Unearthly (20 page)

Of course, I'm not flying so much as coasting over the treetops like a hang glider or a freakishly large flying squirrel. I think the birds in the area are dying laughing watching me try not to crash. So I'm not a natural, not some beautiful angelic being winging my way heavenward. But I haven't died yet, which I consider a plus.

I push down with my wings once, trying to go higher. Instead I swoop farther downward over the trees until my feet nearly brush the top branches. I try to remember a single thing I've learned in all those hours in aerodynamics class, but I can't translate any of that stuff about planes—lift, thrust, drag—to what my wings are doing in this moment. Flying in real life isn't a mathematical equation. Anytime I try to change direction I overdo it and careen around wildly in the air and my life flashes before my eyes before I get it all under control again. The best I can do for now is to flap every now and then and angle my wings to keep me in the air.

I come to the lake. As I pass over it, my reflection is a blur of shining white on the dark moon-touched surface. For a moment I see myself as the pelican skimming the water. I sweep down and feel the lake's coolness ripple through my fingers. I'm dancing with the sparkles of the moon. I laugh.

I'm going to do this,
I tell myself.
I'm going to save him.

Chapter 14
The Jumping Tree

My seventeenth birthday is June 20. That morning I wake up to a completely empty house. Mom's back in California for the week, working. Jeffrey's been pretty much AWOL the entire week. He just passed Driver's Ed and got his day license (when he learned that in Wyoming, fifteen-year-olds can legally drive during the day, he was even more over California), and I haven't seen much of him since—he's too busy cruising around Jackson in his new truck, compliments of dear old Dad. My only clue that he's still alive is the growing pile of dishes accumulating in the sink.

For the first time that I can remember there won't be a party on my birthday. No cake. No presents. Mom gave me a gift before she went off to California, a sunshine yellow sundress that rustles against my calves when I walk. I love the dress, but standing in my bedroom looking at it on the hanger, such a sweet, perfect dress for a birthday party or a date or a night out, I'm instantly depressed. I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen counter munching Cheerios, feeling even sadder that there's no banana to slice up into my cereal, and turn on our small kitchen television to watch the news.

The reporter's talking about what a dry season it's been in Jackson Hole this year. We only got two-thirds the normal amount of snowfall, she says, and the spring runoff has been pretty low. The reservoir is way down. She stands in front of the lake and motions to the low water level. You can clearly see where the water usually comes to, the color of the rocks lighter once it hits the regular waterline.

“This year's drought may not affect us much now,” she says, staring with solemn eyes into the camera, “but as the summer progresses, the land will get drier and drier. Fires are likely to start earlier in the year, and the fires are likely to be more destructive.”

Last night I tried to fly again, this time carrying a duffel bag. I couldn't find a better equivalent of a human being. I filled it with a bunch of cans of soup and a couple of gallons of water, along with some blankets and padding, lugged it into the backyard, and tried to take off with it. No such luck. It probably weighed half of what Christian does, if that. And I could not for the life of me get off the ground with it. All the focus that goes into making myself light so that my wings can lift me is worthless when I try to pick up something heavy. I'm too weak.

Now, as I stare at the television, which is running footage of the Jackson area's previous forest fires, my skin prickles like the reporter is speaking directly to me. I get the message. Try harder. The fire's coming soon. I have to be ready.

I spend the morning painting my toenails and watching daytime TV. I should get out, I tell myself, but I can't think of anywhere to go that won't make me feel even more pathetically lonely.

Around noon there's a knock on the door. I don't expect to see Tucker Avery standing on my doorstep. But here he is, holding a shoe box under his arm. The sun's falling directly across him.

I open the door. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He presses his lips together to keep from smiling. “Just get up?”

I realize I'm wearing a very dopey pair of pink plaid pajamas with the word
PRINCESS
embroidered across the left breast. Not my idea, these pj's, but they're warm and comfy. I take a step back, into the frame of the door.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He holds out the box. “Wendy wanted me to give this to you,” he says. “Today.”

I gingerly take the shoe box out of his hand. “There's not a snake in here, is there?”

He grins. “I guess you'll find out.”

