Unearthly (17 page)

“So you didn't drive there?”

“No, we hiked.” He's still thrown by my choice in topic.

“I just ask because I want to get into camping this summer. I want to try hiking, too. Sleeping under the stars. We never did that in California.”

“You've moved to the right place then,” he says. “There are entire books written about the awesome places to camp here.”

I wonder if we'll be together at one of these campsites when the forest fire starts.

We dance closely through the final chorus, then the song ends, and we step back from each other a little awkwardly.

“You know what I'm suddenly craving?” I say to break the silence. “Punch.”

We make our way over to the refreshments table and pile a few Greek olives, crackers, and a little bit of Feta cheese on tiny plastic plates. I don't get a lot because I'm not sure what it would do to my breath. We find an empty table and sit. I spot Angela gyrating around in a dance with a tall, blond boy I've seen in the hall a few times. Tyler something, I think she said his name was. The bloodred dress that her mother sewed for her looks fantastic. She's lined her golden eyes with heavy black that tips up in the corners like an ancient Egyptian's. If this dance is about Mythic Love, then she's a goddess, all right. Only she's the kind of goddess who demands blood sacrifices. She catches my eye and gives me a quick thumbs-up, then dances suggestively around the boy while he simply stands there bobbing in time to the music.

“You're friends with Angela?” asks Christian.

“Yeah.”

“She's kind of intense.”

“You're not the first person to tell me that,” I say, laughing because he has no idea how crazy intense Angela can be. He hasn't heard her discussing the mind-reading abilities of the Intangere. “I think people get intimidated by how smart she is. Like people get intimidated by you—” I stop myself.

“What? You think people are intimidated by me? Why?”

“Because you're so . . . perfect and popular and good at everything you try.”

“Perfect,” he scoffs, and he has the grace to look genuinely embarrassed.

“It's annoying, actually.”

He laughs. Then he reaches across the table and grabs my hand, making all my nerves light up.

“Believe me, I'm not perfect,” he says.

From that point on things go really well. Christian's a model date. He's charming, attentive, thoughtful. Not to mention hotness personified. For a while I forget all about my purpose. I just dance. I let that magnetic feeling of being near him fill me up until everything else falls away. I'm literally having the time of my life.

Until Kay shows up. Of course she's gorgeous in this lavender lace gown that hugs her shoulders and accentuates her tiny waist. Her dark hair is pinned up, curls cascading down to brush the back of her neck. Something in her hair catches the light and sparkles. She has one elbow-length-white-satin-glove-covered arm curled around her date's waist as she walks in, laughing up into his face like she's having a marvelous time. She doesn't even look in our direction. She pulls her date onto the dance floor as the next slow song begins to play.

Christian draws me closer. Our bodies come together. My head fits perfectly against the curve of his shoulder. I can't help but close my eyes and breathe him in. And suddenly I'm having the vision again, the strongest I've ever had it.

I walk down a dirt road through the forest. Christian's truck is parked at the road's edge. I smell smoke; my head feels clouded with it. I start to move away from the road, deeper into the trees. I'm not worried. I know exactly where to find him. My feet take me there without me even having to direct them. When I see him, standing there with his back to me in his black fleece jacket, his hands in his pockets, I'm filled with that familiar grief. The intensity of the sadness makes it hard to breathe. I'm so fragile in that moment, like I could be shattered into a million pieces.

“Christian,” I call.

He turns. He looks at me with a mix of sorrow and relief.

“It's you,” he says. He starts to walk toward me. Behind him, the fire crests the hill. It's raging toward us, but I don't feel afraid. Christian and I walk toward each other until we're standing face-to-face.

“It's me,” I answer. “I'm here.” I reach out and take his hand, which feels easy, like I've been with him all my life. He lifts his other hand to touch my cheek. His skin's so hot it's like a burn, but I don't pull away. For a moment we stay like that, standing still as if time has stopped, as if the fire isn't coming for us. And then we're suddenly in each other's arms, holding each other tightly, our bodies pressing together like we're becoming one person, and the ground is falling away beneath us.

I'm back at the dance, gasping for breath. I look up into Christian's wide green eyes. We've stopped dancing and are standing in the middle of the dance floor staring at each other. My heart feels about to beat out of my chest. A wave of dizziness crashes over me, and I sway, my knees suddenly wobbly. Christian's arms steady me.

“You okay?” He glances around quickly to see if people are watching us. They are. Over his shoulder I see Kay, who looks at me with open hatred in her eyes.

“I need some air.” I break free and run toward the door onto the balcony, bursting out into the cool night. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes and try to calm my racing heart.

“Clara?”

I open my eyes. Christian's standing in front of me, looking as shaken as I am, his face pale in the lamplight.

“I'm okay,” I say, smiling to prove it. “It just got a little stuffy in there.”

“I should get you something to drink,” he says, but he doesn't go anywhere.

“I'm okay.” I feel stupid. Then a flash of anger. I didn't ask for any of this. So I will fly away with Christian in my arms. And then what? Gorgeous Christian Prescott will go off to save the world, and my part will be done. I'll have completed—and served—my purpose.

It's like I'm a prop in someone else's life.

“I'll go get that punch,” says Christian.

I shake my head. “This was a bad idea.”

“What?”

“You don't want to be here with me,” I say, meeting his eyes. “It's still all about Kay.”

