Unearthly (16 page)

I'm in a weird mood. I find it ironic that Angela and Wendy are both going to prom and the only thing we've bought so far on this trip is a dress for me. And I'm not going. I'm also irritated because I can't wear real earrings because piercing my ears doesn't work—they heal too fast. I don't like any of the non-pierced earrings I see. I want something dangly and dramatic for this dance I'm not going to.

I'm feeling queasy and light-headed all of a sudden, so Angela and I stop at Pretzel Time and each get a cinnamon pretzel, hoping some food in my stomach will help. The mall's crowded and there's nowhere to sit, so we lean against the wall and eat our pretzels, watching the people stream in and out of Barnes & Noble.

“Are you mad at me?” Angela asks.

“What? No.”

“You haven't said two words to me since breakfast.”

“Well, you weren't supposed to talk angel stuff, remember? You promised.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“Just tone it down a notch or four with my mom, okay? What with the staring and the questions and everything.”

“Am I staring?” She blushes.

“You look like a Kewpie doll.”

“Sorry,” she says again. “She's the only Dimidius I've ever met. I want to know what she's like.”

“I told you. She's like one part hip thirty-something, one part tranquil angelic being, and one part crotchety old lady.”

“I don't see the old lady part.”

“Trust me, it's there. And you're like one part crazy teenager, one part angelic being, and one part private detective.”

She smiles. “I'll try to behave.”

That's when I see him. A man, watching me from the doorway of the GNC. He's tall, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He's wearing faded jeans and a brown suede coat that hangs off his body loosely. Out of all the people passing by in that swarming mall, I might not have noticed him except for how intensely he's staring at us.

“Angela,” I say weakly, my pretzel dropping to the floor. A wave of terrible sadness crashes over me. I have to fight not to double over with the sudden intensity of the emotion. My hands clench into fists, my nails biting painfully into my palms. I start to cry.

“Whoa, what's the matter, C?” says Angela. “I swear, I'll behave.”

I try to answer. I try to press through the sorrow to form the words. Tears pour down my face.

“That man,” I whisper.

She follows my gaze. Then she sucks in a jagged breath and looks away.

“Come on,” she says. “Let's find your mom.”

She puts her arm around my shoulder and steers me quickly down the hall. We bump into people, push our way through families and groups of teenagers. She looks back again.

“Is he following us?” I can't manage anything louder than a whisper. I feel like I'm struggling to keep my head up in a pool of dark, icy water, chilled to the bone, wearier with every step I take, and it's too much. I want to sink down and let this blackness take me.

“I don't see him,” says Angela.

Then, like an answered prayer, we find my mom. She and Wendy are coming out of Payless, both carrying shopping bags.

“Hey, you two,” Mom says. Then she notices our faces. “What happened?”

“Can we talk to you for a minute?” Angela grabs Mom's arm and pulls her away from Wendy, who looks confused and somewhat offended as we walk away. “There's a man,” she whispers. “He was staring at us, and Clara just . . . she just . . .”

“He's so sad,” I manage.

“Where?” Mom demands.

“Behind us,” says Angela. “I lost track of him, but he's definitely back there somewhere.”

Mom zips her hoodie and pulls the hood up to cover her head. She walks back to Wendy and tries to smile.

“Everything okay?” asks Wendy.

“Clara's feeling sick,” Mom says. “We should go.”

It's not a lie. I'm hardly able to put one foot in front of the other as we make our way quickly toward the department store.

“Don't look back,” Mom whispers close to my ear. “Walk, Clara. Move your feet.”

We hurry through the cosmetics department and the lingerie, past the formal wear section where we started out the day. Within moments we're in the parking lot. When she sees our car, Mom breaks into a full run, towing me after her.

“What's going on?” asks Wendy as we run.

“Get in the car,” Mom orders, and we all scramble in.

We gun it out of the parking lot. It's not until we're a few miles away from Idaho Falls that the sadness starts to dissipate, like a curtain lifting. I take a deep shuddering breath.

“Are you okay?” asks Wendy, still looking wildly confused.

“I just need to get home.”

“She has medicine at home,” chimes in Angela. “It's a medical condition she has.”

“A medical condition?” repeats Wendy. “What kind of medical condition?”

“Uh—”

Mom shoots Angela an exasperated look.

“It's a rare form of anemia,” Angela continues smoothly. “Sometimes it makes her feel sick and wobbly.”

Wendy nods like she understands. “Like that day when she passed out at school.”

“Exactly. She needs to take her pills.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” says Wendy. She glances at Angela and then back at me, as if she's really saying, “How come you told Angela about this and didn't tell me?” She looks hurt.

“It's not usually a big deal,” I say. “I'm feeling much better now.”

