Unearthly

“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.

“So, I thought we could meet Monday at my mom’s theater, the Pink Garter. There’s no show being rehearsed right now so we have a lot of space to work,” says Angela.

“Sounds terrific,” I say with about a teaspoonful of enthusiasm. “So, after school on Monday?”

“I have orchestra. It gets out around seven. Maybe I could meet you at the Garter at seven thirty?”

“Great,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

She’s staring at me. I wonder if she calls me Bozo, too, with her friends, whoever they are.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, sorry.” My face feels hot and tight as a sunburn. I manage a wooden smile.

“It’s just been one of those days.”

That night I dream of the forest fire. It’s the same as always: the pines and aspens, the heat, the approaching flames, Christian standing with his back turned watching it.

Smoke curls through the air. I walk to him.

“Christian,” I call out.