The stone catches the first glint of light in the morning, like the eye of an alien creature with a foggy white iris. I couldn't get a picture of it, seeing as my phone camera recorded nothing there, but from searching up geodes in an attempt to make sense of my life I found out that it's closest in coloration to a moonstone.

Whatever it is, it definitely doesn't want anyone else in on it. I don't think anyone can see it, either, because I got the weirdest look from Amanda when I placed it on the table. Adam knocked it off my bed stand once and didn't seem to hear anything. Between that and the vague, foreboding guilt that fills my mind whenever I think of trying to explain this to anyone, I've kept this entirely to myself- I'm going crazy completely alone.

You're not going crazy, echoes a voice in my head, which is exactly the type of thing the voice in your head would say while you're going crazy.

"Oh yeah?" I say, "That's incredibly reassuring."

Adam turns in his sleep, and I watch the red light of the alarm clock from the comfort of my bed. I'm up early, not for the first time, but if Adam got upset when I woke him up at 6:15, waking him up at 5:30 might not be my best idea.

Going back to bed isn't an option, though- I've never felt more awake.

Settling on a compromise, I trace my hand down the staircase and begin making pancakes quietly as possible. The stove hums to life, punctuated by the sharp crack of the lighter. I grab the mix out of the cupboard and start stirring in ingredients, then place down the griddle. I pour out cup-sized allotments of mix and flip them until they're golden-brown, far enough on the soft side to be pillow-like but not undercooked. Gingerly, I place them on the plate and drizzle them in a light coat of butter.

Adam lumbers down the stairs, shirtless. I flash him a winning smile and cut myself another square of food."Pancake?" I ask.

"When...?" asks Adam.

"I had time." I say through a mouth of pancake. The maple sugar runs across the tongue as I bite down, supplemented by the smooth warmth of the bread. It's the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
Adam shakes his head and makes himself a plate. "Thanks," he says, and pulls out his phone.

"No phones at the table," I say in a familiar, low tone, mimicking our father's lowered eyebrows and tilted frown.

"It's important." he insists.

"Is it the girl?" I ask. "Funny, speaking of girls, I got invited to this wicked group chat-" I say, but Adam's already buried in his phone. Fine. "Anyhow, it's only six-thirty now. What are we supposed to do with all that extra time?"

"I don't know. We could go early." Adam says, lowering the phone to cut his pancake in two and pull the whole chunk up.
"And stay late? There's this great activities fair..." I suggest.

"Sure," Adam says, "Why not." His eyes flit from the screen to across the room, missing mine completely. His hair is messier than usual, and his eyes hold a sullen darkness, made more distinct by the harsh light of his phone screen.

"You need more sleep," I tell him, giving him a solid pat on the back as I rise, pancake-free plate in hand. He flinches, and I draw my hand away. "A lot more sleep."

I can't profess to be much more attentive for the rest of the day, though- if I wasn't paying attention in school beforehand, the advent of the mysterious stone and the other voice in my head have completely derailed my focus. I press one finger against the ridge at the center of the jewel while trying not to fall asleep in Math 9. The teacher is dealing with a rugged class, which I respect her for, but I'm less thrilled about having basic algebra explained to me six times over.

"I've been reviewing your diagnostics, and it's clear we'll need to review graphing. If you all can get out your worksheets from last night-"

I know you're up there. I think, feeling an electric chill up the nerves of my arm. It's like touching cold metal to my stomach, but this is a sensation so piercing it can't just be the cold. So, who are you? What do you want from me?

The voice replies, more insistent than usual, I need you to hold on.

I'm not going anywhere, I think back, to no response.

I barrage the voice with more questions as the bell rings, into the hallway and all through my next class.

Are you an alien or a mythical being? What about a parasite? Why me? Why can't I tell anyone? If I do tell anyone, what are you going to do to stop me?

You're a chatty one, aren't you? asks the voice, aggravated.

That implies you've dealt with more humans- there are others, aren't there?

The voice falls back into irritated silence. "Gotcha," I whisper aloud.

"Got what?" asks the other student at my table, a frizzy-haired ginger.

Hoping I sound convincing, I flash her a thumbs up. "I'm great! I finally figured out this... math problem."

"We're in French." she says, indicating her completed page of conjugation review.

"Huh," I say, lifting my pencil from my empty worksheet. "That would explain things."

Thirty long minutes and half a French worksheet later, I get a text from Amanda just as the bell is ringing.

ROSENBLOOM WHERE ARE YOU

The bell rang for dismissal thirty seconds ago, I reply.

They let us leave to set up. You're still coming, right?
I'll be there with my brother in five.

Rad. Amanda says, punctuated by a winking face.

Adam is standing with his back to a pillar around a floor down, his fingers flying off the keys at a thousand miles per hour. I peek over his shoulder and he turns around like I hit him, furious. "What are you doing?"

"I didn't see anything!" I insist, hands up in defense. "Calm down!"

Adam leers at me for a second, then presses his fingers against his temples. "Right. So, activities fair?"

We walk across the crowded main hall together, the lingering tension still thick between us. Adam has his arms crossed, with his phone tucked back in his pocket, and I fix my gaze on a pillar up ahead and try to block his obnoxious attitude out.

