“What do you mean?”
“People don’t really see you. It’s not like they’re looking up.”
“What? That’s crazy,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s true. If they notice you at all, they’ll think you’re a big bird or something. A pelican.”
“No way.” But I immediately flashed back to when I flew over Jenny Lake and my reflection was a streak of pure white, like a bird’s.
“It’s no big deal. Mom does it all the time.”
“She does?”
“She flies almost every morning. Just as the sun’s coming up.”
“How have I not noticed this?”
He shrugs. “I get up earlier.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know that!”
“So we can fly during the day. Problem solved. But now let’s get on with it, okay? I’ve got things to do.”
“Of course you do. All right, then. Watch this. Show yourself!” I yell.
His wings flash out.
“What was that?” he gasps.
“A trick I learned from Angela.”
His wings are a light gray color, several shades darker than mine. Probably nothing to worry about, though. Mom said we’re all varying shades of gray. And his don’t look dark so much as they look . . . dirty.
“Well, warn me next time, okay?” Jeffrey folds his wings slightly, makes them smaller, and turns his back to me as he walks over to the edge of the lawn where I left the duffel bag. He lifts it easily and jogs over to me. All those muscles from the wrestling team are a big advantage.
“Okay, let’s do this thing.” He holds the bag out, and I grab one of the handles. “On the count of three.”
I suddenly picture the two of us bashing our heads together as we lift off. I take a step back, putting as much space between us as I can while still holding the duffel bag. With him sharing half the weight, it isn’t too heavy at all.
“One,” he says.
“Wait, which direction should we go?”
“That way.” He tilts his head toward the northern end of our property, where the trees are thinner.
“Good plan.”
“Two.”
“How high?”
“We’ll figure that out,” he says in an exasperated tone.
“You know, your voice is starting to sound just like Dad’s. I don’t think I like it.”
“Three!” he exclaims, and then he bends his knees and flexes his wings and heaves upward while I do my best to do the same.
There’s no room for hesitation. We go up and up and up, timing the beats of our wings together, holding the duffel bag between us a bit shakily but in a way that we’re able to handle it. In about ten seconds we’re over the tree line. Then we start to move north. I look over at Jeffrey, and he shoots me a smug, self-satisfied smile, like he knew all along that this would be easy. I’m kind of shocked by how easy it is. We could have lifted twice as much. My mind races with all that this could mean. If I can’t lift Christian myself, am I meant to have help? Is it against the rules?
“Jeffrey, maybe this is it.”
“This is what?” he says a bit distractedly, trying to pull the duffel bag up to get a better grip on it.
“Your purpose. Maybe we do it together.”
He lets go. The bag jerks me down instantly, and then I let go, too. We watch it crash into the brush on the forest floor.
“It’s not my purpose,” he says in a flat voice. His gray eyes grow cold and distant.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Everything’s not about you, Clara.”
The same thing that Wendy said to me. Like a punch to the gut.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I guess I got excited at the idea of getting some help. I’m having a hard time doing this on my own.”
“We have to do it alone.” He turns away in the air, heading back toward the yard. “That’s just the way it is.”
I stare after him for a long time, then drop down to the ground to pick up the duffel bag. One of the gallons of water I put inside is broken, and the water leaks out in a slow trickle onto the dry earth.
Chapter 16
Bear Repellent
The next morning my cell phone rings at some ungodly hour. Under the covers, I groan and grope around for it on the nightstand, find it, pull it in with me, and answer cheerfully.
“What?”
“Oh good. You’re up.” Tucker.
“What time is it?”
“Five.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m on my way over,” he says. “I’ll be there in about a half hour. I thought I’d call so you had time to brush your hair and put on your face.”
“You think I’m going to wear makeup to go hiking with you?”
“See, that’s what I like about you, Carrots. You’re not fussy.”
I hang up on him. I throw the blankets off and lie for a minute gazing up at the ceiling. Outside it’s pitch-dark. I was dreaming about him, I realize, although I can’t remember the details. Something about the big red barn on the Lazy Dog Ranch. I yawn. Then I force myself to get up and get dressed.
I don’t shower, because the noise would wake Mom. I splash cold water on my face and put on some moisturizer. I don’t need makeup. My skin lately is starting to have its own natural glow, another sign that things are starting to change, starting to intensify the way Mom said they would. I put on mascara and apply some lip gloss, then turn my attention to the wild waves of hair cascading down my back. There’s a clump of tree sap clinging to a strand, evidence of last night’s flying practice. I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to get rid of the sap, and when I finally remove it, along with a fat chunk of my hair, I hear tires on the gravel road outside.
I slip quietly downstairs. Jeffrey’s right. Mom’s not in her room. On the kitchen counter I write her a note: Mom, going out to see the sunrise with friends. Be back later. I have my cell. C. Then I’m out the door.
This time I’m nervous, but Tucker acts like nothing’s changed, so completely normal that I wonder if maybe I imagined all the tension between us yesterday. I relax into our familiar banter. His smile’s infectious. His dimple’s out the whole drive, and he drives fast enough to have me clutching that handle above the door as we round corners. He takes a secret side road to get into Grand Teton, bypassing the main gate, and then we’re zooming down the empty highway.
