Unearthly u-1

by Cynthia Hand

  * * *

  The next morning Jeffrey wanders into the kitchen wearing his IF IDIOTS COULD

  FLY, THIS PLACE WOULD LOOK LIKE AN AIRPORT shirt. I know that everyone at school will think it’s funny and not be at all offended, because they like him. Things are so easy for him.

  “Hey, you feel like driving today?” he asks. “I don’t want to walk to the bus stop. It’s too cold.”

  “You feel like dying today?”

  “Sure. I like risking my life. Keeps things in perspective.”

  I chuck my bagel at him and he catches it in midair. I look at the closed door to Mom’s office. He smiles hopefully.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll go warm up the car.”

  “See,” he says as we slowly make our way down the long road to school. “You can handle this driving-on-snow thing. Pretty soon you’ll be like a pro.”

  He’s being suspiciously nice.

  “Okay, what’s up with you?” I ask. “What do you want?”

  “I got on the wrestling team.”

  “How’d you pull that off if tryouts were back in November?”

  He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

  “I challenged the best wrestler on the team to a match. I won. It’s a small school.

  They need contenders.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  “I told her I’m on the team. She wasn’t thrilled. But she can’t forbid us from all school activities, right? I’m tired of this ‘we better lay low, or someone will figure out we’re different’ crap. I mean, it’s not like if I win a match people are going to say, who’s that kid, he’s a really good wrestler, he must be an angel.”

  “Right,” I agree uneasily. But then Mom isn’t the type to make rules simply because she can. There has to be an explanation for her cautiousness.

  “The thing is, I need a ride to some of the practices,” he says, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Like, all of them.”

  For a minute it’s quiet, the only sound the heater blowing across our legs.

  “When?” I ask finally. I brace myself for bad news.

  “Five thirty a.m.”

  “Ha.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Get Mom to drive you.”

  “She said that if I was going to insist on being on the wrestling team, I’d have to find my own ride. Take responsibility for myself.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” I laugh.

  “Please. It’ll just be for a few weeks. Then my buddy Darrin will turn sixteen and he can pick me up.”

  “I’m sure Mom will love that.”

  “Come on, Clara. You owe me,” he says quietly.

  I do owe him. It’s because of me that his life is upside down. Not that he seems to be suffering much.

  “I don’t owe you squat,” I say. “But. okay. For like six weeks, tops, and then you’ll have to get someone else to be your chauffeur.”

  He looks genuinely happy. We might be on some kind of road to recovery, he and I, like it used to be. Redemption, isn’t that what they call it? Six weeks of early mornings doesn’t seem like too big a price to pay for him not hating me anymore.

  “There’s one condition though,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  I put in my Kelly Clarkson CD. “We get to listen to my tunes.”

  * * *

  Wendy’s wearing a shirt that reads, HORSES ATE MY HOMEWORK.

  “You’re adorkable,” I whisper as we slip into our seats for Honors English. Her current crush, Jason Lovett, is staring in our direction from across the room. “Don’t look now, but Prince Charming is totally checking you out.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I hope he can ride a horse, since you’re supposed to ride off into the sunset together.”

  The bell rings and Mr. Phibbs hurries to the front of the classroom.

  “Ten extra credit points to the first student who can correctly identify the quotation on my shirt,” he announces. He stands up straight and rolls his shoulders back so we can read the words written across his chest. We all lean forward to squint at the tiny print: IF SCIENCE TEACHES ANYTHING, IT TEACHES US TO ACCEPT OUR

  FAILURES, AS WELL AS OUR SUCCESSES, WITH QUIET DIGNITY AND

  GRACE.

  Easy. We only finished the book last week. I look around, but there are no raised hands. Wendy’s trying not to make eye contact with Mr. Phibbs so he won’t call on her. Jason Lovett is trying to make eye contact with Wendy. Angela Zerbino, who can usually be counted on to chime in with the right answer, is scribbling away in her notebook, probably composing some twisted epic poem about the injustice of her life. Someone in the back of the room blows his nose, and another girl starts to click her fingernails on the top of her desk, but nobody says anything.

  “Anyone?” asks Mr. Phibbs, crestfallen. Here he’s gone through all the trouble to have the shirt made, and none of his fine Honors English students can identify a passage from a book they just studied.

  Screw it. I raise my hand.

  “Miss Gardner,” says Mr. Phibbs, brightening.

  “Yeah, it’s Frankenstein, right? The irony in the quote is that Dr. Frankenstein says it moments before he tries to strangle the monster he’d created. So much for dignity, I guess.”

  “Yes, it is quite ironic,” chuckles Mr. Phibbs. He marks down my ten extra points. I try to look excited by this.

