“You really are trying to get me killed.” I shake my head at him incredulously. “You’re crazy.”
“I work for the Crazy River Rafting Company during the summers. I’m in the river five days a week, sometimes more.”
So he was pretty confident that he’d be able to pull me out, no matter how crappy a swimmer I was. But what if I’d gone straight to the bottom?
“Tucker!” someone yells from upriver. “How’s the water?”
At the tree there are at least four or five people watching us make our way toward them up the shore. Tucker waves.
“It’s good!” Tucker calls back. “Nice and smooth.”
By the time we reach the tree, two other people have climbed up and jumped into the river. Neither of them seems to have the least bit of trouble getting to shore. Seeing that is what has me up in the tree again. This time I make an effort to whoop as I fall, the way Tucker did, and strike out for the shore as soon as I’m in the water. By the fourth time I jump, I’m not scared anymore. I feel invincible. And that, I now understand, is the draw of places like this.
“You’re Clara Gardner, right?” asks a girl waiting to climb the tree. I nod. She introduces herself as Ava Peters, even though we were in chemistry together. She’s the girl I saw with Tucker that one day at the ski lodge.
“There’s a party Saturday at my house if you want to come,” she tells me. Like I’ve suddenly been allowed in her club.
“Oh,” I say, stunned. “I will. Thanks.”
I flash a grateful smile at Tucker, who nods like he’s tipping his hat. For the first time it feels like we might, just maybe, be friends.
Tucker takes me to dinner at Bubba’s that night. Even in that casual barbecue joint, it feels enough like a real date that I’m a bit antsy. But after the food arrives it’s so delicious that I relax and wolf it down. I haven’t eaten since my bowl of Cheerios this morning, and I don’t remember ever being so hungry. Tucker watches me as I gnaw on a barbecued chicken wing like it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. The sauce is insanely good. After I’ve cleared a quarter of a chicken, barbecued beans, and a big helping of potato salad off my plate, I dare to look up at him. I half expect him to say something snide about the way I pigged out. I’m already formulating a comeback, something to call attention to the fact that I need some extra meat on my bones.
“Get the vanilla custard pie,” he says without a trace of judgment. He’s even looking at me with a hint of admiration in his eyes. “They bring it with a slice of lemon and when you bite the lemon and then eat a piece, it tastes exactly like lemon meringue.”
“Why not just get the lemon meringue?”
“Trust me,” he says, and I find that I do trust him.
“Okay.” I wave at the waiter to order the vanilla custard pie. Which is divine, and I ought to know.
“Wow, I am so full,” I say. “You’re going to have to roll me home.”
For a minute neither of us says anything, the words hanging in the air between us.
“Thank you for today,” I say finally, finding it hard to meet his eyes.
“A good birthday?”
“Yes. Thank you, also, for not blabbing to the restaurant so they would come over here and sing to me.”
“Wendy said you would hate that.”
I wonder how much of this day was orchestrated by Wendy.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“I have tomorrow off, and if you want I could take you to Yellowstone, show you around.”
“I’ve never been to Yellowstone.”
“I know.”
He’s just the gift that keeps on giving. Yellowstone sounds loads better than sitting at home channel surfing, worrying about Jeffrey, and trying to lug a big Christian-sized duffel bag into the air.
“I’d love to see Old Faithful,” I admit.
“Okay.” He looks suspiciously pleased with himself. “We’ll start there.”
Chapter 15
Tucker Me Out
Our trip to Yellowstone is marred only by me accidentally speaking Korean to a tourist who’d lost track of her five-year-old son. I help her talk to the ranger, and they locate the kid. Happy story, right? Except for the part where Tucker stares at me like I’m a mutant until I lamely explain that I have a Korean friend back in California and I’m good with languages. I don’t expect to see him after that, assuming that my birthday gift from Wendy is all used up. But Saturday there’s a knock on my door and there he is again, and an hour later I find myself in a large inflated raft with a group of out-of-state tourists, feeling enormous and bloated in the bright orange life jacket we all have to wear. Tucker perches on the end of the boat and rows in the direction of the rapids, while the other guide sits at the front and shouts orders. I watch Tucker’s strong brown arms flex as he tugs the oars through the water. We hit the first set of rapids. The boat lurches, water sprays everywhere, and the people in the raft scream like we’re on a roller coaster. Tucker grins at me. I grin back.
That night he takes me to the party at Ava Peters’s house and stays by me through the entire thing, introducing me to people who don’t know me past my name. I’m amazed at how being with him changes everything for me, socially speaking. When I walked the halls of Jackson Hole High, the other students looked at me with careful disinterest, not entirely hostile, but definitely like I was an intruder on their turf. Even Christian’s attention in those final weeks hadn’t made much of a difference in getting people to talk to me instead of about me. Now with Tucker by my side the other students actually converse with me. Their smiles are suddenly real. It’s easy to see that they all, regardless of what clique they belong to or how much money their parents rake in, genuinely like Tucker. The boys yell, “Fry!” and bump fists with him or do their shoulder bump thing. The girls hug him and murmur their hellos and look me over with curious but friendly expressions.
