01 Unearthly

by Cynthia Hand

  “And what happens after you complete it? You go on to live a normal, happy life?”

  “I don’t know,” I say again. Some expert I’m turning out to be. “Mom won’t tell me any of that.”

  “What’s yours?” she asks, still writing.

  She looks up when I don’t say anything. “Oh, is it supposed to be a secret?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just personal.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  But I want to tell her. I want to talk about it with someone other than my mom.

  “It’s about Christian Prescott.”

  She puts her pencil down, her face so surprised I almost laugh.

  “Christian Prescott?” she repeats like I’m about to hit her with the punch line to a very silly joke.

  “I see a forest fire, and then I see Christian standing in the trees. I think I’m supposed to save him.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  She’s quiet for a minute.

  “That’s why you moved here?” she asks finally.

  “Yep. I saw Christian’s truck in my vision, and I read the license plate, so that’s how we knew to come here.”

  “Wow.”

  “You can stop saying that.”

  “When is it supposed to happen?”

  “I wish I knew. Sometime during fire season is all I know.”

  “No wonder you’re so obsessed with him.”

  “Ange!”

  “Oh, come on. You eye-hump him all through British History. I thought you were just enraptured, the way everyone else at school seems to be. I’m happy to find out that you have a good reason.”

  “Okay, enough angel talk,” I say, getting up and heading for the door. I’m sure I’m beet red by this point. “Our lasagna’s getting cold.”

  “But you didn’t ask me about my purpose,” she says.

  I stop.

  “You know your purpose?”

  “Well, I didn’t know until now that it was my purpose. But I’ve been having the same daydream thing, over and over again, for like three years.”

  “What is it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  She looks serious all of a sudden.

  “No, it’s fine,” she says. “There’s a big courtyard, and I’m walking through it fast, almost running, like I’m late. There are lots of people around, people with backpacks and cups of coffee, so I think it’s like a college campus or something. It’s midmorning. I run up a set of stone steps, and at the top is a man in a gray suit. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he turns.”

  She stops talking, staring off into the darkened theater like right now she’s seeing it play out in her mind.

  “And?” I prompt.

  She glances over at me uncomfortably.

  “I don’t know. I think I’m supposed to deliver a message to him. There are words, there are things I am supposed to say, but I never can remember them.”

  “They’ll come to you, when the time is right,” I say.

  I sound just like my mom.

  What’s comforting about Angela, I think as I get ready for bed that night, is that she reminds me that I’m not alone. Maybe I shouldn’t feel alone, anyway, since I have Mom and Jeffrey, but I do, like I’m the only person in the world who has to face this divine purpose. Now I’m not. And Angela, in spite of her know-it-all nature, doesn’t know what her purpose means any more than I do, and no amount of research or theorizing can help her. She simply has to wait for the answers. It makes me feel better, knowing that. Like I suck a smidge less.

  “Hey, you,” says Mom, poking her head in my room. “Did you have a good time with Angela?” Her face is carefully neutral, the way it always is whenever the topic of Angela comes up.

  “Yeah, we finished our project. We’re doing it tomorrow. So I guess we won’t be hanging out as much now.”

  “Good, we’ll have some time for flying lessons.”

  “Awesome,” I deadpan.

  She frowns. “I’m glad about Angela.” She comes into my room and sits next to me on the bed. “I think it’s great that you can have an angel-blood friend.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely. You need to be careful, that’s all.”

  “Right, because everyone knows what a hooligan Angela is.”

  “You feel like you can be yourself around Angela,” she says. “I get that. But angel-bloods are different. They’re not like your normal friends. You never know what their real intentions might be.”

  “Paranoid much?”

  “Just be careful,” she says.

  She doesn’t even know Angela. Or her purpose. She doesn’t know how fun and smart Angela is, all the cool things that I’ve learned from her.

  “Mom,” I say hesitantly. “How long did it take you to get all the pieces for your purpose? When did you know—for absolute certain—what it was that you had to do?”

  “I didn’t.” Her eyes are mournful for a few seconds, and then her expression becomes guarded, her body going stiff all the way up to her face. She thinks she’s already said too much. She’s not going to give me anything else.

  I sigh.

  “Mom, why can’t you just tell me?”

  “I meant,” she continues like she didn’t even hear my question, “that I didn’t ever know for absolute certain. Not absolute. The whole process is usually very intuitive.”

  We hear a blast of music as Jeffrey comes out of his room and tromps his huge feet down the hall and into the bathroom. When I look at Mom again she’s her usual sunny self.

  “Some of it you have to take on faith,” she says.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say resignedly. A lump rises in my throat. I want to ask so many questions. But she never wants to answer them. She never lets me into her secret angel world, and I don’t understand why.

  “I should sleep,” I say. “Big British History presentation tomorrow.”

  “All right,” she says.

  She looks exhausted. Purple shadows under her eyes. I even notice a few fine lines in the corners I’ve never seen before. She might pass for mid-forties now, which is still good considering that she’s a hundred and eighteen years old. But I’ve never seen her look so worn out.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. I put my hand over hers. Her skin is cool and damp, which startles me.