“So what day is it?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You said it was a special day.”
“Oh. I’ll get to that.”
We drive to Jackson Lake. He parks and hops out of the truck. I wait for him to come around and open my door. I’m getting used to his “yes, ma’am” manners, so much that I’m starting to find his gentlemanly ways sweet.
He checks his watch.
“We’ve got to hike fast,” he says. “Sunrise is in twenty-six minutes.”
I lean down to tighten the laces on my boots. And we’re off. I follow him up and out of the parking lot and into the woods.
“So what classes are you taking next year?” he asks over his shoulder as we make our way up the hill on the other side of the lake.
“The usual,” I say. “AP Calculus, College English, government, French, physics, you know.”
“Physics, huh?”
“Well, my dad is a physics professor.”
“No kidding? Where?”
“NYU.”
He whistles. “That’s a long way from here. When did your folks split up?”
“Why are you suddenly so chatty?” I ask a tad sharply. Something about the idea of telling him about my personal history makes me uncomfortable. Like I’ll start telling him and won’t be able to stop. I’ll blab the whole story: Mom’s half-angel, I’m a quarter, my vision, my powers, my purpose, Christian, and then what? He’ll tell me about the rodeo circuit?
He stops and turns around to look at me. His eyes are dancing with mischief.
r /> “We’ve got to talk because of the bears,” he says in a low tone, hamming it up.
“The bears.”
“Got to make some noise. Don’t want to surprise a grizzly.”
“No, I guess we don’t want to do that.”
He starts up the trail again.
“So, tell me about this thing that happened with your grandpa, where your family lost the ranch,” I say quickly before he has a chance to get back to the subject of my family. He doesn’t break his stride but I can almost feel him tense up. The tables are turned. “Wendy says it’s why you hate Californians. What happened there?”
“I don’t hate Californians. Clearly.”
“Whew, that’s a relief.”
“It’s a long story,” he says, “and we don’t have that long to hike.”
“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, Carrots. I’ll tell you about it someday. But not now.”
Then he starts to whistle and we stop talking. Which seems to suit us both fine, bears or not.
After a few more minutes of hard climbing, we come out on a clearing at the top of a small rise. The sky’s bathed in a mix of gray and pale yellow, with a tangle of bright pink clouds hanging right above where the Tetons jut into the sky, pure purple mountain majesty, standing like kings on the edge of the horizon. Below them is Jackson Lake, so clear it looks like two sets of mountains and two skies, perfectly replicated.
Tucker checks his watch. “Sixty seconds. We’re right on time.”
I can’t look away from the mountains. I’ve never seen anything so formidably beautiful. I feel connected to them in a way I’ve never felt anywhere else. It’s like I can feel their presence. Just looking at the jagged peaks against the sky makes peace wash over me like the waves lapping on the shore of the lake below us. Angela has a theory that angel-kind are attracted to mountains, that somehow the separation between heaven and earth is thinner here, just as the air is thinner. I don’t know. I only know that looking at them fills me with the yearning to fly, to see the earth from above.
“This way.” Tucker turns me to face the opposite direction, where across the valley the sun’s coming up over a distant, less familiar set of mountains. We’re completely alone. The sun is rising only for us. Once it clears the mountaintops, Tucker takes me gently by the shoulders and turns me again, back toward the Tetons, where now there are a million golden sparkles on the lake.
“Oh,” I gasp.
“Makes you believe in God, doesn’t it?”
I glance over at him, startled. I’ve never heard him talk about God before, even though I know from Wendy that the Averys attend church nearly every Sunday. I would have never pegged him as the religious type.
“Yes,” I agree.
“Their name means ‘breasts,’ you know.” The side of his mouth hitches up in his mischievous smile. “Grand Teton means ‘big breast.’”
“Nice, Tucker,” I scoff. “I know that. Third-year French, remember? I guess the French explorers hadn’t seen a woman in a really long time.”
“I think they just wanted a good laugh.”
For a long while we stand side by side and watch the light stretch and dance with the mountains in complete silence. A light breeze picks up, blows my hair to the side where it catches against Tucker’s shoulder. He looks over at me. He swallows. He seems like he’s about to say something important. My heart jumps to my throat.
“I think you’re—” he begins.
We both hear the noise in the brush behind us at the same moment. We turn.
A bear has just come onto the trail. I know immediately that it’s a grizzly. Its massive shoulders glow in the rays of the rising sun as it stops to look at us. Behind it two cubs tumble out of the bushes.
This is bad.
“Don’t run,” warns Tucker. Not a possibility. My feet are frozen to the ground. In my peripheral vision I see him slide his backpack from his shoulder. The bear lowers her head and makes a snuffling sound.
“Don’t run,” says Tucker again, loudly this time. I hear him fumbling with something. Maybe he’s going to hit her with an object of some kind. The bear looks right at him. Her shoulders tense as she prepares to charge.
“No,” I murmur in Angelic, holding up my hand as if I could hold her back by the force of my will alone. “No.”
