We fish for a while in silence, the only noise the burbling of the river and the rustling of trees. Tucker catches and releases three fish. He takes a moment to show me the cutthroat, with their scarlet slash of color beneath the gills. I, on the other hand, don’t get so much as a nibble before I have to retreat from the cold water. I sit on the bank and attempt to rub the feeling back into my legs. I have to face the ugly truth: I’m a terrible fisherwoman.
I know it sounds weird to say this, but that’s a good thing. I enjoy not excelling at everything, for once. I like watching Tucker fish, the way his eyes scan the shadows and riffles, the way he throws the line over the water in perfect, graceful loops. It’s like he’s talking with the river. It’s peaceful.
And Tucker thinks I’m pretty.
Later I drag the good old duffel bag into the backyard and try it one more time. Back to reality, I remind myself. Back to duty. Mom’s in the office on the computer, drinking a cup of tea the way she does when she’s trying to de-stress. She’s been home all of one day and already she seems tired again.
I stretch my arms and wings. I close my eyes.
Instead I get images of Tucker. His mouth smeared with red as we crouch on the side of the mountain filling empty ice-cream tubs with huckleberries. His husky laugh.
His hands on my waist in the river, keeping me steady, holding me close. His eyes so warm and blue, reeling me in.
“Crap,” I whisper.
I open my eyes. I’m so light the tips of my toes are the only thing on the ground. I’m floating.
No, I think. This isn’t right. It’s supposed to be Christian who makes you feel this way. I am here for Christian Prescott. Crap!
The thought weighs me down and I sink back to the earth. But I can’t get Tucker out of my head. I keep replaying the moments between us over and over in my head.
“What do you see in a guy like Christian Prescott?” he asked me that night when he dropped me off from prom. And what he was really saying then, what would have come through loud and clear if I hadn’t been so blind was,
I know the feeling.
I tighten my hold on the duffel bag. I lift my wings and stretch them skyward. I push with all the muscle in them, all the strength I’ve gained over months and months of practice. My body shoots up a few feet, and I manage to hold on to the duffel bag.
I pull myself higher, almost to the top of the tree line. I can barely make out the sliver of the new moon. I move toward it, but the duffel bag unbalances me. I lurch to one side, flapping wildly and dropping the bag. My arms feel like they’re going to tear out of my sockets. And then I fall, crashing into the pine tree at the edge of our yard, cussing all the way down.
Jeffrey’s standing at the kitchen sink when I drag myself through the back door, scratched and bruised and close to tears.
“Nice,” he says, smirking.
“Shut it.”
He laughs. “I can’t do it either.”
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t carry stuff when I fly. It gets me off balance.”
I don’t know whether to feel better because Jeffrey can’t do it either, or to feel worse because he’s evidently been watching me.
“You’ve tried?” I ask.
“Lots of times.” He reaches over and pulls a pinecone out of my hair. His eyes are friendly, sympathetic. Out of everybody I know, Jeffrey’s the one person who can really understand what I’m going through. He’s going through it, too. Or at least he will, when his purpose comes.
“Do you—” I hesitate. I look behind him to the hallway toward Mom’s office. He glances over his shoulder, then back at me curiously.
“What?”
“Do you want to try it together?”
He stares at me for a minute. “Sure,” he says finally. “Let’s do it.”
It’s so dark in the backyard that I can’t see much past the edge of the lawn.
“This would be so much easier during the day,” I say. “I’m starting to hate practicing at night.”
“Why not practice during the day?”
“Um — because people could see us?”
He smiles mischievously. “Who cares?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“People don’t really see you. It’s not like they’re looking up.”
“What? That’s crazy,” I say, shaking my head.
