This morning, for example. We were sitting in the commons during breakfast break and there was this loud, sudden pop from the other side of the lunchroom, and I couldn’t help it. I moved fast, too fast, so fast that Mom would have freaked if she’d seen, putting myself between that noise and Tucker. Then I stood there, waiting, hands clenched at my sides, until I heard a few boys laughing at the doofus who had crushed a soda can under his foot—a soda can!—and now everybody in his group was congratulating him on his spectacular noise-making ability.
And Tucker was looking at me. Wendy too, her bagel lifted halfway to her mouth.
Everybody at my table, staring.
“Wow,” I said breathlessly, trying to cover. “That scared me. People shouldn’t do that.”
“Shouldn’t crush pop cans?” asked Wendy. “You’re pretty jumpy, don’t you think?”
“Hey, I’m from California,” I tried to explain. “We had to go through metal detectors to get into the school.”
Tucker was still looking at me, his eyebrows drawn together.
Now as I watch him struggle through his test, I think about telling him. I could tell him and then there would be no secrets between us, no lies. It would be the honest thing. But it would also be a terrible thing. A selfish thing.
Because what if I’m wrong? After all, I thought my last vision was telling me I was supposed to save Christian and wrong-o. It’s not the kind of news you want to deliver unless you are pretty freaking sure.
But what if I’m right? Would I want to know if I was going to die?
My eyes wander past Tucker, two rows over, to Christian. He too is already done with his test. He looks up, like he can feel my gaze on him. He gives me a faint smile that only lasts a few seconds. Then he glances at Tucker, who’s still frowning obliviously at his paper.
Nice move in the cafeteria this morning, Christian says suddenly in my mind.
He’s talking in my head! For a minute I’m too shocked to form a response. Can he tell what I’m thinking right now? Has he been reading my mind this entire time? I’m torn between the desire to answer him or to attempt to block him completely.
Oh, you saw that? I answer finally, trying to push my words out to meet him the way I did when I talked with Mom that day in the forest, when we had an entire conversation in our heads.
I can’t tell if he hears me. His eyes lock on mine.
Are you okay?
I look away. I’m fine.
“Okay, pencils down,” says Mr. Anderson. “Bring your test to the front. Then you’re free to go.”
Tucker scowls, sighs, then makes his way up to Mr. Anderson’s desk with his test. When he turns back, I give him my most sympathetic smile.
“Didn’t go well, huh?”
“I didn’t study,” he says as we gather up our stuff and head for the hallway, me carefully avoiding Christian. “It’s my own fault. Burning the candle at both ends, as my dad says. I have a Spanish test tomorrow that I’m probably not going to do much better on.”
“I could help you,” I offer. “Yo hablo español muy bien. ”
“Cheater,” he says, but smiles.
“After school? I’ll tutor you?”
“I have work this afternoon.”
“I could come after.” I know I’m being persistent, but I want to spend every possible minute by his side. I want to help him, even if it’s only with his Spanish. That I can do.
“You could come over for dinner, and then we could hit the books. But we might have to stay up pretty late. I’m seriously that bad at Spanish,” he says.
“Good thing for you, I’m kind of a night owl.”
He grins. “Right. So tonight then?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Hasta la vista, baby,” he tells me, and I shake my head and smile at how adorably dorky he can be. His Spanish only comes from Arnold Schwarzenegger.
That night I find myself sitting in the warm, lighted kitchen at the Lazy Dog Ranch. It’s like a scene from Little House on the Prairie. Wendy sets the table while Mrs. Avery finishes up with the mashed potatoes. Tucker and Mr. Avery come in from the barn and both give Mrs.
Avery a quick kiss on the cheek, then roll up the sleeves of their flannel shirts and scrub their hands in the kitchen sink like surgeons prepping for the OR. Tucker slips into the chair next to mine. He squeezes my knee under the table.
Mrs. Avery beams over at me from the stove.
“Well, Clara,” she says. “I must say it’s nice to see you again.”
“Yes, Mrs. Avery. Thanks for having me.”
“Oh, sugar, call me Rachel. I think we’re past the formalities.” She slaps her husband’s hand away from the basket of dinner rolls. “I hope you’re hungry.” Dinner turns out to be pot roast and gravy, potatoes, carrots, celery, and homemade buttermilk rolls, washed down with large glasses of iced tea.
We eat quietly for a while. I can’t stop thinking about how devastated this whole family is going to be if they lose Tucker, can’t stop remembering the way their faces look in my dream.
Sad. Resigned. Determined to get through it.
“I tell ya, Ma,” Tucker says. “This is really a fine meal. I don’t think I’ve told you enough what an amazing cook you are.”
“Why thank you, son,” she replies, sounding pleasantly surprised. “You haven’t.” Wendy and Mr. Avery laugh.
“He’s seen the light,” Mr. Avery says.
This seems to ignite something, and suddenly everybody’s talking about the fires.
“I’ll tell you what,” says Mr. Avery, spearing a piece of meat with his fork and waving it around. “They ever catch the bastard who started those fires, I’m going to give him what for.” My head whips up. “Someone started the fires?” I ask, my heart suddenly thundering.
“Well, they think one was started by natural causes, like a lightning strike,” says Wendy.
“But the other was arson. The police are offering a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for anybody who gives them information leading to an arrest.”
This is what happens when I stop watching the news. They call it arson. I wonder what the police would do if they found out who really did it. Uh, yes, officer, I believe the one who started the fire was about six foot three. Black hair. Amber eyes. Big, black wings. Residence: hell. Occupation: leader of the Watchers. Birth date: the dawn of time.
In other words, that’s twenty thousand dollars that no one’s ever going to see.