The cafeteria is less crowded than it is at lunch, which isn't saying much, but it's clear that there are more vendors than there are students interested in joining clubs. The displays are amateur, for the most part, with cardboard set-ups lined with pictures of smiling kids. Each table has a sign-up pad with a pen tied on draped over the side. A few teachers stand by their students, conversing about regulations. Meanwhile, some of the sparse students around the room dart between the few tables with food or candy, nodding along to the presenters while they shove food in their pockets.

Adam eyes the left side of the room, close to the vending machines, where the academic corner lies. All the heavily school-sponsored STEM clubs have been spruced up with demonstrations and past student projects.

"Are you even into STEM?" I ask.

"Colleges are," Adam grumbles, without any of his usual false enthusiasm about the prospect.

"Rosenblooms! In the plural!" calls Amanda, waving frantically from her side of the room. "Get over here!"

I wait for some disgruntled response from Adam, but he's glaring at the fire alarm like he wants to murder it. I don't want to snap him out of his trance, but when I rush over to the girls, he follows.

"Welcome to the party." Amanda grins. She's with Rebekka, Sally, and two or three older girls from the group chat I don't recognize. "We're supposedly a place for civilized discussion about all forms of popular media, but honestly, it's just a bunch of my friends sitting around eating garbage and talking about whatever we've been watching lately."

"We decided to call it the Pop Culture club." Sally tells me.

"Our sponsor decided to call it the Pop Culture club. Apparently our other names were 'too long', 'irrelevant', 'confusing', or 'not grounds for a school-sponsored extracurricular activity'." Amanda says, with air quotes around each. "We wanted to call it the Naval Brigade, like we did at our old school, but apparently there's some kind of rule about 'false advertising'."

"Why the Naval Brigade?" asks Adam.
Amanda winks, "We really like our ships."

Sally continues, "Once, someone actually thought we were some sort of navy recruitment club. That must've been an awkward forty-five minutes for him."

One of the older girls, a blonde with a ponytail halfway down to her waist, says, "... and now you know where the false advertising ban came from." She holds out a bowl of wrapped hard candies. "For friends. We're handing them out after people sign up, because otherwise the freshmen will pick you dry in a heartbeat."

"Those dang freshmen," agrees Sally.

"We're freshmen." I say.

"You look like an eighth grader." The blonde-haired girl tells me, ruffling my hair. "Name's Brooke, by the way. You'd better show up to some meetings, now that we've given you free food."

"Great. I'll try to drag my brother along, too."

"Wherever he is."

Adam's gone. "Shoot." I say, then tell the girls, "I'll be right back."

He's over by the academic booths, as expected, with his phone. He snaps it off by the time I'm there, bolting straight upright. "What?" he asks. "Thought I'd check out the other clubs."

"Is that all?" I ask, and continue, "Can we talk?"

If I want him to tell me what's going on with him, the least I could do is come clean now.

Don't do it. Please don't do it.

I feel something thrash against my innards, a guilt that grows into something resembling panic, and my head stings with sudden, sharp pain. Whatever's in there doesn't want to be found.

I can trust him. He's my brother, I insist.

That's exactly why you can't trust him. The voice snaps back.

"About what?"

"I-"

He won't believe you. He can't see this. He can't hear me.

"I'd really appreciate it if you'd be a little more respectful to my new friends," It comes out too earnest, and I barely register the words leaving my mouth.

"Right." Adam says, "I'm sorry, I'll make this up to you- I'll come to your club, if you want- but I need to go."

"Okay? I guess we'll have to talk more later, then." I say, standing with some semblance of authority, which is hard when you're a good two inches smaller than the person you're trying to intimidate.
"Later works. Tell mom I'm going to a friend's house." Adam says, swerving to the door.

"That's not where you're going, is it?" I ask.

"I'm just going," he tells me. "See ya." He swings the cafeteria door open and picks up the pace, moving to the far right of the hallway about halfway down and accelerating as he darts towards the exit.

I skulk back to the group, brotherless.

"You too?" asks Amanda.

"What do you mean, you too?" I respond, with far more venom than I'd intended.

"It's not my sister or anything-"

"It's her ex!" teases Sally.
"Shut up!" Amanda screams back, slamming her hands against the table."Anyways, Megan said she'd be here to help run the stand, but then something 'came up last minute' and now she's gone."

"That's high school. People get the first opportunity to run for it and they're gone," Rebekka says, plucking pictures off the display as the cafeteria empties of people. "Something about fresh starts drags people away every time."

"We're talking about the same Megan, right? She probably has a doctor's appointment." Amanda says, though the nervous edge of her voice cuts like a knife.

"You can't really do fresh starts when you have a twin." I admit, "Not that I ever really got a start." That triggers another uneasy round of laughter from the girls, but whether from empathy or pity, I have no clue.

Around the gym, the stands begin to pack up, snapping foldable tables closed and assisting teachers with the more elaborate displays. The other girls at our stand start gossiping about a TV show I haven't watched, but the only small talk serves to embitter me further.

I want to burst down the glass doors to the cafeteria and run after him.

Amanda's watching the exit, too, and she has her phone out on the table. She sighs, "High school, huh?"

"You know it." I think, but I'm not worried about school at all.