While Tucker goes to the kitchen to get me a drink, Ava Peters grabs my arm.
“How long have you and Tucker been together?” she asks with a sly smile.
“We’re just friends,” I stammer.
“Oh.” She frowns slightly. “Sorry, I thought . . .”
“You thought what?” asks Tucker, suddenly standing beside me with a red plastic cup in each hand.
“I thought you two were an item,” says Ava.
“We’re just friends,” he says. He meets my eyes briefly, then hands me one of the cups.
“What is this?”
“Rum and Coke. I hope you like coconut rum.”
I’ve never had rum. Or tequila or vodka or whiskey or anything but the tiniest bit of wine at a fancy dinner now and then. My mom lived during Prohibition. But right now she’s a thousand miles away probably sound asleep in her hotel room in Mountain View, completely unaware that her daughter is at an unsupervised teen party about to guzzle down her first hard liquor.
What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Cheers.
I take a sip of the drink. I don’t detect even the slightest hint of coconut, or alcohol. It tastes exactly like regular old Coca-Cola.
“It’s good, thank you,” I say.
“Nice party, Ava,” Tucker says. “You really pulled out all the stops.”
“Thanks,” she says serenely. “I’m glad you made it. You too, Clara. Good to finally get to know you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s good to be known.”
Tucker’s so different from Christian, I muse on the way home from the party. He’s popular in a completely different way, not because he’s rich (which he’s definitely not, in spite of his many jobs—he doesn’t even have a cell phone) or because he’s good-looking (which he definitely is, although his appeal is this kind of sexy-rugged whereas Christian’s is sexy-broody). Christian’s popular because, like Wendy always says, he’s kind of like a god. Beautiful and perfect and a little removed. Made to be worshipped. Tucker’s popular because he has this way of putting peopl
e at ease.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks because I haven’t said anything in a while.
“You’re different than I thought you were.”
He keeps his eyes on the road but the dimple appears in his lean cheek. “What did you think I was?”
“A rude hick.”
“Geez, blunt much?” he says, laughing.
“It’s not like you didn’t know. You wanted me to think that.”
He doesn’t reply. I wonder if I’ve said too much. I can never seem to hold my tongue around him.
“You’re different than I thought you were too,” he says.
“You thought I was this spoiled California chick.”
“I still think you’re a spoiled California chick.” I punch him hard on the shoulder. “Ow. See?”
“How am I different?” I ask, trying to mask my nervousness. It’s amazing how much I suddenly care about what he thinks of me. I look out the window, dangling my arm out as we drive through the trees toward my house. The summer night air is warm and silky on my face. The full moon overhead spills a dreamy silver light onto the forest. Crickets chirp. A cool, pine-scented breeze rustles the leaves. A perfect night.
“Come on, how am I different?” I ask Tucker again.
“It’s hard to explain.” He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s just so much to you that’s under the surface.”
“Hmm. How mysterious,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice light.
“Yep, you’re like an iceberg.”
“Gee, thanks. I think the problem is that you always underestimate me.”
We pull up to my house, which seems dark and empty, and I want to stay in the truck. I’m not ready for the night to be over.
“Nope,” he says. He puts the truck in park and turns to look at me with somber eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could fly to the moon.”
I suck in a breath.
“You want to pick huckleberries with me tomorrow?” he asks.
“Huckleberries?”
“They sell in town for fifty bucks a gallon. I know this spot where there are like a hundred bushes. I go out there a few times a summer. It’s early in the season, but there should be some berries because it’s been so hot lately. It’s good money.”
“Okay,” I say, surprising myself. “I’ll go.”
He jumps out and circles around to open the door for me. He holds out his hand and helps me climb down from the truck.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
“Night, Carrots.”
“Night, Tuck.”
He leans against the truck and waits as I go inside. I flip on the porch light and observe him from a corner of the living room window until the back of the rusty truck disappears in the trees. Then I run upstairs to my bedroom and watch the taillights as they move smoothly down our long driveway to the main road.
I look at myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. The girl who stares back was tossed around by a wild river and her tangerine-colored hair dried in loose waves all around her face. She’s starting to tan, even though angel-bloods don’t burn or tan easily. And tomorrow she’ll be on the side of some mountain, hunting for huckleberries with a real-live rodeo cowboy.
“What are you doing?” I ask the girl in the mirror. She doesn’t answer. She gazes at me with bright eyes like she knows something I don’t.
I’m not totally cut off from the world. Angela emails me every now and then, tells me about Rome and says, in her own version of code, that she’s finding out amazing stuff about angels. She’ll write things like, It’s dark outside right now. I’m turning on the light, which I take to mean she’s getting a lot of good info on Black Wings. When she writes, It’s so hot I have to change my clothes all the time, I think she’s telling me she’s practicing changing the form of her wings. She doesn’t say much more. Nothing about the mysterious Italian lover, but she sounds happy. Like she’s having a suspiciously good time.
I also hear from Wendy occasionally, whenever she can make it to a pay phone. She sounds tired but content, spending her days with horses, learning from the best. She doesn’t mention Tucker, or the time I’ve been spending with him lately, but I suspect that she knows all about it.
