Grey. Christi Whitney J.

hear my name, but I can’t answer. I’m trapped by the image in my head.

      It flashes again.

       Rainbow-scorched leaves. Gypsy music.

       Caravans of faded paint.

      ‘Sebastian Grey!’

      Dark and nothing.

      I struggled for words. ‘Yes, sir?’

      ‘Are you joining this group or not? I need to get a list…’

      Another flash.

       Bonfires. Starless night.

       A girl dancing. Ribbons in her hair.

      ‘For the last time, Mr Grey, wake up!’

      My mind ripped free. I jolted, launching papers into orbit. For a split second, I wasn’t convinced of my surroundings. Then, as fluorescent lights bored through my skull, it hit me.

      I was in the middle of class.

      And twenty-five pairs of eyes were staring straight at me.

      All my school supplies littered the floor – textbooks, papers, colored index cards. Everything except the pencil that I’d somehow snapped between my fingers. I coughed and hunkered in my seat. Across the aisle, Avery leaned sideways in his desk, giving me the look I’d seen way too many times: the one that questioned my sanity.

      ‘Crap,’ I whispered.

      I’d done it again.

      Mr Weir moved closer. He glowered at me from under spidery eyebrows. I prepared myself for the tirade. But just as he took a wheezing breath, the bell rang. I shrugged and gave him my best smile as the room reverberated with slamming books and screeching chairs.

      Mr Weir grunted and waddled back to his desk, my outburst promptly dismissed as more important matters – like the end of the school day – took precedence. I dropped to one knee and recovered my textbook.

      ‘Hey, Sebastian, you okay?’ Avery towered over me. ‘What just happened there?’

      I blinked away the lingering haze. ‘It appears I must have dozed off.’

      ‘Seriously, man,’ said Avery, his brows shooting up. ‘Who talks like that?’ He knelt and picked up one of my library books, examining it with a shake of his head. ‘I swear, sometimes I think you read way too many old books. They’re messing with your head.’

      I snatched it out of his hands. ‘I don’t read old books.’

      ‘You read Shakespeare.’

      ‘That’s different.’

      Avery laughed, shoving papers at me. ‘Sure it is.’

      I stuffed them in my bag, taking care to hide my tattered copy of Hamlet from Avery’s prying eyes. We squeezed into the crowded hall, avoiding locker doors banging open and shut around us.

      ‘You never answered my question, you know,’ Avery continued.

      ‘I realize that.’

      We strolled in companionable silence down the hallway. Okay, maybe I was the one who was silent. Avery Johnson – senior superlative and social giant – had something to say to everybody we passed. At the end of the corridor, he stopped.

      ‘Okay, what was it this time?’

      ‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘I fell asleep.’

      ‘Yeah, right,’ Avery said in an amused huff. ‘That wasn’t a nap. That was a complete zone out. Same as this morning in gym, when you stood there like a zombie until Alex Graham smacked you in the face with the ball.’

      ‘I’m athletically challenged.’

      ‘Try strange,’ he replied.

      ‘Can you maybe find another expression to stare at me with? It’s not helping.’

      Avery went dramatically serious. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Oh, that’s better,’ I replied. ‘I feel much more comfortable now.’ Avery’s features didn’t change. There’d be no avoiding it this time. I worked out my confession. ‘Okay, so you know when you stare at a camera flash and then you keep seeing the glow, even after it’s gone?’

      ‘Yeah…’

      I gripped the strap of my backpack. ‘Well, I keep seeing this same thing in my head, like a camera flash. Only not a light. An image. It used to just happen at night, but now I’m starting to see it during the day.’

      ‘What exactly do you keep seeing?’

      ‘A girl.’

      Avery whistled slyly. ‘Must be some dream, eh?’

      ‘No, it’s not like that.’ My head throbbed. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers. ‘It’s not a dream.’

      ‘A vision, then,’ said Avery, lighting up like Christmas. ‘You can see the future! Or maybe the past. You know, like that guy on TV. The one that helps the cops solve cases and junk.’

      I grinned sideways. ‘If only. ’Cause that would be kind of cool.’

      ‘And profitable,’ added Avery. ‘We could totally…’

      ‘Hate to disappoint,’ I said, holding up my hands before he could spout off some money-making scheme that I would – mostly likely – lose cash on. ‘But I don’t have dreams, visions, premonitions, or anything worth printing up business cards for. It’s just an image. I probably saw it in a book somewhere.’

      ‘Well, whatever it is, when you come out of it, you do this jerking spaz thing.’ He demonstrated for my benefit. ‘Like a bad episode of Sebastian Can’t Dance. Maybe you should ease up on the caffeine.’

      ‘Oh, you’re hilarious,’ I said, shoving him towards the exit doors. I wasn’t about to tell Avery I’d seen the image every night for two months, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had any decent sleep. I’d reached the limits of sharing. ‘Glad to know I covered all the basics of self-embarrassment. Maybe next time I’ll work up a drool.’

      Avery pushed open the set of metal doors, flashing a Cheshire grin as he passed through. ‘Hey, don’t worry too much about it, Sebastian. It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve done something weird.’

      My brother Hugo owned a tattoo shop on the edge of town, near the railroad tracks. It was a hole-in-the-wall, crammed between a flea market and a convenience store; just the kind of place where you’d expect to find people injecting ink into each other’s arms. A neon sign hung over the door flickering the words Gypsy Ink Tattoo Parlor. A woman’s face, showing her with flowing hair and hoop earrings, adorned the front window.

      I eased my sputtering old van into a parking space with a sigh of relief. Memories of Sixes High School faded away as I opened the shop’s painted black door and stepped out of the blinding sun.

      The eclectic style of the Gypsy Ink fascinated me, with its bright red walls and linoleum floor – black-and-white checked – like an old diner. A coffee table scattered with tattoo magazines faced the front counter, flanked by two dilapidated purple leather sofas. The art was a portfolio of skulls, roses, and half-naked women.

      I dumped my backpack in a rickety armchair and reached for the stash of candy Hugo kept in a plastic monkey head next to the register. My gaze went automatically to the enormous framed picture hanging behind the counter: a colorful caravan of Gypsies gathered around a campfire.

      I popped a fistful of gummy bears in my mouth and frowned at the painting. I wondered if I’d looked at the picture so much it had imprinted itself onto my psyche. And if it had, then how was I supposed to get rid of it? I squinted at each figure on the canvas. The image my brain kept conjuring definitely resembled