“Of course I have.” I put my fork down, not hungry anymore. Destiny can really put a damper on the appetite. “I don’t know why he even cares,” I say.
“Why who cares? Tucker? Or Christian?”
“God.”
She laughs. “Well, that’s the big mystery, isn’t it?”
“I mean, I’m seventeen years old. Why does He care who I. .”
“Love,” she supplies when I don’t finish the sentence. “Who you love.” We’re quiet while the waiter refills our drinks.
“Anyway, you should write this dream stuff down,” she says. “Because it could be important. Check for variations, like you did with your vision. You should ask Christian about it too, because who knows, maybe he’s having the same dream, and if he is, then you can figure it out together.”
It’s not a terrible idea. Except that I’m not exactly crazy about spilling to Christian that I’ve been dreaming about him.
“What does your mom say?” Angela asks, gnawing on a bread stick.
“I haven’t told her about it.”
She looks at me as if I just told her I’d been thinking of dabbling in heroin.
“Why should I? She never tells me anything. Even if I did tell her, I’m sure she’d only bury me in platitudes about trusting my feelings and listening to my heart or some crap like that.
Besides, we don’t know that it means anything,” I say. “It’s probably just a dream. People have recurring dreams all the time.”
“If you say so,” she says.
“Can we talk about something else now?”
So we do. We talk about the rain, which Angela agrees is excessive. We talk about Spirit Week at school and whether or not it would be fair for us to use our special gifts to win the Powderpuff game on Wednesday. She tells me about this old book she found in Italy this summer that seems to be some kind of angel-blood roster during the seventeenth century.
“It’s like a group of them,” she tells me. “
“Anything else interesting happen in Italy?” I ask her. “With, say, a hot Italian boyfriend you’re now going to tell me all about?”
Her cheeks go instantly pink. She shakes her head, suddenly super interested in her salad.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.Italian or otherwise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It was silly,” she says, “and I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t hound you about Christian, you don’t talk about my nonexistent Italian boyfriend, okay?”
“You already hounded me about Christian. That’s hardly fair,” I say, but there’s genuine pain in her eyes, which surprises me, so I let it drop.
My mind wanders back to the dream, to Christian, the way he’s always looking out for me, catching me, keeping me on my feet. He’s become my guardian, maybe. Someone who is there to keep me on the path.
If only I knew where that path was headed.
We’re in the parking lot when the sorrow hits me. At least, I think it’s sorrow. It’s not as overwhelming as it was that day in the forest. It doesn’t paralyze me in the same way. Instead it’s like suddenly, in the space of a few minutes, I go from fine, laughing even, to wanting to cry.
“Hey, are you okay?” Angela asks as we walk to the car.
“No,” I whisper. “I feel. . sad.”
She stops. Her eyes go saucer wide. She glances around.
“Where?” she says much too loudly. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t tell.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me through the parking lot toward the car, walking fast but trying to stay composed, like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t ask me if she can drive my car; she goes straight to the driver’s seat, and I don’t argue. “Put on your seat belt,” she orders me once we’re both inside. Then she floors it out of the parking lot and onto the street. “I don’t know where to go,” she says in a half-terrified, half-excited rush. “I think we should stay somewhere well-populated, because he’d have to be crazy to obliterate us in front of a bunch of tourists, you know, but I don’t want to go too close to home.” She does a quick check of the mirrors. “Call your mom. Now.”
I fumble in my purse for my phone, then call. Mom picks up on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
“I think. . maybe. . there’s a Black Wing.”
“Where are you?”
“In the car, on 191, driving south.”
“Go to the school,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”
It’s the longest five minutes of my life before Mom lands in the parking lot at Jackson Hole High School. She
