Unearthly (11 page)

“Angela Zerbino's an angel-blood,” I say.

He blinks.

“Who?”

“She's a junior, tall, long black hair, kind of Emo, gold eyes. Loner.”

He looks at the ceiling thoughtfully like he's calling up Angela's face in his mind. “How do you know she's an angel-blood?”

“She told me. But that's not the right question, Jeffrey.”

“What do you mean?”

“What you should be asking is
why
Angela Zerbino told me that she was an angel-blood. And if you asked me that, I would answer that she told me because she knew that
I
was an angel-blood.”

“Huh? How did she know you were an angel-blood?”

“See, now that's the right question,” I say. I lean forward. “She knew because she saw you take on the wrestling team last month. She watched you wrestle Toby Jameson, who probably weighs two hundred pounds, without even working up a sweat. And she said to herself, wow, that guy's a good wrestler, he must be an
angel
.”

His face actually pales. It's mildly satisfying. Of course I'm leaving out some of the other troublesome details, my stupid thing about the birds and French class and the way I ogled her angel shirt, falling so neatly into her trap. But Jeffrey was the linchpin: She was only certain that we were something more than human after she observed him on the wrestling mat that day.

“Did you tell Mom?” He looks a little green at the thought. Because if I told Mom, that'd be it for Jeffrey. No more wrestling, or baseball in the spring, or football in the fall or whatever he was dreaming up. He'd probably be grounded until college.

“No,” I say. “Although she's bound to ask the right question herself, sooner or later.” It's kind of odd, come to think of it, that she hasn't asked me yet. Maybe her sources already told her that, too.

“Are you going to tell her?” he asks, so softly I can hardly hear him over the music. His expression is truly pathetic, and where a few moments before anger surged through me, now I feel drained and sad.

“No. I just wanted to tell you. I don't know why. I wanted you to know.”

“Thanks,” he says. He gives a short, humorless laugh. “I think.”

“Don't mention it. I mean ever. Really.” I get up to leave.

“I feel like a cheater,” he says then. “All the ribbons and medals and trophies I won in California, they don't mean anything. It's like I was taking steroids, only I didn't know it.”

I know exactly what he means. It's why I dropped out of ballet, even though I loved it, and why I never picked it up again in Jackson. It felt dishonest, doing so easily, so naturally, what the other girls had to work so hard to accomplish. It was unfair, I thought, to take the attention away from them when I had such a huge advantage. So I quit.

“But if I hold myself back, I feel like a fake,” says Jeffrey. “And that's worse.”

“I know.”

“I won't do it,” he says. I look into his dead-serious gray eyes. He swallows, but holds my gaze. “I won't hold myself back. I won't pretend to be less than I am.”

“Even if it puts us in danger?” I ask, glancing away.

“What danger? Angela Zerbino's dangerous?”

That's when I'm supposed to tell him about the Black Wings. There are bad angels now, angels that hunt us and sometimes kill us. There are shades of gray we didn't know about before, and it's something that I should tell him, something that he needs to know, but his eyes are pleading with me not to take any more away from him.

Mom told us that we're special, but what kind of “gift” comes with a war between angels as the strings attached? Maybe I don't want any more taken from me either. Maybe I don't want to be remarkable, don't want to fly or speak some bizarre angel language or save the world one hot guy at a time. I just want to be human.

“Watch yourself, okay?” I tell Jeffrey.

“I will.” Then he adds, “Thanks. . . . You're all right sometimes, you know.”

“Remember that next time you're dragging me out of bed at five in the morning,” I say wearily. “Tell Kimber I said hi, by the way.”

Then I escape to my room and lay in the dark turning the words
Black Wing
over and over in my head.

Chapter 8
Blue Square Girl

This morning the sun's so bright it feels like I'm standing on a frozen cloud. I'm at the top of a run called Wide Open. It's a double blue square—more difficult than green circle, but not black diamond level. I'm getting there. The valley below is so white and serene it's hard to believe it's the first week of March.

I readjust my goggles, slip my hands into my poles, and flex forward in my boots to test the bindings. All set. I launch myself down the mountain. The cold air whips the exposed part of my face, but I'm grinning like an idiot. It feels so good, the closest I can come to flying. I almost feel the presence of my wings in moments like these, even though they're not there. There's a section of moguls on one side of the run, and I try them out, lifting and dropping in and out of them. It makes me aware of the strength of my knees, my legs. I'm getting good at moguls. And powder, which is literally like pushing through cloud, sinking up to your knees in fluffy white snow that flies out behind you as you go. I like to hit the runs first thing in the morning after a new snow, so I can carve my own path through the fresh powder.

I've got it bad for skiing. Too bad the season's almost over.

Wide Open deposits me at South Pass Traverse, a trail that cuts almost horizontally across the mountain. I straighten my skis and push off to gain momentum, cutting through the trees. There's a bird singing back there somewhere, and when I pass by it stops. The trail opens up onto another groomed slope, Werner, one of my faves, and I stop at the edge. People are setting up giant slalom gates on the hill. Race today.

