The Extraordinary One

People usually say girls like me are “gifted”. I’ve always considered it a curse. But let’s start from the beginning.
When I was just a month old, my mum left me on the orphanage steps. Why she chucked me out, I couldn’t say. Maybe she had the same “gift” and didn’t fancy passing it on. Who knows? The fact remains, I grew up in Larkfield Children’s Home in Berkshire, not knowing my parents. My talent was first spotted by one of our carers, Miss Margaret Whitaker. She recalled me playing with the other kids when Billy Jenkins nicked my toy. In her words: “I swear on my life, young Billy went flying across the rug to the other side of the playroom, and you just picked your toy back up.”
Miss Whitaker was a kind soul. She grasped right away that I was different, and that if word got out, I’d never get a moment’s peace. “Don’t want you hauled off for experiments,” she’d whisper often. She took me under her wing, helping me tame these blooming abilities. When I got properly miffed, I could move objects, even people. I felt everyone’s energy; I didn’t need handshakes to sense if someone was right dodgy or decent. Sounds brilliant, you might think, but it felt like folks sensed I wasn’t normal too. They kept their distance. Result? No one ever wanted to adopt me. It stung. Like any kid, I craved cuddles, love, a proper family. I wanted to know what having a mum felt like.
I had one real friend at Larkfield: Renée. Well, Imogen really, but she hated ‘Imogen’, so Renée she was. She was a cracking girl. We always had a laugh. She was my family; I was hers. Renée knew about my peculiarities and kept them schtum, never once asking me to use them for her benefit. I was dead grateful for that. Renée, bless her, had given up hope on finding a family. She was fifteen, and everyone knows the oldies in care rarely get snapped up.
Then one day, Renée burst into our room, eyes shining like stars. Her frantic energy practically knocked me over.
“What’s happened?”
“Flora!!! You’ll never guess!!! I’m being adopted!!! I’m getting a family!!!”
Renée leapt at me, grabbing my shoulders and spinning us around the room like a dervish.
“Founders! People who actually want me! Must’ve won the life lottery!”
She stopped spinning abruptly, looking dead serious. “Don’t fret, I’ll visit ALL the time. And when *you* get adopted, we’ll be family friends! Come on, quick, they’re still with Headmistress Davies! I want you to see!”
She dragged me by the hand down the corridor. We skidded to a halt as the head’s door swung open.
Out walked this couple: a great hulking man with shoulders like an ox, a sharp chin, and heavy cheekbones.
I felt their energy instantly. Tingled like electric eels. And what I felt? Gave me the willies.
The man radiated power, alright. Not strength. Cruelty. Pure nastiness. A bully’s vibe.
The woman was weak as tea, scared stiff. Wildly tired and just… empty. That’s the buzz I got.
“Oh, Imogen!” the man beamed, all teeth. It made my skin crawl.
“Nearly sorted the paperwork,” he boomed. “Tomorrow, you’ll be coming home with us!”
Renée threw her arms around him.
And then I sensed another spike in his energy. It looked like affection, but it wasn’t dad-love. Something else. Like… leering.
Back in our room, Renée was bouncing off the walls. I just sat on my bed, trying to digest it all. Maybe I’d got the wrong end of the stick?
“What’s up then?” Renée plonked down next to me. “Don’t be mopey! I promised we’ll see each other!”
“Renée,” I whispered, “I didn’t like that couple. Something’s wrong. Especially him. He feels… nasty.”
Renée frowned. “Stop it, Flora! Why are you saying that? Are you jealous? I’ve waited FOREVER for this! I’ll finally have a family! Nigel Thornfield was dead lovely when we chatted! Said I’ll have my own massive bedroom! Can you imagine?”
“Renée, you *know* I just *feel* people!”
“Flora, leave off! Every couple gets checked by a psychologist AND Headmistress Davies! They’re top candidates! He’s got a job, er… something in finance? She stays home! I’ll spend all my time with Mum! Imagine! They’ve got all the clearances. If they were nutters, it’d show.”
Renée jumped up and stalked to the window. Tears wobbled in her voice. “Thought at least *you’d* be made up for me. Thought you were my best mate.”
Shame washed over me. I hugged her from behind. “Sorry. ‘Course I’m chuffed for you, mate. You’re right. Must have imagined it. I just… don’t wanna say goodbye.”
“Don’t worry! You’re only seven! They’ll pick you eventually! Now, gotta pack.”
I slept rotten. Nightmares about Nigel Thornfield. He was a monster, eyes blazing with fury, giant fangs dripping slobber. Renée had to shake me awake. She was dressed, suitcase packed. On the front steps, I clung to her like she was driftwood in a storm, as if hugging tight could somehow save her. As Renée climbed into their Jaguar and the staff went back inside, just me watching, I saw it. As she slid in, her new ‘mum’ exhaled like she’d escaped a prison. Nigel Thornfield? He gave this twisted, one-corner-of-the-mouth smirk.
All day I felt miserable. Miss Whitaker clocked it. During playground time, she steered me behind the old oak.
“Flora? What’s up, love? Missing Renée already?”
“Miss Whitaker? Do you believe me?”
“Well, of course, pet. You know I do.”
“It’s really bad people who took her. Especially that Nigel Thornfield. He’s… wicked.”
Miss Whitaker sighed, thoughtful. “That’s worrying. Maybe you’re just pining. Or… perhaps you’re onto something. But Flora, love, what can we do? Their record’s spotless. Perfectly sorted for adopters.”
“But why take someone Renée’s age? Why not a little kid?” I pressed.
“And what are you implying?”
“Dunno, Miss Whitaker. Just dunno. Need to think.” I walked off, leaving her chewing her lip.
The rest of the day was awful. Headache. My whole insides screaming *Do something!*. When the sun dipped below the horizon? My heart started pounding like a drum solo. I swear I heard Renée scream.
I couldn’t stay put. I ran to the only person who could help.
“Miss Whitaker! Please! We have to help her! Something terrible’s going to happen! Believe me! We must go to her place! You have the address, right? Just check! If it’s all tickety
Our cosy cottage in Devon soon echoed with Daisy’s laughter again, though now she’d occasionally shriek, “Emily, stop floating my biscuits!” as we drank tea with Mum, who simply smiled and whispered, “Quite the blessing, that gift of yours, isn’t it?”