To my surprise, he smiled and said, “No, El ie, I didn’t think you’d forgive me just because my mom baked banana bread. You had every right to be angry with me; I know I scared you yesterday.”
“Good.” I sat back in my seat and crossed my arms in satisfaction. Feeling vindicated, I snuck a look at him to see how he was taking my victory.
To my irritation, he was stil smiling.
He put the key in the ignition and started the car. “However, I did think you’d forgive me because I kept my promise.”
I froze. The only promise Michael had made was to meet me this morning—and he made it in last night’s dream. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. How could he know about that promise unless he could invade my dreams—or unless the dream itself was real? And if the dream was real, then so was the flying. And so were the visions. But I couldn’t al ow myself to play the thoughts out to their ultimate conclusion.
I said nothing as he pul ed out of my driveway and onto the street. We drove for several minutes without talking; my mind was whirring too fast for words. Could Michael real y be right?
Then, without averting his eyes from the road, he said, “I told you that the flying wasn’t a dream. It only seems that way.”
“So your flight at Ransom Beach was real? And the flying in the dream last night was real?” I whispered aloud the awful truth. They weren’t real y questions. Not anymore. But I was terribly confused. And afraid.
“Yes, El ie.” He reached over and held my hand. “We can fly. But I think it’s real y hard for our minds to accept that. So when we venture out into the night on our flights—when our bodies are compel ed to do what they are designed to do—our minds tel us that those flights are real y dreams.
Because to process them as actual flights would chal enge everything we have ever known.” He paused and looked at me. “Does that make any sense?”
“Sort of. But why was I able to wake up in bed this morning and not remember flying back from Ransom Beach last night, if the dreams are real?”
“Probably because your mind wasn’t ready to deal with the truth. And if you remembered flying back from Ransom Beach into your bedroom window and sliding into your cozy bed, it might have made your flying undeniably real.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with the truth now,” I whispered, half to myself.
Michael gripped my hand tighter. “I’l be here with you, helping you.”
I gripped his hand back. “Did you go through al this?”
“Yes. But then the truth dawned on me, and I could no longer pretend the flights were dreams.” He smiled. “Anyway, now I want them to be real.
And you wil too. You’l see.”
I felt sick to my stomach. This was al too much.
Michael saw the scared look on my face, and paused. He said, “I know it’s hard to accept right now but you and I share some extraordinary gifts.”
“I don’t know that I’d cal them ‘extraordinary.’ Or ‘gifts,’ for that matter. I think scary curses might be a better word for them.”
Michael laughed even though I wasn’t real y joking. Once he realized that I was serious, he quickly matched my mood. “Believe me, I know they can seem scary at first. But I’l be there to help you. At the beginning, I thought I was the only one with these powers, and it was real y lonely.”
A troubling thought occurred to me. “Is that why you sought me out? So you wouldn’t be alone in al this madness?”
“No, not at al .” We were almost at school, and he pul ed the car into a nearly empty parking lot adjacent to the school gym. He stopped the car, reached out for my hands, and said, “El ie, I sought you out because I was drawn to you on every level. Not just because I saw that you were like me.”
I took a good look into his green eyes, and he appeared sincere. I was relieved, but stil not total y trusting. We’d been on a rol er coaster since the moment we met.
“How did you know that you and I shared these”—I stumbled over the description—“gifts?”
“The first time I saw you, I wasn’t sure. You did seem different from everyone else; you had that glow about you. I’m sure you saw it from that flash I sent you. But on our first date, when I tasted your blood, I knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your blood gave me the whole picture. It showed me your flashes and your flying. I saw that you had the same susceptibility to blood that I do.
And it told me that you were trying to act as though it wasn’t happening. Instead, you’re clinging to this image of a ‘regular girl’ that your parents have hammered into your head.”
“My blood told you al that?”
“Wel , I was real y listening. But blood can tel you almost anything about a person. Didn’t you see that from my blood?”
I blushed, thinking about the image of myself I’d seen when I tasted Michael’s blood. I didn’t know if I was ready for al this—especial y not the “v”
word he mentioned last night, which neither of us had referenced this morning—but I couldn’t pretend that it was just a dream any longer.
Michael leaned in to kiss me. My apprehension forced me to hesitate for a second. But then he caressed my hand. His touch sent shivers through me, reminding me of how his lips and tongue and blood made me feel. Unable to resist, I moved toward him.