Which means that Christian will be here.

“What time's the race?” I call to one of the guys setting up.

“High noon,” he calls back.

I check my watch. It's a few minutes before eleven. I should go eat, then take the big quad chair up to the top of Werner and watch the race.

At the lodge I spot Tucker Avery having lunch with a girl. This is a new development. I've spent almost every weekend this winter at Teton Village (yay Mom for not scoffing at the ridiculously expensive season pass) and almost every weekend I see Tucker sometime in the afternoon, after he's done with his morning teaching on the bunny hill. But it's not like I'm bumping into him all over the mountain. He's more of a backcountry skier, off the groomed trails. I haven't tried that kind of thing yet—apparently it requires a partner so if something terrible happens to one of you the other can go for help. I'm not into the extreme stuff—my goal is to become a black diamond girl, nothing fancy. Teton Village is funny, with its signs always reminding you that
THIS MOUNTAIN IS NOTHING YOU'VE EVER EXPERIENCED BEFORE
and if you don't know what you're doing,
YOU JUST MAY DIE
. The backcountry signs say stuff like
BEYOND THIS POINT IS A HIGH RISK AREA, WHICH HAS MANY HAZARDS INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, AVALANCHES, CLIFFS, AND HIDDEN OBSTACLES. YOU MAY BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE COST OF YOUR RESCUE
and I think, um, no thanks. I choose life.

Is this girl talking to Tucker now his backcountry partner? I take a few discreet steps to the side so I can see her face. It's Ava Peters. She's in my chemistry class, definitely one of the pretty people, a little busty with that superlight blond hair that almost looks white. Her dad owns a white-water rafting company. It doesn't surprise me to see Tucker with a popular girl, even though he's definitely a Have-Not. At school I've noticed that he's one of those guys who seems to get along with everybody. Everybody but me, that is.

Ava's wearing too much eye makeup. I wonder if he likes that kind of thing.

He glances over at me and smirks before I have a chance to look away. I smirk back, then try to saunter over to the deli counter, but I can't pull it off. It's impossible to saunter in ski boots.

I stand with a few spectators on the side of Werner run and watch Christian hurl himself at the gates, sometimes grazing them with his shoulders as he passes through. It's graceful, the way his body bends toward the gate, his skis coming up onto their edges and his knees nearly brushing the snow. His movements so careful, so purposeful. His lips pursed in concentration.

After he blasts through the finish line I penguin-walk over to where he's watching the other racers run the course and say hello.

“Did you win?” I ask.

“I always win. Except when I don't. This was one of the don'ts.” He shrugs like he doesn't care, but I can tell by his face that he's unhappy with his performance

“You looked good to me. Fast, I mean.”

“Thanks,” he says. He fiddles with the number that's strapped to his chest: 9. It makes me think of 99CX, his license plate.

“Are you trying for the Olympics?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. I'm on the ski team, not the ski club.”

I must look confused, because he smiles and says, “The ski team's the high school's official team, which only competes against other teams from Wyoming. The ski club's where all the hard-core people go, the skiers who get sponsors and national recognition and all that.”

“Don't you want to win gold medals?”

“I was in club, for a while. But it's a little too intense for me. Too much pressure. I don't want to be a professional skier. I just like skiing. I like racing.” He grins suddenly. “The speed is very addictive.”

Yes it is. I smile. “I'm still trying to make it down the hill in one piece.”

“How's that going? Getting the hang of it?”

“Better every day.”

“Pretty soon you'll be ready for the racecourse, too.”

“Yep, and then you'd better watch out.”

He laughs. “I'm sure you'll crush me.”

“Right.”

He looks around like he's expecting someone to join us. It makes me nervous, like any moment Kay will materialize out of thin air and tell me to step away from her boyfriend.

“Does Kay ski, too?” I ask.

He gives a short laugh. “No, she's a lodge bunny. If she comes at all. She knows how to ski, but she says she gets too cold. She hates ski season, because I can't really do stuff with her on the weekends.”

“That sucks.”

He looks around again.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Kay's in my English class. She never says much. I always wonder if she's even read the books.”

Okay, so my mouth is completely disconnected from my brain. I look at his face to see if I've offended him. But he only laughs again, a longer, warmer laugh this time.

“She takes honors classes to look good on the college apps, but books aren't really her thing,” he says.

I don't want to think about what her thing might be. I don't want to think about Kay at all, but now that we're talking about her, I'm curious.

“When did you and Kay start going out?”

“Fall, sophomore year,” he answers. “She's a cheerleader, and back then I played football, and at the homecoming game she got hurt doing a liberty twist. I think that's what it's called—Kay usually tells the story. But she fell and hurt her ankle.”

“Let me guess. You carried her off the field. And then it was happily ever after?”