When I get a text from Christian I realize it’s been a while since I’ve thought about him. I’ve been so busy running around with Tucker. I haven’t even had the vision lately. This week I almost forgot I was an angel-blood and simply let myself be a regular girl having a perfectly normal summer. Which is nice. And makes me feel guilty, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my purpose.
His text says:
Have you ever been to a place you’re supposed to love, but all you can think about is home?
Cryptic. And as usual when it comes to Christian, I don’t know how to respond.
I hear a car pulling into the driveway, and then the sound of the garage door. Mom’s home. I do a quick sweep around the house to make sure everything is in order, dishes washed, laundry folded, Jeffrey still in a food coma upstairs. All is right in the Gardner house. When she comes in, towing her huge suitcase, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter with two tall glasses of iced tea.
“Welcome home,” I say brightly.
She puts her suitcase down and holds out her arms. I jump off my stool and step sheepishly into her hug. She squeezes me tight, and it makes me feel like a kid again. Safe. Right. Like nothing was normal when she was gone.
She pulls back and looks me up and down. “You look older,” she says. “Seventeen suits you.”
“I feel older. And stronger lately, for whatever reason.”
“I know. You should be feeling stronger every day now, the closer we get to your purpose. Your power is growing.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence. What are my powers, exactly?
“I can fly now,” I blurt out suddenly. It’s been two weeks since Inspiration Point, a hundred crashes and scrapes, but I’ve finally gotten the hang of it. It feels like something she should know. I lift my pant leg to show her a scratch on my shin from the top of a pine tree I passed over too closely.
“Clara!” she exclaims, and she tries to act pleased but I can tell she’s disappointed that she hadn’t been there, like I’m a baby taking my first steps and she missed it.
“It’s easier for me when you’re not watching,” I explain. “Less pressure or something.”
“Well, I knew you’d get it.”
“I totally love the dress you gave me,” I say in an attempt to change the subject. “Maybe we could go out to dinner tonight and I’ll wear it.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She releases me, grabs her suitcase, and lugs it down the hall toward her bedroom. I follow.
“How was work?” I ask as she lays her suitcase on her bed, opens her top dresser drawer, and begins to stack her underwear and socks neatly inside. I have to shake my head at what a neat freak she is, all her panties folded, arranged by color in perfect little rows. It seems impossible that we’re related, she and I. “Did you get it all straightened out?”
“Yes. It’s better, anyway. I really needed to go out there.” She moves on to the next drawer. “But I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”
“It’s okay.”
“What did you do?”
For some reason I’ve been dreading telling her about Tucker, the Jumping Tree, and the time I’ve been spending with him all week, hiking, picking huckleberries, white-water rafting, speaking Korean to random people in front of him. Maybe I’m afraid that she’ll call Tucker what I know deep down that he is: a distraction. She’ll tell me to get back to work on the Saving Christian mission. Then I’ll have to tell her that, even though I’m feeling stronger lately, finally flying, I still can’t get that heavy duffel bag off the ground. And then she’ll give me that look, that speech about lightness and strength and how much I am capable of if only I put my mind to it. I just don’t want to go there. Not yet, anyway. But I have to give her something.
“Wendy loaned me her brother and a pair of hiking boots, and he took me out to this place where all the kids go to jump into the Hoback River,” I say all in one breath.
Mom looks at me suspiciously.
“Wendy loaned you her brother?”
“Tucker. You met him that time our car slid off the road, remember?”
“The boy who brought you home from prom,” she says thoughtfully.
“Yep, that’s him. And thanks so much for bringing that up.”
For a minute neither of us says anything else.
“I brought you something,” she says finally. “A present.”
She unzips a compartment of her suitcase and pulls out something made of dark purple fabric. It’s a jacket, a gorgeous corduroy jacket the exact color of Mom’s African violet on the kitchen windowsill. It will play down the orange of my hair and play up the blue in my eyes. It’s perfect.
“I know you have your parka,” Mom says, “but I thought you could use something lighter. And besides, you can never have too many jackets in Wyoming.”
“Thanks. I love it.”
I reach to take it from her. And the moment my fingers touch the soft, velvety fabric, I’m in the vision, walking through the trees.
I trip and fall, scraping the palm of my right hand. I haven’t had the vision in weeks, since prom when I saw myself fly away from the fire with Christian in my arms. It doesn’t feel as familiar to me now, as I make my way up the hillside toward him. But he’s still there waiting for me, and when I see him I call his name, and he turns, and I run to him. I missed him, I realize, although I don’t know if it’s what I’m feeling now or in the future. He makes me feel complete. The way he always looks at me like he needs me. Me, and no one else.
I take his hand. The sorrow’s there, too, mixed with everything else: elation and fear and determination and even a serving of good old-fashioned lust. I feel it all, but overshadowing every other emotion is the grief, the sense that I’ve lost the most important thing in the world, even as I seem to be gaining it. I bend my head and look at where our hands join, Christian’s hand so finely constructed, like a surgeon’s hand. The nails are neatly clipped, his skin smooth and almost hot to the touch. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, sending a shiver through me. Then I realize.