she hears his name.
Mom won’t discuss what happened between them any more than she’ll dish about her purpose. But here’s what I do know: my mother is as close to being the perfect woman as this world is likely to see. She’s half
And that, in my book, makes him a fool.
“I just wanted to know if you’re okay,” he says finally.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
He coughs.
“I mean, it’s rough being a teenager, right? High school. Boys.”
Now this conversation has gone from unusual to downright strange.
“Right,” I say. “Yeah, it’s rough.”
“Your mom says your grades are good.”
“You talked to Mom?”
Another silence.
“How’s life in the Big Apple?” I ask, to steer the conversation away from myself.
“The usual. Bright lights. Big city. I saw Derek Jeter in Central Park yesterday. It’s a terrible life.”
He can be charming, too. I always want to be mad at him, to tell him that he shouldn’t bother trying to bond with me, but I can never keep it up. The last time I saw him was two years ago, the summer I turned fourteen. I’d been practicing my “I-hate-you” speech big-time in the airport, on the plane, out of the gate, in the terminal.
And then I saw him waiting for me by the baggage claim, and I filled up with this bizarre happiness. I launched myself into his arms and told him I’d missed him.
“I was thinking,” he says now. “Maybe you and Jeffrey could come to New York for the holidays.”
I almost laugh at his timing.
“I’d like to,” I say, “but I kind of have something important going on right now.”
Like locating a forest fire. Which is my one reason for being on this Earth. Which I will never be able to explain to him in a thousand years.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry,” I say, and I shock myself by actually meaning it. “I’ll let you know if things change.”
“Your mom also told me you passed Driver’s Ed.” He’s clearly trying to change the subject.
“Yes, I took the test and parallel parked and everything. I’m sixteen. I’m legal now.
Only Mom won’t let me take the car.”
“Maybe it’s time we see about getting you a car of your own.”
My mouth drops open. He’s just full of surprises.
And then I smell smoke.
The fire must be farther away this time. I don’t see it. I don’t see the boy. A hot gust of gritty wind sends my hair flying out of its ponytail. I cough and turn away from the blast, swiping hair out of my face.
That’s when I see the silver truck. I’m standing a few steps away from where it’s parked on the edge of a dirt road. AVALANCHE, it says in silver letters on the back.
It’s a huge truck with a short, covered bed. It’s the boy’s truck. Somehow I just know.
The plate is a pretty one. It’s mostly blue: the sky, with clouds. The right side is dominated by a rocky, flat- topped mountain that looks vaguely familiar. On the left is the black silhouette of a cowboy astride a bucking horse, waving his hat in the air.
I’ve seen it before, but I don’t automatically know it. I try to read the numbers on the plate. At first all I can make out is the large number stacked on the left side: 22. And then the four digits on the other side of the cowboy: 99CX.
I expect to feel crazy happy then, excited to have such an enormously helpful piece of information handed to me as easily as that. But I’m still in the vision, and the vision is moving on. I turn away from the truck and walk quickly into the trees. Smoke drifts across the forest floor. Somewhere close by I hear a crack, like a branch falling.
Then I see the boy, exactly the same as he’s always been. His back turned. The fire suddenly licking the top of the ridge. The danger so obvious, so close.
The crushing sadness descends on me like a curtain dropping. My throat closes. I want to say his name. I step toward him.
“Clara? You okay?”
My dad’s voice. I float back to myself. I’m leaning against the refrigerator, staring out the kitchen window where a hummingbird hovers near my mom’s feeder, a blur of wings. It darts in, takes a sip, then flits away.
“Clara?”
He sounds alarmed. Still dazed, I lift the phone to my ear.
“Dad, I think I’m going to have to call you back.”
