hair with a damp towel she grabbed from the back of her desk chair.

Natalie’s dangerous stunt made Caitlin forget all about her own panic.

“What in the world were you doing out there?” she hollered.

“A pigeon just guanoed on my head.”

Caitlin’s forehead crinkled. “Guano?”

“Bird droppings. You know … poop!” Natalie stood in front of the window, her mountainous spray of red hair backlit by the spill of daylight.

“Dad would kill me if he knew I’d just let you do that.”

Natalie plopped down on the chair and rested her feet on the desk. “Don’t be such a wuss. I was taking pictures and investigating. Chill, first-born sister. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Caitlin sniffed. Attending a school dance at a school like Kingshire was, for her, an extreme sport.

“I’m totally adventurous.”

“Uh-huh,” Natalie muttered, eyeing the paper bag in Caitlin’s hand.

Caitlin dropped it and hoofed it under the bed.

“What’s up with you?” Natalie asked as she got up to get her backpack from the closet. “You look excessively morbid this morning.”

Caitlin exhaled a breath full of despair. “I have some issues.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years!”

Caitlin glowered. She didn’t care if the teachers called Natalie “gifted,” or if the psychologists declared her a “prodigy” in various academic fields—science among them. To Caitlin, she would always be her overbearing, bigmouthed baby sister.

“That’s why I never tell you anything personal,” Caitlin said. “You have zero sensitivity.”

Natalie slid her camera into her backpack and then hopped onto her bed and began jumping up and down. She moved nimbly, like a gymnast.

“Forgive me, sweetest. I was trying to lighten things up. Go ahead. Vent. I’ll be sensitive.”

Caitlin was uncomfortable baring her soul, even to Girl Wonder. If Caitlin chose to skip the dance, though, she didn’t want Natalie probing for details as to why. She decided to dish out just enough information to throw her off the scent.

“The problem is my social life,” Caitlin said.

“You don’t have one.”

Caitlin shot devil eyes at Natalie, who winced.

“Oops. Severe lapse of sensitivity. My bad. Go on.”

Caitlin crossed her arms. “Too late, twerp. For once you tell
me
something.”

“Like what?”

“Like that scatterbrained stunt you just pulled—what were you investigating out on the window ledge?”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure you’ll wanna hear this.”

Caitlin rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break.”

Natalie stopped jumping. She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking unusually serious. “I woke up in the middle of the night last night. Thought I saw something or someone at the window.”

Caitlin blinked and laughed. “On our tenth-story ledge? You were dreaming again.”

“That’s what I thought. But it’s happened before.”

Caitlin swallowed. She brushed the hair away from her eyes.

“When?”

“Right after we moved here. Night before we started school.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Like
you
said, I thought I was dreaming or maybe groggy from jet lag. This morning I finally decided to check it out.” She slid her hand in her pocket. “I found these.” She pulled out her hand and opened her palm.

Caitlin’s brow furrowed. “What are they?”

“A peculiar type of domesticated
Cicer arietinum
.”

“English, brainiac.”

“Chickpeas, aka garbanzo beans.”

“Garbanzo beans?” Caitlin laughed. “Who cares? They probably fell off a tree.”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “Who cares?
Who cares?
Garbanzo beans grow on bushes in Bombay, not elm trees in central London. Ergo, someone had to have put them there.”

“Yeah, the wind. Stop creating drama where it doesn’t exist.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one planning to skip the masquerade ball over some irrepressible drama of your own making.”

How did she know that?

“How did you know that?”

Natalie smiled wryly. “I didn’t.”

Conniving brat!

Caitlin had to think fast.
“I can’t go. I have an article to write.”

She wasn’t lying.

“Really? For what?”

“Unexplainablenews.com.” Also totally true. And Caitlin was truly looking forward to it. She loved writing. And a popular post could win her some fans online and some fame at Kingshire. Most kids loved that pseudo-news site with all of its arcane articles and bizarre, improbable news stories. Even big-brain Natalie read it.

Natalie took the bait. “What inexplicable story will you be reporting on?”

Caitlin exaggerated a shrug. “That’s my problem. Don’t have one yet. And I’m supposed to submit the article tomorrow.” Partly true. Caitlin was in search of a story, but there was no deadline. She sighed. “Guess I’ll have to stay home tonight and write.”

Natalie folded her arms. “Bollocks. You’re too scared to go.”

Caitlin’s back went straight. “Such a pie hole you have! Two months in London and you talk like a soccer player.”

“You mean
football
. You’re in the UK. But smooth misdirect.”

“You’re a freak of nature.”

“And you’re demonstrating signs of social anxiety.”

Before Caitlin could respond, Natalie continued. “If you’re too freaked out to go alone, ask that boy Jack to take you.”

That boy Jack. If only
.

“That boy Jack” was the ridiculously cute guy in her freshman English Lit class. All the girls shamelessly gawked at him instead of paying attention to Professor Jenkins—not that the professor was some rad, charismatic dude deserving of their attention. But even if, say, Brad Pitt were the substitute teacher for the day, Jack would’ve given him a run for his money when it came to igniting ogles and giggles from teenage girls.

This was Jack’s first year at Kingshire too.

And though Jack was certainly hot, it wasn’t the superficial, pop-idol kind of hot. Totally not. Jack had a homespun wholesomeness about him. And a ruggedness. And green eyes and wavy, ash-brown hair. He always looked as if he’d just returned from some uncleared forest after a long day of chopping down pines, shirtless and copper-toned under a mid-August sun. Somehow, inexplicably, Jack maintained that copper tan in overcast London.

Stardom had found “that boy Jack” on his very first day of school. It started when someone screamed, “Fight!”
and a swarm of kids congregated in the commons.

Barton Sullivan—a ginormous senior and majorly buff rugby player—started flicking the glasses off poor Erwin Spencer, over and over, just because Erwin was a freshman and a bona fide nerd. Truth be told, most girls thought Barton to be kinda cute and charismatic. But he could also be an ignorant bully on some days. This was one of those days. Derisive comments and cackling from the crowd of onlookers only added to the cruelty.

High school could be so medieval.

Jack happened to enter the yard after Erwin had picked his glasses up off the ground for about the three hundredth time. Amid all the catcalls and laughter, Jack ran over and literally stepped in between Erwin and Sullivan. The hush that fell over Kingshire’s schoolyard was deafening.