  Wendy slips a piece of paper onto my desk. I take a moment to unfold it discreetly.

  Smarty-pants, it reads. Guess who’s not here today? She’s drawn a smiley face in the margins. I survey the classroom again. Then I realize that nobody’s trying to glare a hole in the back of my head.

  Kay isn’t there.

  I smile. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

  * * *

  “I brought the brochure for the veterinary internship that I was telling you about,”

  Wendy tells me as the bell rings for lunch. She follows me as I dart into the hallway, hurry down the stairs, and book it for my locker. She has to jog to keep up.

  “Whoa, are you starving, or what?” she laughs as I fumble with my locker combination. “They’re serving the meatball sub today. That and the baked potato bar are the best things on the menu all year.”

  “What?” I’m distracted, scanning the sea of passing faces for a set of familiar green eyes.

  “Anyway, the internship is in Montana. It’s amazing, really.”

  There. There’s Christian, standing at his locker. No Kay anywhere in sight. He puts on his jacket — black fleece! — and picks up his keys. A jolt of quivery excitement shoots straight to my stomach.

  “I think I’m going out for lunch today,” I say quickly, grabbing my parka.

  Wendy’s mouth shapes into a little O of surprise. “You drove?”

  “Yeah. Jeffrey roped me into driving him for the next few weeks.”

  “Cool,” she says. “We could go to Bubba’s. Tucker used to work there, so they always give me a discount. That’s good eating, trust me. Let me get my coat.”

  Christian’s leaving. I don’t have a lot of time.

  “Actually, Wen, I have a doctor’s appointment,” I say unsteadily, hoping she won’t ask me which doctor.

  “Oh,” she says. I can tell that she’s not sure if she believes me.

  “Yeah, and I don’t want to be late.” He’s almost to the door. I shut my locker and turn toward Wendy, trying not to gaze directly into her eyes. I’m a terrible liar. But there’s no time for guilt now. This has to do with my purpose, after all. “I’ll see you after school, okay? I’ve got to go.”

  Then I practically sprint for the exit.

  * * *

  I follow Christian’s silver Avalanche out of the parking lot, keeping a couple of cars between us so I don’t appear to be tailing him. He drives to a Pizza Hut a few blocks from school. He climbs down from the cab with a guy I faintly recognize from my English class.

  I plan my approach. I’ll pretend like I jus
t stumbled into them.

  “Oh hey,” I murmur to myself in the rearview mirror, feigning surprise. “You guys come here, too? Mind if I sit with you?”

  And then he’ll look up at me with those swimmable green eyes and say yeah in that slightly husky voice, and he’ll scoot to make room for me at the table, and the chair will still be warm from the heat of his body. And I’ll somehow untie my tongue and say something amazingly witty. And he’ll finally see who I really am.

  It’s not a foolproof plan, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice.

  The place is packed. I locate Christian at the back, squeezed into a round booth with five other people. There’s definitely no room for me, and no way I can casually wander by without making my intentions pathetically obvious. Foiled again.

  I find a tiny table in the front corner across from the arcade. I choose the chair facing away from Christian and his pals so they can’t see my face, although I’m sure they’ll recognize my wild orange hair if they give me more than a cursory glance. I need to come up with a new plan.

  As I wait for someone to come take my order, Christian and the other two guys at his table jump up and run to the arcade like little boys out for recess. I suddenly have a clear view of them as they gather around a pinball machine, Christian in the center putting his quarters in. I watch him lean into the machine as he plays, his strong eyebrows drawn together in concentration, his hands flicking rapidly against the sides. He’s wearing a long-sleeved navy tee that says, WHAT’S YOUR SIGN? in white letters; then there’s a white stripe across the chest with a black diamond symbol, a blue square, and a green circle. I have no idea what it means.

  “Oh, man.” The other guys grunt like a bunch of sympathetic cavemen as Christian apparently lets the ball slip past the paddles, not just once, but twice, three times.

  Pinball is clearly not his forte.

  “Dude, what’s with you today?” says the guy from my English class, Shawn, I think his name is, the one with the unhealthy obsession with his snowboard. “You’re off your game, man. Where are the lightning-fast reflexes?”

  Christian doesn’t answer for a minute — he’s still playing. Then he groans and turns away from the machine.

  “Hey, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now,” he says.

  “Yeah, like making chicken soup for poor widdle Kay,” teases the other guy.

  Christian shakes his head. “You mock, but women love soup. More than flowers.

  Trust me.”

  I try to summon the courage to go talk to him. In California it was a well-known fact that I could play a mean game of pinball. I’ll be that cool chick who rocks at video games. That’s loads better than showing up at his table like a lost puppy. It’s my chance.

