“Kay seems. ” I want to say “nice,” but I don’t think I can pull that off. “She seems like she’s really into you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stares up the course where somebody is coming down now on a snowboard.
“She is,” he says thoughtfully, like he’s talking to himself more than to me. “She’s a good person.”
“Great,” I manage. I don’t particularly want Kay to be a good person. I’m perfectly comfortable thinking about her as the wicked witch.
He coughs uncomfortably, and I realize that I’m staring at him with my big owl eyes. I flush and look up the hill where the snowboarder is crossing the finish line.
“Nice run!” Christian shouts. “Smoking!”
“Thanks, dude,” the snowboarder calls back. He pulls off his goggles. It’s Shawn Davidson, snowboarder Shawn, the guy from the Pizza Hut who called me Bozo. He looks from me to Christian and back again. I feel his gaze on me like a spotlight.
“I better go,” says Christian. “The race is over. Coach will want to break it down for us in the ski shack, watch the videos and all that.”
“Okay,” I say. “Nice to—”
But he’s already gone, tearing his way down the hill, leaving me once again to make it the rest of the way down the mountain by myself.
In late March we hit a warm spell, and the snow in the valley melts in the space of about two days. Our woods fill up with clusters of red and purple wildflowers. Bright green leaves pop up on the aspens. The land, which has been so quietly pristine all winter, fills with color and noise. I like to stand on our back porch and listen as the breeze stirs the trees into a rhythmic whispering, the creek that cuts across the corner of our land gurgling happily, birds singing (and occasionally dive-bombing me), chipmunks chattering. The air smells like flowers and sun- warmed pine. The mountains behind the house are still white with snow, but spring has definitely sprung.
With it comes the vision, in full force. All winter that particular tingling in my head has been quiet; in fact, it only came to me twice since the first day of school when I saw Christian in the hallway. I thought I was being given a little heavenly break, but apparently that’s over. I’m halfway to school one morning when out of the blue (poof!) I’m back in that familiar forest, walking through the trees toward Christian.
I call his name. He turns toward me, his eyes a green-gold in the slanted afternoon light.
“It’s you,” he says hoarsely.
“It’s me,” I answer. “I’m here.”
“Clara!”
I blink. The first thing I see is Jeffrey’s hand on the steering wheel of the Prius. My foot is still resting lightly on the gas. The car moves very slowly to the side of the road.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. I pull over immediately and park. “Jeffrey, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s the vision, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not like you can control when it happens.”
“Yeah, but you’d think that it wouldn’t happen during a time when it might actually kill me. What if I’d crashed? So much for the vision then, right?”
“But you didn’t crash,” he says. “I was here.”
“Thank God.”
He smiles mischievously. “So does this mean I can drive us the rest of the way?”
When I tell Mom about the return of the vision she starts talking about teaching me to fly again, using the word “training” so often that our house feels like it’s been converted to some kind of boot camp. She’s been in a funky mood all winter, spending most of her time in her office with the door shut, drinking tea and hunched in a crocheted blanket. Whenever I knock or stick my head in she always gets this strained look, like she doesn’t want to be bothered. And, truthfully, I’ve been quasi-avoiding her since that first day with Angela, when it became so clear that Mom’s intentionally keeping me in the dark. I spend a lot of afternoons over at the Pink Garter with Angela, which Mom doesn’t like, but as it’s technically school related (we’re working on our Queen Eliz project after all) she can’t formally object. And weekends, I’ve been on the ski slopes. Which is, I argue, Christian related and, therefore, purpose related. So it’s technically training, right?
Only now the snow on the mountain’s getting awfully thin.
Wendy takes the warm weather as an opportunity to convince me to ride a horse. So I find myself at the Lazy Dog Ranch sitting on the back of a black-and-white mare named Sassy. Wendy says Sassy’s a good horse to learn on because she’s about thirty years old and doesn’t have much fight left in her. That’s fine by me, although I instantly feel comfortable in the saddle, like I’ve been riding all my life.
“You’re doing really well,” says Wendy, watching me from the fence as I ride the horse slowly around the edge of the pasture. “You’re a natural horsewoman.”
Sassy’s ears perk up. In the distance I see two men on horseback, galloping toward the big red barn at the end of the pasture. The sound of them laughing floats toward us across the field.
“That’s Dad and Tucker,” says Wendy. “Dinner will be ready soon. Better bring Sassy in.”
I give Sassy a gentle kick and she starts toward the barn.
“Hey there!” greets Mr. Avery as we approach. “Looking good.”
“Thanks. I’m Clara.”