Angela and I share a glance. Especially given the way my mom reacted, we both know that it's a very, very big deal.

When we pull up to the house three hours later, after first dropping Wendy at the Lazy Dog, Mom says to us, “All right. Go up to your room. Wait for me there. I'll be a little while.”

Angela and I go into the house. It's not dark yet but I have the urge to turn on all the lights as we retreat to my room. We sit down together on my bed.

We hear Mom knock on Jeffrey's door.

“Hey,” she says when he answers. “I thought I'd drop you off at a movie in Jackson, since I've spoiled your sister all day. It's only fair.”

After they're gone, Angela puts her arms around me and pulls my quilt around us both, because I can't stop shivering. And we wait. Mom's car crackles up the driveway about an hour later. The door slams. We listen to the careful creak of her feet on the stairs. Then she knocks, very lightly.

“Come in,” I croak.

She smiles when she sees us huddled together.

“You shouldn't have taken Jeffrey away,” I say. “What if that guy's out there?”

“I don't want you two to be scared, okay?” she says. “We're safe here.”

“Who was he?” Angela asks.

Mom sighs, a resigned, tired exhalation. “He was a Black Wing. Chances are he was only passing through.”

“A fallen angel hanging out in the mall in Idaho Falls?” says Angela.

“When I saw him, I . . .” I start to choke up, remembering.

“You felt his sorrow.”

“His sorrow?” repeats Angela.

“Angels don't have the kind of free will that you or I do. When they go against their design, it causes them an enormous amount of physical and psychological pain. All Black Wings feel this.”

“Why didn't you or Angela feel it?” I ask.

“Some of us are more sensitive than others to their presence,” she says. “It's actually an advantage. You can feel them coming.”

“And what should we do, if we see them?”

“You do what we did today. You run.”

“We can't fight them?” asks Angela, her voice higher-pitched than normal. Mom shakes her head. “Not even you?”

“No. Angels are almost infinitely powerful. The best you can do is escape. If you're lucky—and today we were lucky—the angel won't consider you worth his time.”

We're all quiet for a minute.

“The surest defense is to stay undetected,” Mom says.

“So why didn't you want me to know about them?” I can't keep the accusation out of my voice. “Why don't you want Jeffrey to know?”

“Because your consciousness draws them, Clara. If you're aware of their existence, you're more likely to be discovered.”

She looks steadily at Angela, who meets her gaze for a few seconds before she turns away, her fingers tightening on the edge of my quilt. Angela was the one who told me about the Black Wings.

“I'm sorry,” whispers Angela.

“It's all right,” says Mom. “You didn't know.”

Later I crawl into bed with Mom. I want to feel safe next to her radiating heat, but she's cold. Her face is pale and pinched, like she's worn out trying to be the brave and knowing one, trying to protect us. Her feet are like blocks of ice. I put my feet against them, hoping to warm her.

“Mom,” I say into the dark. “I was thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

“In my vision, when I suddenly feel so sad, is that a Black Wing?”

Silence. Then another sigh.

“When you talked about the sorrow you felt, the way you described it, it seemed like a possibility.” Mom grabs my waist and pulls me closer. “Don't worry, Clara. You won't help it by worrying. You don't know your purpose yet. You're still working with a few very small pieces. I don't want to fill your head with preconceptions before you see everything for yourself.”

Another shiver passes through me.

Chapter 12
Shut Up and Dance

By Monday, everything starts to get back to normal. I walk the halls of Jackson High with the same students, and I attend the same boring classes (except for Brit History, of course, where I watch Christian and Brady do a presentation on William Wallace and entertain a brief fantasy of Christian in a kilt) and soon enough, the Black Wing seems like a bad dream, and I feel safe again.

Still, I decide I need to take the whole purpose thing more seriously. No more playing at being a normal girl. I'm not. I'm an angel-blood. I have a job to do. I need to quit whining, quit stalling, quit questioning everything. I need to do it.

So Wednesday after school I catch up with Christian at his locker. I go right over to him and touch him on the shoulder. A small zing passes through me like a static shock. He turns and fixes me with those green eyes. He doesn't look like he's in any mood to talk.

“Hey, Clara,” he says. “Can I help you with something?”

“I thought I could help
you
. I noticed you were out of class last week.”

“My uncle took me camping.”

“Do you want to borrow my notes for British History?”

“Sure, notes would be great,” he says like he couldn't care less about British History but he's humoring me. He's not acting like himself at all, no jokes, no confidence, no subtle swagger in his step. There are shadows under his eyes.

I hand him my notebook. Right as he takes it, a group of girls pass by, popular girls, Kay's friends. They whisper and shoot him dirty looks. His shoulders stiffen.

“They'll forget,” I tell him. “You're front-page news today, but give it another week. It will all settle down.”