I start to turn back into the house. Tucker doesn't move. I glance at him anxiously. He's waiting for something.

“What, you want a tip?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“I don't have any cash. Do you want to come in?”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

I motion for him to follow me inside. “Wait here.” I set the shoe box on the kitchen counter and sprint upstairs to put on jeans and a yellow-and-blue flannel shirt. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it stops me cold. My orange hair is a rat's nest. I duck into the bathroom and try to comb the snarls out, then braid it in one long plait down my back. I dust on a little blush. A coat of lip gloss and I'm presentable again.

When I come back down the stairs, I find Tucker in the living room sitting on the couch, his booted feet on the coffee table. He's looking out the window where the wind stirs the big aspen outside, the tree a flurry of motion, each leaf trembling with life. I love that tree. Seeing him there, admiring it, unnerves me. I want to put Tucker in a safe little box where I can predict what he wants, but he refuses to stay in it.

“Nice tree,” he says.

The boy has unexpected depth.

“Open it,” he says, without turning to look at me or the shoe box on the counter. I pick up the box and lift the lid. Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, is a pair of Vasque hiking boots. They're noticeably used, with some wear on the edges and soles, although clean and well cared for. These are expensive boots. I wonder if Wendy and I have the same size feet, even though I'm so much taller than she is. I wonder how she could have afforded such great boots, and why on earth she would give them up now.

“There's a note,” says Tucker.

Inside one of the boots is a three-by-five card with Wendy's slanted scrawl on the front and back. I start reading.

Dear Clara, I am so sorry I can't be with you on your birthday. While you're reading this I'm probably shoveling horse puckey or worse, so don't feel too sorry for yourself! The boots are not your birthday present. They are a loaner, so take care of them. Tucker is your birthday present. Now before you get that mad face, hear me out. Last time we talked, you sounded lonely and like you weren't getting out much. I refuse to allow you to mope around your house when you're surrounded by the most beautiful land ever. No one on earth knows this part of the country better than Tucker. He is the finest tour guide to the area that you are ever likely to meet. So suck it up, Clara, put on the boots, and let him show you around for a few days. That is really the best possible present I can give you. Big hug! Love, Wendy.

I look up. Tucker's still looking at the tree. I don't know what to say.

“She wanted me to sing you a little jingle, too, like I'm a singing delivery guy.” He glances at me over his shoulder, a corner of his mouth lifting. “I told her where she could stick it.”

“She says . . .”

“I know.”

He lets out a sigh like he's facing a particularly unpleasant chore, and gets up. He looks at me from top to bottom, as if he's unsure that I'm up to whatever he has planned.

“What?” I say hotly.

“That's pretty good. But you'll have to go back upstairs and put on a suit.”

“A suit?” Somehow that doesn't seem plausible.

“A swimming suit,” he clarifies.

“We're going swimming?” I ask, instantly unsure about this whole Tucker thing, no matter what Wendy's intentions were. I glance over at him. A lot of girls would be thrilled to receive Tucker Avery as a present, I know, what with the stormy blue eyes and the golden tawny skin and hair, the dimple carved into his left cheek. I have a mortifying flash of Tucker standing in front of me wearing a big red bow and nothing else.

Happy Birthday, Clara.

My cheeks are suddenly unpleasantly warm.

Tucker doesn't answer my swimming question. I guess the surprise is supposed to be part of the experience. He gestures back to the stairs. I smile and run upstairs to agonize over which of my California beach bikinis would be the least humiliating in this situation. I settle on a deep sapphire-colored two-piece, only because it covers the most skin. Then I hurriedly throw on my jeans and the flannel shirt, grab a towel from the linen closet, and go down to meet Tucker. He tells me to put on the boots.

After I'm outfitted to Tucker's liking he walks me to his truck and opens the door for me before crossing around to climb in himself. We bump along the dirt road away from my house in silence. I'm hot in my flannel shirt. It's a full-blown summer day, the sky a perfect cloudless blue, and while it isn't as hot as California, it's shorts weather. I wonder if we're going to have a long hike.

“Does this thing have air-conditioning?” My shirt is already starting to stick to my back.

Tucker shifts to a higher gear. Then he reaches across me and rolls down the window.