He doesn't answer.

“I thought I felt this connection between us but . . . I wanted you to like me, that's all, really like me. What you and Kay had—have—whatever, I've never had that.” To my horror there are tears in my eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he says finally, moving to lean against the wall next to me. He looks over at me earnestly. “I do like you, Clara.”

I'm starting to get whiplash from the emotional roller coaster I've been on all night. I'm also getting a headache.

“You don't even know me,” I say.

“I'd like to.”

If only he knew how important this is. But before I have a chance to reply, the door opens. Brady Hunt steps out.

“They're announcing the prom king,” he says, looking at Christian expectantly.

Christian hesitates.

“You should go,” I tell him. Brady looks at me curiously before going back inside. Christian goes to the door and holds it open for me, but I shake my head.

“I just need another minute, okay?” I close my eyes until I hear the door close. The air is suddenly cold. One by one Mr. Erikson announces the king's court, who are nearly all from the athletic crowd.

“And the prom king is . . . ,” says Mr. Erikson. The room is absolutely silent. “. . . Christian Prescott.”

I step back inside in time to see Miss Colbert, my French teacher, hand Christian a gold scepter. Christian smiles graciously. He handles attention so well, like a movie star or a politician. Maybe he
will
be president someday. Miss Colbert takes a bit too much pleasure in making him kneel down so she can put the crown of gold leaves on his head. He thanks her and stands up to wave at the crowd, who cheer wildly.

Then he stands to one side while Mr. Erikson reads off the court for prom queen, and that's when I start to get nervous. Of course I'm not named. I wasn't even nominated. I'm Bozo the Clown. But every single one of the girls in the queen's court is Kay's friend. Which can only mean . . .

“And now the prom queen,” says Mr. Erikson. “Kay Patterson.”

The room reverberates with the thunderous applause of the students who voted for her. Kay approaches the stage with infinite grace and poise. She takes the bouquet of white roses under her arm and leans down as Mr. Erikson replaces her little silver laurel with a big gold one.

“Now, as is customary, the king and queen will share a dance,” says Mr. Erikson.

A string of very un-angelic curse words come to mind.

Kay looks at Christian expectantly. He glances down as if deciding something, then looks up and smiles again. As the music starts to play he walks over to Kay and takes her hand. She puts her other arm around his shoulder. They start to dance. Everybody around me begins to chatter excitedly, watching them move so beautifully together to the music. Christian and Kay, together again.

I feel like I've slipped into the hell dimension.

“Hey, Carrots,” says a voice.

I cringe. “Not now, Tucker. I can't deal with you right now.”

“Dance with me,” he says.

“No.”

“C'mon, you look pathetic standing here watching your date dance with someone else.”

I turn and glower at him. But one thing I will say for him: He cleans up nice. The white shirt against his neck sets off his tan. In the tux his shoulders look broad and strong. His short tawny hair is combed and styled. His blue eyes blaze under the lights. I even smell cologne.

“Fine,” I say.

He holds out his hand, and I take it, then stalk over to the edge of the dance floor with him and put my arms around his neck. He doesn't say anything, just moves his feet from side to side, looking at my face. All the anger drains out of me. He's doing me a favor, or so it seems. I scan the ceiling for the telltale bucket of pig's blood he's about to douse me with.

“Where's your date?” I ask.

“Well, that's a complicated question. Depends on what you mean.”

“Who did you come with tonight?”

“Her,” says Tucker, gesturing with his head to the redheaded girl standing over by the punch table.

“And her,” he says, looking over toward the DJ, where a brunette I don't know, a senior I presume, is putting in a request.

“And her,” he says finally, and points to a blonde who's dancing very close to the second runner-up for prom king.

“You came with three girls?”

“They're on the rodeo team,” he says as if that explains it. “None of them had dates, and I figured I was the only one man enough to handle the three of them.”

“You're unbelievable.”

“And you came with Christian Prescott,” he says. “Your dream come true.”

At the moment it seems like more of a nightmare. I cast a look at Christian and Kay over my shoulder. Predictably, Kay is crying. She's clinging to Christian's shoulders and sobbing.

Tucker turns to follow my gaze.

Christian leans closer to Kay and whispers something. Whatever it is, she does not take it well. She starts crying even harder.

“Man, you couldn't pay me to be in his shoes right now,” says Tucker.

I glare at him.

“Sorry,” he says. “I'll shut up.”

“You do that.”

He stifles a smile, and we finish out the song wordlessly.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says.

“Thanks for asking,” I say, still looking at Christian. He has his arms around Kay. Her face is buried in his chest. I don't know what to do. I just stand there watching him. He pulls back from Kay and says something to her gently, then leads her over to a table and pulls a chair out for her to sit down. He even goes to get her some punch, but she waves it away. Lines of mascara are drying on her face. She looks exhausted. At first I thought this might be a ploy, an act like her slutty rogue routine, but seeing her slumped in that chair it's impossible not to believe that she is genuinely devastated.

Christian walks over to me, clearly flustered.

“I am so sorry,” he says. “I didn't know this would happen.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “It's all right. Where's Kay's date?”

Let
him
comfort her, I think.

“He left,” says Christian.

“He left,” I repeat incredulously.

“So I was thinking,” says Christian, red in the face now, “that I should take Kay home.”

I stare at him, stunned.