The next morning my cell phone rings at some ungodly hour. Under the covers, I groan and grope around for it on the nightstand, find it, pull it in with me, and answer cheerfully.
“What?”
“Oh good. You’re up.” Tucker.
“What time is it?”
“Five.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m on my way over,” he says. “I’ll be there in about a half hour. I thought I’d call so you had time to brush your hair and put on your face.”
“You think I’m going to wear makeup to go hiking with you?”
“See, that’s what I like about you, Carrots. You’re not fussy.”
I hang up on him. I throw the blankets off and lay for a minute gazing up at the ceiling. Outside it’s pitch- dark. I was dreaming about him, I realize, although I can’t remember the details. Something about the big red barn on the Lazy Dog Ranch. I yawn. Then I force myself to get up and get dressed.
I don’t shower, because the noise would wake Mom. I splash cold water on my face and put on some moisturizer. I don’t need makeup. My skin lately is starting to have its own natural glow, another sign that things are starting to change, starting to intensify the way Mom said they would. I put on mascara and apply some lip gloss, then turn my attention to the wild waves of hair cascading down my back. There’s a clump of tree sap clinging to a strand, evidence of last night’s flying practice. I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to get rid of the sap, and when I finally remove it, along with a fat chunk of my hair, I hear tires on the gravel road outside.
I slip quietly downstairs. Jeffrey’s right. Mom’s not in her room. On the kitchen counter I write her a note:
This time I’m nervous, but Tucker acts like nothing’s changed, so completely normal that I wonder if maybe I imagined all the tension between us yesterday. I relax into our familiar banter. His smile’s infectious. His dimple’s out the whole drive, and he drives fast enough to have me clutching that handle above the door as we round corners. He takes a secret side road to get into Grand Teton, bypassing the main gate, and then we’re zooming down the empty highway.
“So what day is it?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You said it was a special day.”
“Oh. I’ll get to that.”
We drive to Jackson Lake. He parks and hops out of the truck. I wait for him to come around and open my door. I’m getting used to his “yes, ma’am” manners, so much that I’m starting to find his gentlemanly ways sweet.
He checks his watch.
“We’ve got to hike fast,” he says. “Sunrise is in twenty-six minutes.”
I lean down to tighten the laces on my boots. And we’re off. I follow him up and out of the parking lot and into the woods.
“So what classes are you taking next year?” he asks over his shoulder as we make our way up the hill on the other side of the lake.
“The usual,” I say. “AP Calculus, College English, government, French, physics, you know.”
“Physics, huh?”
“Well, my dad
“No kidding? Where?”
“NYU.”
He whistles. “That’s a long way from here. When did your folks split up?”
“Why are you suddenly so chatty?” I ask a tad sharply. Something about the idea of telling him about my personal history makes me uncomfortable. Like I’ll start telling him and won’t be able to stop. I’ll blab the whole story: Mom’s half-angel, I’m a quarter, my vision, my powers, my purpose, Christian, and then what? He’ll tell me about the rodeo circuit?
He stops and turns around to look at me. His eyes are dancing with mischief.
“We’ve got to talk because of the bears,” he says in a low tone, hamming it up.
“The bears.”
“Got to make some noise. Don’t want to surprise a grizzly.”
“No, I guess we don’t want to do that.”
He starts up the trail again.
“So, tell me about this thing that happened with your grandpa, where your family lost the ranch,” I say quickly before he has a chance to get back to the subject of my family. He doesn’t break his stride but I can almost feel him tense up. The tables are turned. “Wendy says it’s why you hate Californians. What happened there?”
“I don’t hate Californians. Clearly.”
“Whew, that’s a relief.”