“I could have done that,” I say, sure he did that just so he could jostle me. He smiles, an easy, relaxed smile that somehow puts me at ease.

“That window can be tricky” is all he says.

I put my arm out the window and let the cool mountain air pass through my fingers. Tucker starts to whistle softly, a song I eventually recognize as “Danny Boy,” which Wendy sang at the Spring Choir Concert. His whistle has a nice, full quality to it, perfectly in tune.

We turn on the highway toward the school.

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“Hoback.” I've heard the word mentioned at school, and seen it on the road signs along the highway. There's a Hoback Canyon, a Hoback pass, if I remember it right, and a Hoback Junction. Which one we're going to, I can't tell. We drive past the school, down the highway for about a half hour where the buildings disappear and it's mountain and forest again. Suddenly we come into a tiny, one-stop-sign town, Hoback. The road splits into a Y right after the Hoback General Store. Tucker takes the road on the left, and then we're cruising back up toward the mountains, and on our right is a fast-flowing green river.

“Is that the Snake River?” I ask. With the window still down, the air rushes at me as the truck picks up speed. I pull my arm in.

“Nope,” he replies. “That's the Hoback.”

I smell the river, the smaller pine trees crouched on the hillside, and the sagebrush that stretches on either side of the road.

“I love the smell of sage,” I say, breathing in deep.

Tucker snorts. “Sage is a fighter. It spreads over the land like wildfire, sucking up all the water, the nutrients in the earth, until everything else dies. It's a hearty little plant, that I'll give it. But it's gray and ugly and ticks love to hide in it. You ever seen a tick?” He glances over at me. The look on my face must be pretty appalled because he suddenly gives an uncomfortable cough and says quietly, “Sage does have a nice smell.”

Then he swerves off the road into a small grassy turnout.

“We're here,” he says, turning to me.

We park along a weather-beaten log fence right next to a big orange sign that reads,
PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
. Tucker lifts his eyebrows at me like he's double-dog-daring me. He swings himself through a gap in the fence and holds out his hand. I take it. Tucker threads me through the fence. Once we're on the other side, the hill drops down to the river at a steep angle. Beer cans litter the sagebrush. Tucker keeps hold of my hand and starts on a path winding over to a huge tree right at the water's edge. I'm suddenly grateful for the sturdiness of the boots.

At the bottom Tucker sticks his towel at the base of the big tree and starts shucking off his clothes. I turn away, then start to slowly unbutton my flannel shirt. It's a cute swimsuit, I reassure myself. I'm no prude. I take a deep breath and slide the shirt off my shoulders, then make quick work of the jeans and boots. I turn back toward Tucker. To my relief, he's watching the river, although he could be raking my body over with his peripheral vision for all I know. His red-and-black swim trunks come to his knees. He's golden brown all over. I quickly look away from his body and put my clothes and towel in a pile next to his.

“What now?” I ask.

“Now we climb the tree.”

I gaze up into the branches, which sway slightly in the wind. A series of boards have been nailed to the trunk as a kind of ladder. On one of the biggest branches, which leans way out over the water, someone has fastened a long black cord.

We're going to jump off that cord, into the river.

I look at the river again, which seems impossibly high and fast.

“I think maybe you're trying to get me killed on my birthday,” I say teasingly, hoping he doesn't see the flash of fear in my eyes. Angel-bloods can drown. We need oxygen as much as regular humans, although we can probably hold our breath longer.

His dimple appears.

“Why don't I go first?” Without another word he's climbing the tree, his hands and feet finding the places they're supposed to go like he's done this a thousand times before, which is mildly reassuring. When he reaches the higher branches I can hardly see him anymore, just a flash of his tanned legs now and then or a glimpse of his hair against the leaves and the sun. Then I can't see him at all, but suddenly the rope jerks.

“Come on up here,” he directs. “There's room for two.”

I start awkwardly up the tree. I manage to skin my knee in the process and get a deep sliver in the palm of my hand, but I don't complain. The last thing I want is for Tucker Avery to think I'm a baby. Tucker's hand appears in front of my face and I grab it and he hauls me up to the highest branches.