He turns toward me. His eyes capture mine. He opens his mouth to say something. I know what he says will be important, another clue, something crucial to understanding my purpose.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“We go to school together,” I say to remind him.
Nothing.
“I’m in your British History class.”
Still not ringing any bells.
“You carried me to the nurse’s office on my first day of school. I passed out in the hall, remember?”
“Oh, right, I remember you,” he says. “What was your name again?”
“Clara.” I don’t have time to remind him of my existence. The fire’s coming. “I have to get you out of here,” I say, grabbing his arm. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I just know we have to go.
“What?”
“I’m here to save you.”
“Save me?” he says incredulously.
“Yes.”
He smiles, then puts his fist up to his mouth and laughs into it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But how could
“It was just a dream,” says Mom.
She pours me a cup of raspberry tea and sits down at the kitchen counter, looking serene as ever, if not a bit tired and rumpled, which is only fair since it’s four in the morning and her daughter just woke her up freaking out.
“Sugar?” she offers.
I shake my head.
“How do you know it was a dream?” I ask.
“Because it seems like your vision always happens while you’re awake. Some of us dream our visions, but not you. And because I have a very hard time believing that Christian wouldn’t remember your name.”
I shrug. Then, because that’s what I always do, I tell her everything. I tell her about the way I feel drawn to Christian and the few times in class when we talked and how I never know what to say. I tell her about Kay, and my brilliant idea to invite myself to lunch at Christian’s table, and how it had backfired big-time. And I tell her about Bozo.
“Bozo?” she says with her quiet smile when I’m finally done talking.
“Yeah. Although one guy decided to go with Hot Bozo.” I sigh and drink a swallow of tea. It burns my tongue. “I’m a freak.”
Mom playfully shoves me. “Clara! They called you hot.”
“Um, not exactly,” I say.
“Don’t go feeling too sorry for yourself. We should think of some other ones.”
“Other ones?”
“Other names they could call you. So if you ever hear them again you’ll be prepared with a comeback.”
“What?”
“Pumpkinhead.”
“Pumpkinhead,” I repeat slowly.
“That was a major insult, when I was a kid.”
“Back in what, 1900?”
She pours herself some more tea. “I got Pumpkinhead many times. They also called me Little Orphan Annie, which was a popular poem back then. And Maggot. I
It’s hard for me to imagine her as a child, let alone one that other kids picked on. It makes me feel slightly (but only slightly) better about being called Bozo.
“Okay, what else you got?”
“Let’s see. Carrots. That’s another common one.”
“Somebody already calls me that,” I admit.
“Oh, oh — Pippi Longstocking.”
“Oh, snap,” I laugh. “Bring it on, Matchstick!”
And so on it goes, back and forth until we’re both laughing hysterically and Jeffrey appears in the doorway, glaring.
“I’m sorry,” Mom says, still giggling wildly. “Did we wake you?”
“No. I have wrestling.” He brushes past us to the refrigerator, gets out a carton of orange juice, pours himself