  “I’m fine.” She pulls her hand out from under mine. “It’s been a long week.”

  She gets up and goes to the door.

  “You ready?” She reaches for the light switch.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good night,” she says, and turns off the light.

  For a moment she stands in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the hall.

  “I love you, Clara,” she says. “Don’t forget that, okay?”

  I want to cry. How did we get so much space between us in such a short time?

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  Then she goes out and closes the door, and I’m alone in the dark.

  “One more coat,” says Angela. “Your hair is so . . . aggravating!”

  “I told you,” I say.

  She sprays another toxic cloud of hair spray at my head. I cough. When my eyes stop watering I look into the mirror. Queen Elizabeth stares back. She does not look amused.

  “I think we might actually land an A.”

  “Was there ever any doubt?” says Angela, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “I’m doing most of the talking, remember? You just have to stand there and look pretty.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I grumble. “This getup must weigh a hundred pounds.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Wait a sec,” I say. “When did you get glasses? You have perfect vision.”

  “It’s my costume. You play the queen. I play the studious straight-A student who knows everything there is to know about the Elizabethan age.”

  “Wow. You’re sick, you know that?”

  “Co
me on,” she says. “The bell’s about to ring.”

  The other students part to let me pass as I follow Angela down the hall. I try to smile as they point and whisper. We stop right outside the door to British History. Angela turns and starts to fiddle with my dress.

  “Nice ruffs,” she teases.

  “You so owe me.”

  “Wait here.” She looks the tiniest bit nervous. “I’ll announce you.”

  After she slips into the classroom, I stand in the hall listening, waiting, my heart suddenly beating fast. I hear Angela speaking, and Mr. Erikson answering. The class laughs at something he says. I peer through the tiny rectangular window in the classroom door. Angela is standing at the front of the class, pointing to the poster we whipped up with a timeline of the life of Queen Elizabeth. She’s going to announce me after the death of Queen Mary. Any minute now. I take a deep breath and stand up as straight as I can under the crushing weight of the gown.

  Christian is in there. I can see him through the window, sitting in the front row, resting his head on his hand.

  Christian has the nicest profile.

  “So without further ado,” says Angela at last, loudly, “I give you Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth the first of the house of Tudor, Queen of England and Ireland . . . Tucker, get the door.”

  The door swings open, and I step inside the classroom with as much poise as I can manage. Careful not to trip on the massive dress, I sweep to the front of the room to stand beside Angela. The class seems to take a collective breath.

  Of course we weren’t able to completely replicate any of the actual gowns from the portraits of Elizabeth we printed off Wikipedia, the ones encrusted with emeralds and rubies and made from yards and yards of expensive fabrics, but Angela’s mom did a bang-up imitation. The gown is a deep gold color with a silver brocade pattern and a white silk undershirt that pokes through at the sleeves. We hot-glued fake pearls and glass jewels all around the edges. The corset cinches me into a little triangle in front; then the skirt flares out and down to the floor. The ruffs at my neck and wrists are made of stiff white lace, also decorated with faux pearls. To top it off, my face is painted nearly white, something that’s supposed to represent Elizabeth’s purity, with red lips. Angela parted my hair down the middle and rolled it into an elaborate braided bun in the back, then pinned on a small crownlike headpiece made out of wire and pearls, with a tiny pearl that dangles right in the middle of my forehead. A long piece of white velvet hangs off the back like a bride’s veil.

  The class stares at me like I am the real Queen Elizabeth, transported through time. I suddenly feel beautiful and powerful, like the blood of kings is truly pumping through my veins. I’m not Bozo anymore.

  “Queen Mary is dead,” Angela says. “Long live Queen Elizabeth.”

  Now it’s my turn. I close my eyes, take in as much air as I can, given the corset, then lift my head and look out at the class like they are now my loyal subjects.

  “My lords, the law of nature moves me to sorrow for my sister,” I say in my best British accent. “The burden that is fallen upon me makes me amazed, and yet, considering I am God’s creature, ordained to obey His appointment, I will thereto yield, desiring from the bottom of my heart that I may have assistance of His grace to be the minister of His heavenly will in this office now committed to me.”

  The class is quiet. I glance at Christian, who’s looking right at me like he’s never seen me before. Our eyes meet. He smiles.

  I suddenly catch a whiff of smoke in the air.

  Not now, I think, as if the vision is a person I can command. The next line of my speech flies out of my head. I begin to see the outlines of trees.

  Please, I think at the vision desperately. Go away.

  No use. I’m with Christian in the forest. I look into his gold-flecked eyes. He’s so close this time, so close that I can smell his wonderful mix of soap and boy. I could reach out and touch him. I want to. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so much in my life. But I feel the sorrow building in me, that grief so powerful and painful that my eyes instantly flood with tears. I’d almost forgotten that grief. I lower my head, and that’s when I see that he’s holding my hand, Christian’s long fingers wrapped around mine. His thumb drags over my knuckles. I suck in a shocked breath.

  What does it mean?