He looks away, embarrassed. “Something like that,” he says.

And there's the awkward silence, right on cue.

“Kay seems . . .” I want to say “nice,” but I don't think I can pull that off. “She seems like she's really into you.”

He doesn't say anything for a minute, just stares up the course where somebody is coming down now on a snowboard.

“She is,” he says thoughtfully, like he's talking to himself more than to me. “She's a good person.”

“Great,” I manage. I don't particularly want Kay to be a good person. I'm perfectly comfortable thinking about her as the wicked witch.

He coughs uncomfortably, and I realize that I'm staring at him with my big owl eyes. I flush and look up the hill where the snowboarder is crossing the finish line.

“Nice run!” Christian shouts. “Smoking!”

“Thanks, dude,” the snowboarder calls back. He pulls off his goggles. It's Shawn Davidson, snowboarder Shawn, the guy from the Pizza Hut who called me Bozo. He looks from me to Christian and back again. I feel his gaze on me like a spotlight.

“I better go,” says Christian. “The race is over. Coach will want to break it down for us in the ski shack, watch the videos and all that.”

“Okay,” I say. “Nice to—”

But he's already gone, tearing his way down the hill, leaving me once again to make it the rest of the way down the mountain by myself.

In late March we hit a warm spell, and the snow in the valley melts in the space of about two days. Our woods fill up with clusters of red and purple wildflowers. Bright green leaves pop up on the aspens. The land, which has been so quietly pristine all winter, fills with color and noise. I like to stand on our back porch and listen as the breeze stirs the trees into a rhythmic whispering, the creek that cuts across the corner of our land gurgling happily, birds singing (and occasionally dive-bombing me), chipmunks chattering. The air smells like flowers and sun-warmed pine. The mountains behind the house are still white with snow, but spring has definitely sprung.

With it comes the vision, in full force. All winter that particular tingling in my head has been quiet; in fact, it only came to me twice since the first day of school when I saw Christian in the hallway. I thought I was being given a little heavenly break, but apparently that's over. I'm halfway to school one morning when out of the blue (poof!) I'm back in that familiar forest, walking through the trees toward Christian.

I call his name. He turns toward me, his eyes a green-gold in the slanted afternoon light.

“It's you,” he says hoarsely.

“It's me,” I answer. “I'm here.”

“Clara!”

I blink. The first thing I see is Jeffrey's hand on the steering wheel of the Prius. My foot is still resting lightly on the gas. The car moves very slowly to the side of the road.

“I'm sorry,” I gasp. I pull over immediately and park. “Jeffrey, I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” he murmurs. “It's the vision, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's not like you can control when it happens.”

“Yeah, but you'd think that it wouldn't happen during a time when it might actually kill me. What if I'd crashed? So much for the vision then, right?”

“But you didn't crash,” he says. “I was here.”

“Thank God.”

He smiles mischievously. “So does this mean I can drive us the rest of the way?”

When I tell Mom about the return of the vision she starts talking about teaching me to fly again, using the word
training
so often that our house feels like it's been converted to some kind of boot camp. She's been in a funky mood all winter, spending most of her time in her office with the door shut, drinking tea and hunched in a crocheted blanket. Whenever I knock or stick my head in she always gets this strained look, like she doesn't want to be bothered. And, truthfully, I've been quasi-avoiding her since that first day with Angela, when it became so clear that Mom's intentionally keeping me in the dark. I spend a lot of afternoons over at the Pink Garter with Angela, which Mom doesn't like, but as it's technically school related (we're working on our Queen Eliz project after all) she can't formally object. And weekends, I've been on the ski slopes. Which is, I argue, Christian related and, therefore, purpose related. So it's technically training, right?

Only now the snow on the mountain's getting awfully thin.

Wendy takes the warm weather as an opportunity to convince me to ride a horse. So that's how I find myself at the Lazy Dog Ranch sitting on the back of a black-and-white mare named Sassy. Wendy says Sassy's a good horse to learn on because she's about thirty years old and doesn't have much fight left in her. That's fine by me, although I instantly feel comfortable in the saddle, like I've been riding all my life.

“You're doing really well,” says Wendy, watching me from the fence as I ride the horse slowly around the edge of the pasture. “You're a natural horsewoman.”

Sassy's ears perk up. In the distance I see two men on horseback, galloping toward the big red barn at the end of the pasture. The sound of them laughing floats toward us across the field.

“That's Dad and Tucker,” says Wendy. “Dinner will be ready soon. Better bring Sassy in.”

I give Sassy a gentle kick and she starts toward the barn.

“Hey there!” greets Mr. Avery as we approach. “Looking good.”

“Thanks. I'm Clara.”

“I know,” says Mr. Avery. He looks so much like Tucker. “Wendy's been talking about you nonstop for months now.” He grins, which makes him look even more like Tucker.

“Dad,” mutters Wendy. She walks up to her dad's horse and rubs it under the chin.