But then Michael took my hand and led me away from Til inghast toward the coast. In my dreams, I’d often flown along the shore, but Michael guided me on a route unknown to me. I gaped in awe as we sped past huge razor-edged rocks and pebbly sand beaches and enormous white-capped ocean waves.
And then he stopped. As I peered down, I realized that I had been here before—by car earlier in the day. We had arrived at the cliff overlooking Ransom Beach.
Slowly, we lowered ourselves to the ground. I studied the setting. It was the darkest hour of the night and the moon was only a quarter ful , yet I could see every rock and every blade of grass as if it were midday. Better, in fact. I was real y starting to like this dream world.
Even though standing on that flat cliff top reminded me of my earlier anger and fear, it didn’t shake the sense of calm and delight that pervaded this idyl ic dream. I was curiously detached from my rage. Real life only crept in for a moment as I silently wished I could bottle the peace and use it whenever Piper and Missy real y got to me.
Michael strode to the very edge of the cliff. Strangely, I felt compel ed to join him. As I walked toward him, my feet felt heavy, almost leaden, after the ease and lightness of flying. Michael smiled at me, as if he understood that walking had become foreign to me after al the flying, and offered his arm. I grabbed on to it tightly and fol owed him back to the precipice. Somehow I knew what we were about to do, and I welcomed it.
We stretched out our arms and dove.
The wind whipped against my face as we plunged headlong down the sixty-foot cliff face. Jagged rocks and smooth-edged boulders whizzed right past me, but I wasn’t scared; I was exhilarated. Anyway, I knew that, if it got to be too much, I could always wake up.
Just before we hit the sand headfirst, we leveled off. We floated down the remaining few inches and landed feetfirst in the cove, our hands stil locked together. In the hazy moonlight, the white sand of the cove shimmered against the blackness of the sea. I was so happy Michael had brought me back to Ransom Beach. It occurred to me that perhaps that had been his intention earlier that day—to share this beautiful spot with me.
“It was my intention. In part.” He spoke as if answering my thoughts. Or had I said my thoughts aloud?
“I realize that now. I am so sorry that I got mad and cut our visit short.”
“Don’t be sorry, El ie. It’s my fault. I had another intention, one you weren’t ready for.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted to show you something. But it was too much, too soon.”
I didn’t respond. I knew what he was going to say next, but I didn’t want him to say it. I wanted to remain in this tranquil moment, happy with Michael and this place. But I knew he couldn’t let it go—wouldn’t let it go—once he started, and I knew his words would shatter the serenity.
“I wanted to show you what we are.”
I shook my hand free of his. “Michael, I told you already. There’s nothing to show.”
“El ie, think about it. The flying, the insights we have about others, and the power of blood. Especial y the blood.”
I felt myself getting mad at him again. “And exactly what does this bizarre equation equal?”
“I think—” He stopped as if the words were hard, even for him. “I think that we’re vampires.”
Even I hadn’t guessed his ludicrous theory, and I was torn between laughing and hitting him. I opted for laughing. “Come on, Michael, that’s ridiculous. And anyway, this is just a dream.”
“This isn’t a dream, El ie. Don’t you remember the apple tree leaf caught in your hair from your last ‘dream’?”
I didn’t want to hear any more, so I wil ed myself to wake up. The cove started to blur, and I could feel myself fade away.
Before I total y disappeared, I heard Michael cal out. His voice was muffled and faint as if from a far distance, but I swear he said, “When you leave your house tomorrow morning for school, I promise that I’l be waiting for you. That way you’l know that this is not a dream.”
Chapter Fourteen
I sat up in my bed. The quilt slipped off my shoulders, but sun streamed through my bedroom windows and warmed me up. The clock flashed seven A .M. Only twenty minutes to get ready before my mom drove me to school, so I had to move fast. I was glad I didn’t have too much time to think.
Racing around, I washed my face and brushed my hair. I threw on some blush and mascara and pul ed my hair back in a ponytail. Jeans and a sweater would have to suffice, since I didn’t have the luxury of rifling through my closet for something more interesting. I could already hear my mom cal ing up to me.
