Hallowed

“Should we. . wait until we get home?” she asks, her voice almost a squeak.

“No. Definitely not. Let’s open them. Get it over with.” She doesn’t have to be told twice. She tears right into her envelope, takes one look at the top page, then presses her hand over her mouth. “Oh,” she says.

“What? What? You got in, right?”

There’s a shimmer of tears in her eyes. “There is a God,” she says. “I got in!” We hug and jump around and squeal like little girls for a few minutes, then settle down.

“Now you,” she says.

I open it carefully. Pull the papers out. A brochure for the on-campus housing drops out, floats down to the floor. Wendy and I stare at it.

“Clara,” she breathes. “You got in too.”

I read the first line of the first page— Dear Clara, we are pleased to inform you— then try to work up a smile that matches Wendy’s, although what’s moving through my head in this moment is something different than excitement, something different from elation or happiness, like a combination of incredulity and dread. But this is a good thing, I tell myself. I could go home to California. I could actually attend Stanford University, and study anything I want, and build a new life for myself.

“I got in,” I whisper in disbelief.

Wendy’s arm comes around my shoulders. “This is amazing,” she says. “And trust me.

Tucker’s going to be so happy for you.”

“So that’s it,” Angela says matter-of-factly later when I show up for Angel Club. “You’re going.”

“Not necessarily.” I’m back to my usual position on the stage at the Pink Garter, back to glory practice, because that’s all I can think to do in the dreamy sort of daze I’ve been in since this afternoon.

Angela puts down her pen and gives me her best you-absolute-moron stare. “Clara Gardner. You got accepted to Stanford. You got a scholarship, even. Don’t tell me you’re not going.”

The money thing is the new bone of contention with her. Here I am, Miss Moneybags, Mom’s been loaded since the Second World War, investing in things like, say computers back when one computer took up an entire room, and I get a scholarship. Not a huge one, granted, and one that’s alumni-related, because of my “grandmother,” but more than I need, all the same. And Angela (of course she was accepted) is going to have to scrimp and save and stretch and take loans to make tuition. She got scholarships too, because she’s like, Super Student, but not a full ride.

I should feel guilty about my indecision, but I don’t. I don’t have room for fresh guilt in the massive clutter of conflicting emotions in my head. What I’m turning over, what’s been on my mind ever since earlier in the post office when I saw the Stanford logo on the envelope, is that I don’t have to go. I’m formulating a different plan. A new and improved plan. A great one.

“Maybe I won’t go to college this year,” I say as casually as I can manage. “I might take a year or two off.”

“To do what?” she sputters.

“I’d stay here. Then I’d get to stick around while Jeffrey finishes high school. I’d get a job.”

“What, like working in a gift shop? Selling fudge on the boardwalk? Waitressing?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You’re an angel-blood, that’s why not. You’re supposed to be doing something special with your life.”

I shrug. There are other angel-bloods in Jackson, and they work regular jobs. Besides, I like this plan. It feels right. I can stay here in Jackson. I can make sure Jeffrey’s okay. It’s a good plan, one where I don’t have to leave my house or my family (or at least, what will be left of it, after Mom goes), and I can build myself a nice, normal life.

Angela shakes her head, gold eyes narrowing. “This is about Tucker.”

“No.” I glare at her. But I confess that part did cross my mind.

“Oh my God, you’re going to throw Stanford away so you can stay with Tucker,” Angela says in disgust.

“Lay off, Angela,” Christian says suddenly. He’s been in his usual spot at one of the far tables, doing his homework while this whole conversation was going on. “It’s Clara’s life. She can do what she wants.”

“Yeah, what he said.” I shoot Christian a grateful smile. “Anyway,” I say to Angela, “you only want me to go to Stanford so you won’t have to be out there by yourself and face your purpose alone.”

She looks down, smoothes the tablecloth like she’s taking a momentary rest before she’s going to jump up and punch me in the nose. I brace myself.

“Okay, so maybe that’s true,” she admits then, which surprises me. “You’re my best friend, Clara, and you’re right. I don’t want to go alone.”

“Ange, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re the most advanced, most knowledgeable, most capable angel-blood the world has seen in a thousand years. If anyone is going to totally kick butt at fulfilling her purpose, it’s you.”

“I know,” she says, with a pleased smile. “It’s not that. It’s. .” She pauses, looks up at me with serious catlike eyes. “I know you go to Stanford, C. Because I’ve seen you there.”

“What?”

“In my vision. I’ve seen you.”

I spend the next fifteen minutes standing on the stage, trying to concentrate on bringing the glory, trying to ground myself, but all I can think about is how unfair it is that my future keeps getting plotted out for me. First by my own visions. Now by Angela’s.

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore,” Christian says (again suddenly, since he’s never much of a talker at Angel