that? To answer the call of the sky?
Nothing so much as twitches.
“It might help if you open your eyes now,” Mom says with a laugh.
I open my eyes.
“I can’t,” I pant after a minute. I’m sweating, in spite of the chilly air.
“You’re overthinking it. Remember, your wings are like your arms. You don’t have to think at your arms to move them, you just move them.”
I glare at her. My teeth clench in frustration. Then my wings slowly flex back and forth.
“That’s it,” says Mom. “You’re doing it!”
Only I’m not doing it. My feet are still firmly planted on the ground. My wings are moving, fanning the air, blowing my hair all over my face, but I’m not lifting off.
“I’m too heavy.”
“You need to make yourself light.”
“I know!”
I try to think of Christian again, his eyes, his smile, anything tangible, but suddenly I can only picture him from the vision now, standing with his back to me. The fire coming.
What if I can’t do this? I think. What if the whole thing depends on my ability to fly?
What if he dies?
“Come on!” I scream, straining with everything I have. “Fly!”
I bend my knees, jump, and make it a few feet off the ground. For all of five seconds I think I might have done it. Then I come down hard, at an angle, twisting my ankle.
Off balance, I crash onto the lawn, a tangle of limbs and wings.
For a minute I lay there in the soggy grass, gasping for breath.
“Clara,” says Mom.
“Don’t.”
“Are you hurt?”
Yes, I’m hurt. I will my wings to vanish.
“Keep trying. You’ll get it,” Mom says.
“No, I won’t. Not today.” I get to my feet carefully and brush dirt and grass off my pants, refusing to meet her eyes.
“You’re used to everything coming easy for you. You’re going to have to work at this.”
I wish she’d stop saying that. Every time, her face gets this look like I’ve let her down, like she expected more. It makes me feel like a big fat failure, both as a human, where I’m supposed to be remarkable — beautiful, fast, strong, sure on my feet, able to do anything that’s asked of me— and as an angel. As a regular girl, I’m not proving to be anything magnificent. And as an angel, I am simply abysmal.
“Clara.” Mom moves toward me, opening her arms like we’re going to hug now and everything will be okay. “You have to try again. You can do this.”
“Stop being so soccer mom about it, okay? Just leave me alone.”
“Honey—”
“Leave me alone!” I screech. I look into her startled eyes.
“All right,” she says. She turns and walks swiftly back toward the house. The door slams. I hear Jeffrey’s voice in the kitchen, and her voice, low and patient, answering him. I rub my burning eyes. I want to run away but there’s nowhere to go. So I stand there, my neck and shoulders and ankle aching, feeling sorry for myself until the yard is dark and there’s nothing to do but limp inside.
Chapter 11
Idaho Falls
Angela shows up at our house a whole hour early on Saturday morning, and the minute I see her standing on the porch I know this girls-day-out idea is a big mistake.
She looks like a kid on Christmas morning. She’s totally freaked-excited to meet my mom.
“Just play it cool, all right?” I tell her before I let her come in. “Remember what we talked about. Casual. No angel talk.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it. No angel-related questions at all.”
“You told me like a hundred times already.”
“Ask her about Pearl Harbor or something. She’d probably like that.”
Angela rolls her eyes.
She doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that our friendship largely depends on how clueless she appears to my mom. That if Mom knew what Angela and I’ve been talking about all these afternoons after school, the angel research and questions and Angela’s wacky theories, I’d probably never be allowed to go to the Pink Garter