Wheat toast with raspberry jam sat waiting for me on the kitchen table, along with a tal glass of orange juice. My mom hurried me along as she did every other morning; she liked to be in her office first thing. She didn’t mention the lie about the library, and I felt relieved that she didn’t seem upset anymore. We each grabbed our bags and headed for the front door.
Just before she pul ed the door open, I realized that I had left my English paper on the desk in my bedroom. I told her that I’d meet her in the car, and I ran upstairs to grab the paper. As I dashed back down the steps, I heard voices on the front porch. I opened the front door to see my mom chatting away—with Michael.
I stopped. Why was he here? I spotted the gift basket in his hands, and I surmised that this was a peace offering for his stunt—a way of buttering up my parents. Michael’s outfit—parent-friendly khakis and a rugby shirt—confirmed my suspicions, and made me wish I’d had more than twenty minutes to get myself ready.
My mom turned to me. “Look, dearest, your friend Michael brought us a present. Homemade breads.” To him, she probably sounded sweet, but I knew from the cold way she said “your friend” that the bread hadn’t won her over. She knew that it was I who had acted badly last night—not Michael
—but I’m sure she blamed him in part, for being a bad influence. My mom was way tougher than she looked, way tougher than my dad, in fact. “You must have been up al night making these. After al , you guys got back pretty late from the library.” The last dig was for both our benefits.
Michael didn’t look in my direction, but kept his focus on my mom. “Mrs. Faneuil, I have to confess that the present real y comes from my mother.
She said that I should deliver it to you with her regards.”
“How nice of her. Please pass along my thanks.” She paused. “And please tel her that we should get together soon. It’s been a long, long time.”
“I’l do that. In fact, she mentioned the same thing. That it’s been too long.”
Deftly, Michael turned the talk to our time together in Guatemala. I listened as they recal ed people and events on which I drew a complete blank.
He and I had talked about the gaps in my memory, so I didn’t feel uncomfortable with their conversation, even though it was stil troubling. My mom glanced at her watch abruptly and said we should al get going.
Final y, Michael seemed to remember me. He asked, “Mrs. Faneuil, do you mind if I take El ie to school?”
She paused for a split second that no one but me would have noticed. “No, that’s fine. Just be careful with our El ie.”
How embarrassing. “Oh, Mom—”
Michael interrupted me. “I promise, Mrs. Faneuil.”
My mom gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and watched as Michael opened the passenger door for me. I slid inside and waited for him, unsure what to say when he closed his door and we were alone.
Once he got in, he leaned over to give me a kiss. His audacity brought the right words to my lips. I wrenched away and said, “Nice move, Michael. Did you think that I’d forget to be mad about the stunt you pul ed yesterday just because you brought some bread for my mom?”
To my surprise, he smiled and said, “No, El ie, I didn’t think you’d forgive me just because my mom baked banana bread. You had every right to be angry with me; I know I scared you yesterday.”
“Good
.” I sat back in my seat and crossed my arms in satisfaction. Feeling vindicated, I snuck a look at him to see how he was taking my victory.
To my irritation, he was stil smiling.
He put the key in the ignition and started the car. “However, I did think you’d forgive me because I kept my promise.”
I froze. The only promise Michael had made was to meet me this morning—and he made it in last night’s dream. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. How could he know about that promise unless he could invade my dreams—or unless the dream itself was real? And if the dream was real, then so was the flying. And so were the visions. But I couldn’t al ow myself to play the thoughts out to their ultimate conclusion.
I said nothing as he pul ed out of my driveway and onto the street. We drove for several minutes without talking; my mind was whirring too fast for words. Could Michael real y be right?
Then, without averting his eyes from the road, he said, “I told you that the flying wasn’t a dream. It only seems that way.”
“So your flight at Ransom Beach was real? And the flying in the dream last night was real?” I whispered aloud the awful truth. They weren’t real y questions. Not anymore. But I was terribly confused. And afraid.