  “Hey,” says Shawn as I’m standing up to go over there. “Isn’t that Bozo?”

  Who?

  “What?” says Christian. “Who’s Bozo?”

  “You know, the new girl. The one from Cali.”

  What’s sad is that it actually takes a minute for me to understand that he’s talking about me. Sometimes it sucks to have supernaturally good hearing.

  “She’s totally staring at you, dude,” says Shawn.

  Quickly I look away, the name settling into the pit of my stomach like wet cement.

  Bozo. As in, the clown. As in, I may never show my face (or my hair) in public again for the rest of my life.

  And the hits just keep on coming.

  “She’s got big eyes, doesn’t she? Like an owl,” the other guy says. “Hey, maybe she’s stalking you, Prescott. I mean, she’s hot, but she kind of gives off that crazy chick vibe, don’t you think?”

  Shawn laughs. “Dude. Hot Bozo. Best nickname ever.”

  I know he’s not trying to be mean to my face; he reasonably assumes that I can’t hear him from the other side of the noisy restaurant. But I hear his words like he’s speaking into a microphone. A flash of intense heat darts from my head to my toes.

  My stomach churns. I have to get out of there fast, because the longer I stand there, the more certain I become that one of two things are going to happen: I’m going to puke or I’m going to cry.

  And I’d rather die than do either in front of Christian Prescott.

  “Cut it out, guys,” mutters Christian. “I’m sure she’s just here getting lunch.”

  Yes, yes I am. And now I’m leaving.

  * * *

  British History, thirty minutes later. I’ve parked myself at the desk farthest away from the door. I try not to think the word Bozo. I wish I had a hoodie to pull up over my clown hair.

  Mr. Erikson sits on the edge of the table, wearing an oversize black tee that reads, CHICKS DIG HISTORIANS.

  “Before we start today, I want to assign you to your partners for the special projects you’ll be doing,” he announces, opening his grade book.

  “Together you’ll need to choose a topic — anything goes as long as it’s related in some way to the history of England, Wales, Ireland, or Scotland— research it thoroughly over the next few months, then you’ll present what you’ve learned to the class.”

  Someone kicks the back of my chair.

  I dare a glance over my shoulder. Tucker. How does this guy always end up behind me?

  I ignore him.

  He kicks my chair again. Hard.

  “What is your problem?” I whisper over my shoulder.

  “You.”

  “Could you please be more specific?”

  He grins. I resist the urge to turn around and bash my hefty Oxford Illustrated History of Britain textbook across his skull. Instead I go with a classic:

  “Stop it.”

  “Is there a problem, Sister Clara?” asks Mr. Erikson.

  I contemplate telling him that Tucker’s having a hard time keeping his feet to himself.

  I can feel all the eyes turning toward me, which is the last thing I want to happen. Not today.

  “No, just excited about the project,” I say.

  “Good to be excited about history,” says Mr. Erikson. “But try to contain yourself until I’ve assigned you a partner, okay?”

  Just don’t pair me with Tucker, I pray, as serious a prayer as I’ve ever had. I wonder if the prayers of angel-bloods count more than regular people’s. Maybe if I close my eyes and wish with all my heart to get paired with Christian, it will miraculously happen. Then we’ll have to spend time together after school working on our project, time when Kay can’t interfere, time when I can prove to him that I’m no owl-eyed crazy Bozo chick, and I will finally get something right.

  Christian, I request to the heavens. Please, I add, just to be polite.

  Christian gets paired with King Brady.

  “Don’t forget that you’re a serf,” says Brady.

  “No, sire,” replies Christian humbly.

  “And last, but certainly not least, I thought Sister Clara and Lady Angela might make a dynamic duo,” says Mr. Erikson. “Now please take a few minutes with your partner to plan some time to work on your project.”

  I try to smile to mask my disappointment.

  As usual, Angela is sitting at the front of the class. I drop into the seat next to hers and pull my desk closer.

  “Elvis,” she says, looking at my tee. “Nice.”

  “Oh. Thanks. I like yours, too.”

  Her shirt’s a copy of that famous Bouguereau painting of the two little naked angels, the boy angel leaning in to kiss the girl angel on the cheek.

  “That’s like, Il Primo Bacio, right? The First Kiss?”

  “Yes. My mom drags me off to see her family in Italy every summer. I got this shirt in Rome for two Euros.”

  “Cool.” I don’t know what else to say. I examine her shirt more closely. In the painting, the boy angel’s wings are tiny and white. Highly unlikely that they’d be able to lift his chubby body off the ground. The girl angel is looking down, like she’s not even into the whole kissing thing. She’s taller than the boy, leaner, more mature.
Her wings are dark gray.