  I look up. I’m in the classroom again, staring at Christian. Somebody snickers. Everybody’s looking at me expectantly. I can feel Angela’s tension rising up off her in waves. She’s freaking out. She wanted to give me note cards. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “Your Majesty?” prompts Mr. Erikson.

  I suddenly remember my next line.

  “Take heart,” I say quickly, unable to tear my gaze away from Christian’s. He smiles again, like we’re having our own private conversation.

  “I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman,” I say. “But I have the heart and stomach of a king.”

  “Here, here!” says Angela, her golden eyes wide behind her glasses. “Long live the queen!”

  “Long live the queen,” repeats Mr. Erikson, and then the whole class is saying it.

  I can’t help but smile. Angela, looking relieved that my part is done, starts going into the details of Elizabeth’s reign. Now I only have to stand there and look pretty, like she said. And try to calm my racing heart.

  “Of course for a long time all anybody in England seemed to be interested in was finding the right husband for Elizabeth,” Angela says, glancing over at Mr. Erikson like she’s proving a point. “Everyone doubted that she’d be able to rule by herself. But she turned out to be one of the best and most revered monarchs in history. She ushered in a golden age for England.”

  “Yeah, but didn’t she die a virgin?” asks Tucker from the back of the class.

  Angela doesn’t waver. She immediately launches into her stuff about the Virgin Queen, the way Elizabeth used the image of the virgin to make her unmarried status more attractive.

  Tucker is leaning against the back wall, smirking.

  “Sir Tucker,” I say suddenly, interrupting Angela.

  “Yeah?”

  “I believe the correct response is, ‘yes, Your Majesty,’” I say in my haughtiest tone. I can’t just let him mock me in front of the entire class, can I?

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he says sarcastically.

  “Have a care, Sir Tucker, lest you find yourself in the stockades.”

  He scoffs and looks at Mr. Erikson. “She can’t do that, can she? She’s not the ruler of this class. Brady is.”

  “She’s queen today,” says Mr. Erikson, leaning back in his chair. “I’d shut up if I were you.”

  “You could strip him of his title,” suggests Brady, apparently not minding at all that I have usurped his throne. “Make him a serf.”

  “Yeah,” says Christian. “Make him a serf. Being a serf blows.”

  As a serf, poor Christian has already been killed several times in our class. Aside from dying of the Black Plague on the first day, he’s starved to death, had his hands cut off for stealing a loaf of bread, and been run down by his master’s horse just for kicks. He’s like Christian the fifth now.

  “Or you could get rid of him altogether. Throw him in the Tower of London. Have him drawn and quartered. Maybe the rack. Or a red-hot enema,” says Mr. Erikson, laughing. You have to admire a teacher who’d suggest death via red-hot enema.

  “Perhaps we should put it to a vote,” I say, looking coolly at Tucker, remembering how he almost got me burned as a witch. Sweet revenge.

  “All in favor of death to Sir Tucker the heretic, raise your hand,” says Angela quickly.

  I look around the classroom at the raised hands. It’s unanimous. Except for Tucker, who stands in the back with his arms crossed.

  “Red-hot enema it is,” I say.

  “I’ll mark it down,” says Mr. Erikson gleefully.

  “Now that that’s settled,” says Angela, looking at m
e sharply, “let me tell you about the defeat of the Spanish Armada.”

  I cast a triumphant glance at Tucker. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile. He nods at me, as if to say, Touché.

  Point: Clara.

  Go me.

  “What was that?” hisses Angela as we beeline it for the restroom after class.

  “The thing with Tucker? I know! I can’t figure him out.”

  “No, the thing where you spaced out in the middle of your speech and left me hanging in front of the entire class.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I had the vision. How long was I out?”

  “Only like ten seconds. But it was the longest ten seconds ever. I thought I was going to have to slap you.”

  “Sorry,” I say again. “It’s not something I can control.”

  “I know. It’s fine.” We burst into the girls’ bathroom and stand in the handicap stall while Angela disassembles the dress and I step out of it. She unties the corset and I gasp in relief, finally able to take a full breath.

  “You saw the forest fire?” she asks, peeking out to make sure we’re alone.

  “No, not this time.”

  She grins wickedly as she hands me my sweatshirt. “You saw Christian.”

  I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.

  “Yes.” I carefully remove the headpiece and hand it to Angela, then pull the shirt over my head.

  “So you were like, looking at Christian in class and then you were looking at him in the future. That’s wild, C.”

  “Tell me about it.” I pull on my jeans and walk over to the mirror to survey the damage to my hair. “Ugh. I need a shower.”

  “And in the future, what happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “It was only ten seconds, remember? There wasn’t time for anything to happen.”

  I turn on the sink and lower my head to splash my face, watching the white makeup dissolve into my hand and swirl down the drain. The cool water feels good against my flushed skin. Angela hands me a paper towel and I dry off, then wipe at the bright red lipstick. She gets a brush out of her backpack and starts to pull the pins out of my hair.

  “Nothing new, huh?” she says, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “No new part of the vision?”

  I sigh. I might as well tell her. Angela has a way of ferreting out the truth one way or another. She’s nothing if not perceptive and persistent.