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.”
“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. The
n 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.