“Yeah, we finished our project. We’re doing it tomorrow. So I guess we won’t be hanging out as much now.”
“Good, we’ll have some time for flying lessons.”
“Awesome,” I deadpan.
She frowns. “I’m glad about Angela.” She comes into my room and sits next to me on the bed. “I think it’s great that you can have an angel-blood friend.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. You need to be careful, that’s all.”
“Right, because everyone knows what a hooligan Angela is.”
“You feel like you can be yourself around Angela,” she says. “I get that. But angel-bloods are different. They’re not like your normal friends. You never know what their real intentions might be.”
“Paranoid much?”
“Just be careful,” she says.
She doesn’t even know Angela. Or her purpose. She doesn’t know how fun and smart Angela is, all the cool things that I’ve learned from her.
“Mom,” I say hesitantly. “How long did it take you to get all the pieces for your purpose? When did you know — for absolute certain — what it was that you had to do?”
“I didn’t.” Her eyes are mournful for a few seconds, and then her expression becomes guarded, her body going stiff all the way up to her face.
She thinks she’s already said too much. She’s not going to give me anything else.
I sigh.
“Mom, why can’t you just tell me?”
“I meant,” she continues like she didn’t even hear my question, “that I didn’t
We hear a blast of music as Jeffrey comes out of his room and tromps his huge feet down the hall and into the bathroom. When I look at Mom again she’s her usual sunny self.
“Some of it you have to take on faith,” she says.
“Yeah, I know,” I say resignedly. A lump rises in my throat. I want to ask so many questions. But she never wants to answer them. She never lets me into her secret angel world, and I don’t understand why.
“I should sleep,” I say. “Big British History presentation tomorrow.”
“All right,” she says.
She looks exhausted. Purple shadows under her eyes. I even notice a few fine lines in the corners I’ve never seen before. She might pass for mid-forties now, which is still good considering that she’s a hundred and eighteen years old. But I’ve never seen her look so worn out.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I put my hand over hers. Her skin is cool and damp, which startles me.
“I’m fine.” She pulls her hand out from under mine. “It’s been a long week.”
She gets up and goes to the door.
“You ready?” She reaches for the light switch.
“Yeah.”
“Good night,” she says, and turns off the light.
For a moment she stands in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the hall.
“I love you, Clara,” she says. “Don’t forget that, okay?”
I want to cry. How did we get so much space between us in such a short time?
“I love you too, Mom.”
Then she goes out and closes the door, and I’m alone in the dark.
“One more coat,” says Angela. “Your hair is so. aggravating!”
“I told you,” I say.
She sprays another toxic cloud of hair spray at my head. I cough. When my eyes stop watering I look into the mirror. Queen Elizabeth stares back. She does not look amused.
“I think we might actually land an A.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” says Angela, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “I’m doing most of the talking, remember? You just have to stand there and look pretty.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I grumble. “This getup must weigh a hundred pounds.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Wait a sec,” I say. “When did you get glasses? You have perfect vision.”
“It’s
