“Have a seat,” she says. “I’ve just about got your breakfast whipped up.”
“You’re perky this morning,” I observe, which I find odd considering our conversation last night.
“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a beautiful day.”
I step into the kitchen and discover Jeffrey sitting at the counter looking as half awake as I feel.
“She’s gone crazy,” he tells me matter-of-factly as I slide in next to him.
“I can see that.”
“She says we’re going camping today.”
I swivel around to look at Mom, who’s flipping pancakes, whistling, for crying out loud.
“Mom?” I venture. “Did you happen to notice the snow outside?”
“What’s a little snow?” she replies, an extra twinkle in her twinkly blue eyes.
“Told you,” Jeffrey says. “Crazy.”
As soon as we’re finished with breakfast, Mom turns to us like she’s the director of a cruise ship, ready to get us started on our day.
“Clara, how about you tackle the dishes? Jeffrey, you load the car. I have some final things to do before we go. Pack for the weekend, both of you. Dress warm, but with layers, in case it warms up. I want to leave at about ten. We’re going to be hiking for several hours.”
“But Mom,” I sputter. “I can’t go camping this weekend.” She fixes me with a steady, no-nonsense look. “Why, because you want to stay home and sneak over to Tucker’s?”
“Busted,” laughs Jeffrey.
I guess I wasn’t being as quiet as I thought sneaking out of the house.
“I call shotgun,” Jeffrey says, and that’s that.
So by ten o’clock we’re all showered and dressed and packed and bundled into the car, the heater on full blast. Mom passes me back a thermos of hot chocolate. She’s still in this supernaturally good mood. She puts the car in four-wheel drive and turns the windshield wipers on to clear away the dusting of snow that’s coming down, humming along with the radio as she drives into Jackson. Then she pulls up in front of the Pink Garter.
“Okay, Clara,” she says with a mischievous smile. “You’re up.” I’m confused.
“Go get Angela. Tell her to pack a bag for the weekend.”
“Is she expecting me?” I ask. “Does she know that she’s going on some loony camping trip in the snow?”
Mom’s smile widens. “For once, Angela doesn’t know anything about it. But she’ll want to come, I have a feeling.”
I go to the door of the theater and knock. Angela’s mom answers. Her dark eyes go immediately past me to my mom, who’s now out of the car and coming toward us. For a second, Anna Zerbino looks like she’s going to pass out. Her face gets this strange, part-terrified, part-reverent expression, her hand involuntarily coming up to touch the gold cross dangling around her neck. Apparently Angela’s enlightened her about my family being made up of angel-bloods, and in Anna Zerbino’s experience, we’re something to be feared and worshipped.
“Hi, Anna,” my mom says in her nicest, sweetest, trust-me voice. “I wonder if I might borrow your daughter for a couple of days.”
“This is about the angels,” Anna whispers.
“Yes,” answers my mom. “It’s time.”
Anna nods silently, clutching at the doorway like she suddenly needs it for support. I dart up the stairs to find Angela.
“I think my mom might be hypnotizing your mother, or something,” I say as I push open the door to Angela’s room. She’s sprawled out on her stomach on her bed, writing in her black-and-white composition book. She’s wearing a red Stanford hoodie and only a blind person wouldn’t notice the huge Stanford banner she’s tacked on the wall over her bed.
“Wow, go Cardinals,” I comment.
“Oh hey, C,” she says, surprised. She flips her notebook closed and tucks it under her pillow. “Were we supposed to hang out today?”
“Yep, it’s written in the stars.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve come to steal you away for a magical two days and one night in the freezing-cold snowy wilderness. Courtesy of my mom.”
Angela sits up. For a minute she looks like an exact replica of her mother, except for the golden eyes. “Your mom? What?”
“Like I said, she’s taking us camping, and you’re invited. We’ve got tents and sleeping bags and even those metal poles you roast hot dogs on.”
“I don’t understand,” Angela says. Her gaze flits to the window. “It’s snowing.”
“So true. I don’t understand either, believe me,” I say. “So are you coming camping with us or not?”
In less than ten minutes she’s packed a duffel and is seat-belted into the back of our SUV, looking like she’s had a few too many cups of coffee, she’s that jittery. To some extent, Angela is always this way around my mom. It has something to do with her never knowing any other angel-bloods before she met us. Certainly she’s never had an