“Yes, El ie.” He reached over and held my hand. “We can fly. But I think it’s real y hard for our minds to accept that. So when we venture out into the night on our flights—when our bodies are compel ed to do what they are designed to do—our minds tel us that those flights are real y dreams.
Because to process them as actual flights would chal enge everything we have ever known.” He paused and looked at me. “Does that make any sense?”
“Sort of. But why was I able to wake up in bed this morning and not remember flying back from Ransom Beach last night, if the dreams are real?”
“Probably because your mind wasn’t ready to deal with the truth. And if you remembered flying back from Ransom Beach into your bedroom window and sliding into your cozy bed, it might have made your flying undeniably real.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with the truth now,” I whispered, half to myself.
Michael gripped my hand tighter. “I’l be here with you, helping you.”
I gripped his hand back. “Did you go through al this?”
“Yes. But then the truth dawned on me, and I could no longer pretend the flights were dreams.” He smiled. “Anyway, now I want them to be real.
And you wil too. You’l see.”
I felt sick to my stomach. This was al too much.
Michael saw the scared look on my face, and paused. He said, “I know it’s hard to accept right now but you and I share some extraordinary gifts.”
“I don’t know that I’d cal them ‘extraordinary.’ Or ‘gifts,’ for that matter. I think scary curses might be a better word for them.”
Michael laughed even though I wasn’t real y joking. Once he realized that I was serious, he quickly matched my mood. “Believe me, I know they can seem scary at first. But I’l be there to help you. At the beginning, I thought I was the only one with these powers, and it was real y lonely.”
A troubling thought occurred to me. “Is that why you sought me out? So you wouldn’t be alone in al this madness?”
“No, not at al .” We were almost at school, and he pul ed the car into a nearly empty parking lot adjacent to the school gym. He stopped the car, reached out for my hands, and said, “El ie, I sought you out because I was drawn to you on every level. Not just because I saw that you were like me.”
I took a good look into his green eyes, and he appeared sincere. I was relieved, but stil not total y trusting. We’d been on a rol er coaster since the moment we met.
“How did you know that you and I shared these”—I stumbled over the description—“gifts?”
“The first time I saw you, I wasn’t sure. You did seem different from everyone else; you had that glow about you. I’m sure you saw it from that flash I sent you. But on our first date, when I tasted your blood, I knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your blood gave me the whole picture. It showed me your flashes and your flying. I saw that you had the same susceptibility to blood that I do.
And it told me that you were trying to act as though it wasn’t happening. Instead, you’re clinging to this image of a ‘regular girl’ that your parents have hammered into your head.”
“My blood told you al that?”
“Wel , I was real y listening. But blood can tel you almost anything about a person. Didn’t you see that from my blood?”
I blushed, thinking about the image of myself I’d seen when I tasted Michael’s blood. I didn’t know if I was ready for al this—especial y not the “v”
word he mentioned last night, which neither of us had referenced this morning—but I couldn’t pretend that it was just a dream any longer.
Michael leaned in to kiss me. My apprehension forced me to hesitate for a second. But then he caressed my hand. His touch sent shivers through me, reminding me of how his lips and tongue and blood made me feel. Unable to resist, I moved toward him.
A tap sounded on his window. We jumped apart, and stared out. It was Mr. Morgans, the phys ed teacher, motioning that the bel was about to ring.
Chapter Fifteen
Michael and I raced to our respective classes, but not before I agreed to meet him back at his car at the end of the day. The bel finished ringing before I made it to Miss Taunton’s classroom, and she wasn’t about to let me get away with sneaking in the door.
“Miss Faneuil, you know my rules about tardiness. You owe me a ten-page biography of Jane Austen.”
My jaw dropped; she must have been in a real y bad mood because her punishments were usual y in the five-page range. My astonished expression didn’t escape Miss Taunton.
“You don’t like that assignment, Miss Faneuil? You are welcome to detention instead.”
I rushed to accept the lighter sentence. I could just imagine the look in my parents’ eyes if they learned that Michael delivered me late to school to the tune of detention. “No, no, Miss Taunton. I’m happy to learn more about Jane Austen.”
