Echo Soul Seekers

earlier. More warnings about the dangers of boys—especially the cute ones, like Dace. In “The World According to Jennika” boys like that live solely to sweet talk their way into your skinny jeans, only to dump you once they’ve had their way.
    Kind of like what Django did to her.
    Only Django didn’t dump her.
    He died.
    And Jennika never got over it—never forgave him.
    Which is why she’s so desperate to stop me from repeating her mistakes by giving my heart to someone who might die on me too.
    But it’s too late for that. I’ve already given my heart to a boy who died in my dreams, never mind the prophecy. Though if I have anything to do with it, he won’t die in real life—not for many years to come.
    “What about Vane?” I stand before her, one hand perched on my denim-clad hip, the other dangling the new boots she bought me. Fielding her blank look when I say, “You remember, Vane Wick? Global heartthrob—certified member of Hollywood’s Youngest and Hottest—the guy I attacked in that Moroccan square?”
    “What about him?” She picks at her sparkly blue fingernails. Peeling off the paint in the same way she always scolded me not to, claiming it weakens the nails.
    “Well, I don’t remember hearing this lecture back then.” I shove my feet into the boots, smiling faintly when I see they fit perfectly.
    “Because I knew you were too smart to fall for someone like Vane. You were never starstruck, Daire. You’re far too savvy for that. I knew you could see right through his act, which is why I was never concerned about you two hanging out.”
    I turn toward the window, eyeing the dream catcher that hangs over the sill. Remembering the night Vane lured me into that alleyway, the expert way that he kissed me. How he nearly succeeded in talking me into doing the very things Jennika lectures about. How it was only the visions of glowing people that spared me from that.
    But I don’t share that either.
    I shake free of the memory, listening patiently when she says, “I knew Dace was different the moment I saw you together.” She frowns. Presumably remembering the night she caught us in his car. We were just about to kiss when she interfered and made sure that we didn’t. “Daire, honey.” Her green eyes slant toward mine. “You know I’m just trying to save you from making the same mistakes I made.”
    “Yes, I know.” I turn away, angrily shoving a pile of books into my bag. “And, just so you know, I just love it when you refer to me as a mistake . Seriously. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
    She huffs under her breath. And though my back is turned, I know her well enough to know her eyes have slid closed as she silently counts to ten. “You know what I mean,” she says, as soon as she gets there.
    I frown. About to reply with a nasty retort, when I see her looking so small and defenseless, something inside me loosens up and gives way.
    It’s like I can actually feel how she felt when she found herself knocked up at sixteen by a boy who’d just died—only to lose her parents just a few years later.
    Knocked sideways.
    Kicked in the gut.
    Left gasping and breathless—scrambling to build a new life.
    I grab hold of the chair, fingers curling around the rail as I fight to steady myself. Overcome by the strength of this impression —of involuntarily diving into her experience.
    It’s the same phenomenon Paloma told me about, urged me to hone. Claiming it will help me to know the truth of a person.
    The first time I experienced it was when I ran into Dace and Chepi at the gas station. Without even trying, I’d instantly tuned in to the cloud of sadness and grief surrounding his mom—along with the stream of pure, unconditional love that flowed from Dace to me.
    And now, without even trying, it’s happening again, only this time with Jennika.
    After spending just a few moments beneath her steely veneer, I can no longer be angry with her. Can no longer take that same snarky tone. Like most people, she’s just doing the best she knows how.
    “C’mon.” I lift my chin, making an exaggerated show of inhaling. “Smells like Paloma’s making her famous blue-corn pancakes and, trust me, you don’t want to miss them.”
    *   *   *
    As committed as I was to being nicer to Jennika, when she insists on driving me to school, I can’t help but shoot Paloma a pleading look, begging her to intervene in some way.
    We need to talk. Need to continue my training. But