Page 1 of Impossible

Prologue - Mitigatory

Hollis

ThebiggestlieIever told is that it was hard to close the bond.

It was the easiest choice I’ve ever made.

I feel it still, even though the others don’t. One of the perks of being Pack Alpha.

It’s not like it was before—I can’t feel what they feel, or sense what they sense. Thank god. It’s like standing on top of three separate manhole covers, trying to keep them all sealed with differing threats under each.

Risk is an angry gorilla, punching at the metal grate, making me fight to keep my balance. Even now, nearly six weeks after it all went down, he’s thrashing every day, rocking me back and forth, screaming and beating his chest with his displeasure.

Leon is just a man. He’s recognized he’s trapped underground and is waiting for help. Biding his time. He won’t waste his energy trying to move an immovable force, even though he’s probably strong enough to shove me aside if he really wanted to.

And then there’s Joshua. A black hole, sucking the manhole inwards. I’m afraid to step on his grate, afraid I might shove the metal through myself and watch it crush him. Watch all of us get sucked in, one by one, and destroyed.

I’m pretending he’s the reason I’ve shut it all down. It’s a valid reason—the negative pressure from his bond sets my teeth on edge. It feels like fingernails bending backwards.

But while the difficulty of closing the bond is the biggest lie I’ve ever told, blaming it on Joshua is by far the worst.

Sometimes I think back to before the attack. I try to remember if I enjoyed the bond. I know I did—I remember the good times. The games of chess, the nights in the pack bed, the bonfires and vacations and lazy afternoons. But I remember them like they were stories read to me from a book when I was a child.

The memories that play like movies in my head, lit in bright technicolor? The bad times. The disappointment when I’d work late. When I’d chastise Risk for fucking off and making a scene in public. The fights Leon and I would get in about running the household—stupid shit like bills and chores. When Joshua would disappear and I’d say to give him space and Leon would roll his eyes and I’d yell at him for trying to make me feel guilty.

Things are much safer this way. Much more comfortable, even if I have to shuffle to keep everything in place. At least I’m in control. I tell myself that that’s my job, that’s what Pack Alphas are for.

That’s a lie too.

1

Imposter

Indigo

WalkingaroundAdamsAcademyin May is an exercise in Ivy Leagues.

I don’t see the faces anymore. It’sDartmouth, LegacyandHarvard, Lacrosse,andBrown, Lazy—a favored stereotype by those whose ‘safety’ school was, somehow, still an Ivy League. No, really.

Their transition from Adams Academy to Ivy League campus will be seamless. The stage is already set—Adams is all brick courtyards and cherry blossom springs and rolling hills with a view of the distant, glittering Potomac. Perfect practice for a perfect future.

Then there’s me. Indie the Imposter. Failure to launch. Graduated with nowhere to go.

No, that’s melodramatic. I had somewhere to go. Just no way to get there.

Virginia State. Partial scholarship. Deferred. Because even with a partial scholarship, Indie the Independent cannot afford the remainder of tuition, the cost of a dorm, and enough food for a brain to earn the grades previously aforementioned partial scholarship would require.

Indie the Independent being, of course, a state of mind, rather than a state of tax-status. If it were a state of tax-status, I’d be Indie the Intercollegiate come this fall, after finishing my gap year and saving up money washing dishes and assisting the drama teacher at my alma mater. As it is, I am Indie the Instrumental—that is, instrumental to my parents getting every possible tax break available to them. Turns out, filling out loan paperwork for me does not benefit them, and therefore has not and will not happen. Because god forbid I am Indie the Inconvenient.

I’m not bitter.

I swear.

I glide among the brochure-ready Adams Academy students feeling distinctly hollow. Or maybe just hungry.

Hair up. Bleached sneakers, poor disguised as grunge. Baggy clothes, gaunt disguised as heroin chic. Coffee buzzing in my veins, voodoo magic animating a patchwork doll.

I am huffing when I get to work. The dizziness is a solid thing, sending a column through my brain, squishing the grey matter into my skull.

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