The bear pauses. Her gaze swings to my face, her eyes a light brown, absolutely empty of any feeling or understanding. Sheer animal. She looks intently at my hand, then rises to stand on her hind legs, huffing.
“We won’t harm you,” I say in Angelic, trying to keep my voice low. I don’t know how it will sound to Tucker. I don’t know if the bear will understand. I don’t have time to think. But I have to try.
The bear makes a noise that’s half roar, half bark. I stand my ground. I look into her eyes.
“Leave this place,” I say firmly. I feel a strange power moving through me, making me light-headed. When I look at my outstretched hand I see a faint glow rising under my skin.
The bear drops to all fours. She lowers her head again, woofs at her cubs.
“Go,” I whisper.
She does. She turns and crashes back into the brush, her cubs falling in behind her. She’s gone as suddenly as she appeared.
My knees give out. Tucker’s arms come around me. For a minute he crushes me to him, one hand on the small of my back, supporting me, the other on the back of my neck. He pulls my head to his chest. His heart is pounding, his breath coming in panicked shudders.
“Oh my God,” he breathes.
He has something in one of his hands. I pull away to investigate. It’s a long, silver canister that looks vaguely like a fire extinguisher, only smaller and lighter.
“Bear repellent,” says Tucker. His face is pale, his blue eyes wild with alarm.
“Oh. So you could have handled it.”
“I was trying to read the directions on how to spray the thing,” he says with a grim laugh. “I don’t know if I would have figured it out in time.”
“Our fault.” I sink down so I sit on the rocky ground near his feet. “We stopped talking.”
“Right.”
I don’t know what he heard, what he thought.
“I’m thirsty,” I say, trying to buy myself some time to come up with an explanation.
He slips the canister back into his backpack and retrieves a bottle of water, opens it, and kneels beside me. He holds the bottle to my lips, his expression still tight with fear, his movements so jerky that water spills down my chin.
“You did warn me about the bears,” I stammer after I try to drink a few swallows. “We were lucky.”
“Yeah.” He turns and gazes down the trail in the direction that the bear went, then back at me. There’s a question in his eyes that I can’t answer. “We were pretty lucky, all right.”
We don’t talk about it. We hike back down and drive into Jackson for breakfast. We go back to Tucker’s house later in the morning for Tucker’s boat and spend the afternoon on the Snake fishing. Tucker hooks a few and throws them back. He catches a big rainbow trout, and that one we decide to eat for dinner along with fish he caught the day before. It’s not until we’re standing in the kitchen of the Avery farmhouse, Tucker teaching me how to gut the fish, that he brings the bear up again.
“What did you do today, with the bear?” he asks as I stand with the fish at the kitchen sink, trying to make a clean incision up the belly the way he showed me.
“This is so gross,” I complain.
He turns to look at me, his expression hard the way it always gets whenever I try to get something past him. I don’t know what to say. What are my options? Tell the truth, which is against the only absolute rule Mom has really given me about being an angel-blood: Don’t tell humans—they won’t believe you and if even they did, they couldn’t handle it. And then there’s option two: Come up with some sort of ridiculous-sounding lie.
“I sang to the bear,” I try. r />
“You talked to it.”
“I sort of hummed at it,” I say slowly. “That’s all.”
“I’m not stupid, you know,” he says.
“I know. Tuck—”
The knife slips. I feel it slide into the fleshy part of my hand below my thumb, slicing through skin and muscle. There’s a sudden rush of blood. Instinctively I close my fingers around the gash.
“Okay, whose brilliant idea was it to give me a knife?”
“That’s a bad cut. Here.” Tucker curls back my fingers to press a dish towel over the wound. “Put pressure on it,” he directs, letting go. He dashes out of the room. I press for a moment, like he said, but the bleeding’s already stopped. I feel suddenly strange, light-headed again. I lean against the counter dizzily. My hand starts to throb and then a flare of heat like a tiny lick of flame shoots from my elbow to the tip of my pinkie finger. I gasp. I can actually feel the gash closing itself, the tissue knitting together deep inside my hand.
Mom was right. My powers are growing.
After a moment, the sensation fades. I peel back the dish towel and examine my hand. By now it’s only a shallow cut, little more than a scratch. It seems to have stopped healing itself. I flex my fingers back and forth gingerly.
Tucker appears with a tube of antibiotic ointment and enough bandages to fix up a small army. He dumps it all on the counter and crosses quickly over to me. I pull the dish towel tight across my palm and tuck my hand into my chest protectively.
“I’m okay,” I say quickly.
“Let me see,” he orders. He holds out his hand.
“No, it’s fine. It’s only a scratch.”
“It’s a deep cut. We need to close it.”
I slowly lower my hand to his. He takes it and gently turns it so my injured palm faces up. He tugs back the dish towel.
“See?” I say. “Only a minor flesh wound.”
He stares at it intently. I’m holding my breath, I realize. I tell myself to relax. Just act normally, like Mom says. I can explain this. I have to explain this.
“Are you going to read my future?” I say with a weak laugh.
His mouth twists. “I thought you were going to need stitches for sure.”