“Yeah? How do you know so much?”

“Oh, you know. I'm queen of the rumor mill. It seems like there's been a new rumor about me every week since I got here. Comes with being the new girl, I guess. Have you heard the one where I seduced the basketball coach? That's a personal favorite.”

“The rumors about me aren't true,” says Christian heatedly. “I broke up with Kay, not the other way around.”

“Oh. In my experience, rumors aren't usually—”

“I was trying to do the right thing. I couldn't be what she needed, and I was trying to do the right thing,” he says, a fierceness in his eyes that reminds me of how he looks in the vision, this combination of intensity and vulnerability, which only makes him impossibly hotter.

“It's really none of my business,” I say.

“I didn't know it was going to be like this.”

We stand in the hallway as the other students stream by. On the ceiling, practically dangling over Christian's head, hangs a banner for prom.
MYTHIC LOVE
, it reads in bright blue letters. Saturday, seven to midnight. Mythic Love.

My mind is suddenly spinning a million miles an hour, like the wheel on
Wheel of Fortune
. Then it stops.

“Do you want to go to prom with me?” I blurt out.

“What?”

“I don't have a date, and you don't have a date, so maybe we should go together.”

He stares at me. If my heart beats any harder I will pass out. I try to keep cool, act casual like if he says no it's no big deal.

“No one's asked you?” he asks.

Why does everyone keep saying that? “No.”

A light comes on in his eyes. “Sure, why not? A date with Queen Elizabeth.” He smiles.

I can't help but smile back. “Apparently it's Saturday, seven to midnight.” I gesture at the banner. He turns and looks up at it.

“I don't even know where to pick you up,” he says. I quickly rattle off my address and start to explain how to get there. He stops me by doing this thing where he laughs by exhaling. He shakes his head and reaches into his locker to pull out a pen. Then he grabs my wrist, and instantly the back of my neck prickles with electric heat.

“Email me your address,” he says. He uncurls my fingers and writes his email address across my palm in green ink.

“Okay,” I say, my voice suddenly ridiculously high and quivery. A strand of hair falls across my face, and I swipe it behind my ear.

He clicks the pen closed and swings his backpack over his shoulder. “Seven o'clock?”

“Okay,” I say again. It seems that I've been reduced to single syllables by a touch. Maybe Angela's right. Maybe the swoony hand-holding in my vision means that part of my purpose is getting this really hot guy as my boyfriend. That wouldn't suck.

“Okay, I've got to bail,” he says, startling me out of my reverie.

His mouth lifts into that lopsided half smile he pins on all the girls. He seems himself all of a sudden, the thing about Kay forgotten for the moment.

“See you Saturday,” he says.

“See you then.”

As he walks away I close my hand into a fist around his email address. I'm a genius, I think. This is a genius idea.

I'm going to prom with Christian Prescott.

Mom's crying again. I'm standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom a few minutes shy of seven o'clock on prom night, and she's crying, not sobbing or anything because that would be too undignified for her, but tears spilling down her cheeks. It's alarming. One minute she's helping me pull two silver ribbons through my hair, something Greekish, she said, and the next she's sitting on the edge of her bed silently weeping.

“Mom,” I say helplessly.

“I'm just so happy for you,” she sniffles, embarrassed.

“Right. Happy.” I can't help the disconcerting feeling that she's unraveling lately. “Get it together, okay? He's going to be here any minute.”

She smiles.

“Silver Avalanche coming up the driveway,” calls Jeffrey from downstairs. Mom stands up.

“You stay up here,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “It's always better for him to have to wait.”

I go to the window and covertly watch Christian pull up to the house and park. He straightens his tie and sweeps a hand through his tousled dark hair before he comes to the door. I give myself a last once-over in the mirror. The theme Mythic Love is supposed to bring to mind the myths of gods and goddesses, Hercules, that kind of thing, so my Greek-inspired dress is perfect. I've let my hair hang in waves down my back so I won't have to wrestle it into a style. I'll have to dye it again soon. My gold roots are starting to show.

“Here she comes,” says Mom when I appear at the top of the stairs. She and Christian look up at me. I smile and carefully descend the steps.

“Wow,” says Christian when I stop in front of him. His gaze sweeps me from head to foot. “Beautiful.”

I'm not sure if he's talking about me or the dress. Either way, I'll take it.

He's wearing a sleek black tux with a silver vest and tie, white shirt with cuff links and everything. He is, in a word, mouthwatering. Even Mom can't take her eyes off him.

“You look great,” I say.

“Christian was telling me that he lives close by,” says Mom, her eyes sparkling, no trace of the earlier tears on her face. “Three miles directly east of here, did you say?”

“Give or take,” he says, still looking at me. “As the crow flies.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asks.

“No, it's just me.”