“Good, Miss Faneuil, so am I. I’m sure you’l dazzle me with some esoteric piece of information about one of my favorite writers. Now class, let’s hear from . . .”
As I walked to my seat in the back of the classroom, I caught Ruth’s sympathetic eye. I couldn’t imagine how I’d dredge up fresh biographical details about one of the world’s most written-about authors, but I had more pressing concerns. Michael and our “gifts,” to name a couple.
After I slid into my chair and unzipped my bag, my cel phone quietly vibrated with a text message. The rare occurrence intrigued me; maybe it was Michael. I created a barrier with my bag so I could glance at it. Nothing made Miss Taunton more furious than students checking their cel phones.
I scrol ed to the text: sorry with a sad face. It was from Ruth.
I was confused. Looking to make sure that Miss Taunton was safely engrossed in gril ing another student, I answered. Why? The Austen bio?
The cel vibrated back. No. Your parents.
Oh, no. Between the confusion of the dream and Michael’s unexpected visit this morning, I’d completely forgotten about Ruth’s cal to my parents last night. I felt terrible. Why should she feel bad about cal ing my house when I was the one who didn’t give her the heads-up about meeting Michael? I wrote back: My fault. I’m sorry.
Risking Miss Taunton’s wrath, Ruth turned around in her seat and smiled to show that al was wel . It made me feel even worse, like I’d betrayed my own family. For years, Ruth and I had shared everything with each other. In the absence of other siblings, we’d become like sisters, with my mom even playing the role of mother to Ruth when she needed it. I should be begging forgiveness for keeping secrets and using Ruth as a cover for my date with Michael. Not vice versa.
Worse, I’d have to continue keeping secrets from her. How could I te
l her about the flying and the flashes I got about people? Or the way blood affected me? With good reason, she’d run off to my parents, and they’d have me committed. No, I’d have to explore this with Michael alone, while I spun a fairy tale for Ruth about the normal side of my relationship with him.
Miss Taunton’s voice grew shril as she subjected a poor junior named Jamie and his “inadequate” assessment of Jane Austen to her scrutiny. I reached for my bag to slip my cel phone back inside, when it dawned on me that I might have a few free minutes while Miss Taunton continued with her tirade. Yielding to temptation, I searched Wikipedia for “vampire.”
I scrol ed through the long entry, and other than some terrifying definitions of blood-sucking, death-dealing vampires, I didn’t find any descriptions that sounded like Michael or me. Relief coursed through me; maybe Michael was wrong.
The name Professor Raymond McMaster was quoted extensively on the page. There was a link to the Harvard University webpage with his bio.
He was an expert in the history of vampires and other supernatural beings. Some of his academic papers sounded interesting, and I was about to click onto “In search of the real Dracula” when I heard my name.
“Miss Faneuil, am I boring you?”
My head snapped up. Miss Taunton marched toward me. I scrambled to hide the phone under the mound of papers I’d scattered on my desktop.
On top, I placed the paper due. She stopped within inches of me and waited for my answer while the class held its col ective breath.
“Of course not. I was just rereading the paper we’re turning in today.”
Miss Taunton looked over my shoulder at the paper in my hand, smiled, and lunged for it. Her hand brushed against mine, and I received a very intense flash. I was in a fussy, formal-looking living room, complete with lace doilies on the end tables and cloyingly flowery wal paper. For a second, I was disoriented, but then I caught a look in a mirror facing the couch on which I sat. Miss Taunton stared out at me. On her lap was a copy of Wuthering Heights. Tears streamed down her face. She was about to turn the page when I heard my name: “El ie Faneuil.”
The sad image faded, and I found myself staring right into Miss Taunton’s eyes. I nearly wanted to reach over and pat her hand—her life was that pitiful, that macabre—but then she gave me a sick grin. My stomach lurched, and she said, “Thank you for returning to us, Miss Faneuil. I can see how this paper would be far more interesting than what I have to say about Jane Austen. Why don’t you read your paper aloud to the class, since it appears to be so mesmerizing?”
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