“We should be going,” I say, because I sense that she's trying to figure out how my vision will finally come together, and I'm afraid she'll scare him off.

“You look so wonderful together,” says Mom. “Can I take a picture?”

“Sure,” says Christian.

She runs to the office for her camera. Christian and I wait for her in silence. He smells amazing, that wonderful mix of soap and cologne and something all his own. Pheromones, I guess, but it seems like more than simple chemistry.

I smile at him. “Thanks for being so patient. You know how moms can get.”

He doesn't respond, and for a moment I wonder if he and I will ever have a chance at a breakthrough tonight. Then my mom's back and she has us stand against the door while she takes our picture. Christian puts his arm behind me, his hand lightly touching the middle of my back. A tiny tremor ripples through me. There's something that happens between us when we touch, something I can't explain, but it makes me feel weak and strong at the same time, aware of my blood moving through my veins and the air moving in and out of my lungs. It's like my body recognizes his. I don't know what it means, but I kind of like it.

“Oh, I forgot,” I say after the flash goes off. “I got you a boutonniere.”

I dash off to the kitchen to get it out of the refrigerator. “Here,” I say, walking back to him. I step up to him to pin the boutonniere—a single white rose and a bit of greenery—to his lapel and immediately stab myself in the finger with the pin.

“Ow,” he says, flinching as if the pin has pierced his finger instead of mine. I hold my finger up and a single drop of blood forms on it.

Christian takes my hand and inspects it. My breath catches. I could get used to this.

“Think you'll survive?” he asks, gazing into my eyes, and I need to close them to keep my breath from shaking.

“I think so. It's not even bleeding anymore.” I take a tissue from Mom and hold it on the spot of blood on my finger, careful not to touch my dress.

“Let's try this again,” I say, and this time I lean close, our breath mingling as I carefully fasten the boutonniere. It's the same feeling I had when we were lying in the snow on the ski hill, a breath apart. Like I could lean in and kiss him, in front of my mother and everything. I take a quick step back, thinking things are either about to go very right tonight, or very wrong.

“Thanks,” he says, looking down at my handiwork. “I got you a corsage, too, but it's in the truck.” He turns to Mom. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gardner.”

“Please, call me Maggie.”

He nods cordially.

“Be home before midnight,” she adds. I stare at her. She can't possibly mean that. The dance doesn't even end until midnight.

“Shall we?” asks Christian before I can think of a reasonable argument. He extends his arm, and I tuck my hand into the crook.

“We shall,” I reply, and then we get the heck out of there.

At the door to the art museum in Jackson where prom's being held, they give the girls delicate laurels made from silver spray-painted leaves and the boys long sashes of white fabric that they're supposed to wear over one shoulder of their tuxedos, toga style. Now that we officially look like ancient Greeks, we're allowed to enter the lobby, where prom is in full swing.

“Pictures first?” says Christian. “The line doesn't look too long.”

“Sure.”

A slow song begins to play as we make our way over to the picture area. I watch Jason Lovett ask Wendy to dance. She looks like a bona fide princess in my pink dress. She nods and then they put their arms around each other and start to sway awkwardly to the music. It's adorable. I also spot Tucker in a corner dancing with a redhead I don't know. He sees me, almost starts to wave, but then he sees Christian. His eyes flick back and forth between us, like he's trying to figure out what happened since last Saturday when I said I didn't have a date.

“All right, you two, you're up,” says the photographer. Christian and I shuffle onto the platform they've set up. Christian stands behind me and puts his arms loosely around me like it's the most natural thing in the world. I smile. The camera flashes.

“Come on, let's dance,” says Christian.

Suddenly happy, I follow him onto the dance floor, which is covered in fog and strewn with white roses. He takes my hand and twirls me, then catches me in his arms, still holding my hands lightly in his. I'm swamped with that electric awareness, which buzzes through me like I've had a shot of espresso.

“So you can dance,” I say as he moves us deftly through the crowd.

“A bit.” He grins. He really knows how to lead, and I relax and let him take me where he wants me to go, making an effort to look at his face instead of at our feet sweeping through the fog and roses or the people I can feel watching us.

I step on his foot. Twice. And here I call myself a dancer.

I'm trying not to stare at him. Sometimes it's still a shock to see him from the front. It reminds me of a story my mom used to tell of a sculptor whose statue suddenly came to life. That's how I feel about Christian now. He's alive in a way that seems impossible, as if I've created him from the sketches I drew when I first had the vision. From my dreams.

But this isn't a fairy tale, I remind myself. I'm here for a purpose. I need to try to understand what will bring us together in the forest.

“So, you said your uncle took you camping? Was your campsite close to here?” I ask.

He looks confused. “Uh, it was in Teton. An out-of-the-way kind of place.”