Eternity (v5)

Fallen Angel

HEATHER TERRELL

For Jim, Jack, and Ben

“How art thou fal en . . .”

Isaiah 14:12

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Eternity

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

I watched my curtains bil ow in the early autumn wind that wafted through my opened bedroom window. The night beckoned to me. And I answered its cal .

Lifting the bedcovers off me, I walked over to the window and floated out into the darkness of midnight. The wind surged behind me, as I flew through the shadowy streets of my town. Weaving between the familiar shingled homes of my sleeping neighbors, I reveled in the sheer pleasure of flight and the secrecy of my journey.

I was so lost in the sensation that the tal steeple of my town’s eighteenth-century church loomed before me unexpectedly. The church’s spidery, whitewashed spire stopped my progress, momentarily forcing me to drop and hover in midair in front of the church’s circular stained glass window.

Although the window was colorless in the night sky, I swear it stared at me like a preacher from the pulpit. Judging me. Why had I never noticed the window before? In my other dreams?

Without warning, the wind picked up speed and whipped at my face. It was cool and damp, and smel ed of the sea. Suddenly, the church and the town structures and even the streets felt confining, and I longed for the openness of the ocean.

My shoulder blades lifted and expanded. I streamlined my limbs to gain speed. Taking a sharp left away from the church, I headed toward the bracing—and freeing—air of the nearby sea.

Civilization disappeared as I raced along the jagged cliffs and rocky beaches of the Maine coast. The ebb and flow of the great ocean waves crashing on the shore below began to lure me farther and farther out to sea.

A bright flash on a rocky promontory caught my attention. The light burned brightly—and inexplicably—in the deep darkness of the moonless night. Tearing myself away from the hypnotic enticement of the tide, I swooped down to the promontory to inspect this unanticipated deviation in my recurrent dream.

As I neared the stony outcropping, I saw that the light on its surface wasn’t a fire or a lamp. It was a man. What looked like a light was the shimmer of his blond hair, so white it gleamed even in the scant il umination of the night.

The figure stared out at the sea, hands in his jeans pockets. He looked young, maybe around my age of sixteen. I flew a little closer, but not too close. I wanted to see him, but didn’t want to be seen.

Although his face was hazy in the dim light, I felt a powerful connection to him. An attraction. He had green eyes and surprisingly suntanned skin.

With such pale hair, I expected that he’d be fair.

He adjusted his position, and I could better see his almond-shaped eyes and cleft chin. But the more I studied his face, the more it changed. The eyes looked blue instead of green. The nose lengthened just a touch, and the lips fil ed out. He no longer looked young like me, or old like my parents, but sort of ageless. His features became more perfect and angular, and his skin grew paler and paler, almost as if his human flesh was turning to smooth, cold marble. Nearly as if a master sculptor had fashioned a human being into an ethereal creature.

Then he turned and stared at me, as if he knew I’d been there al along. And he smiled a horrible, knowing smile. His perfect face no longer seemed the sculpture of an angel but a demon, and I knew I looked into the face of evil itself.

I opened my mouth to scream in terror. And then I fel .

Chapter One

I fel to earth with a thud. Or so I thought.

I opened my eyes and saw my bedroom. I was lying on my tal sleigh bed, with the weak sun of early morning starting to stream through my blinds.

The dream had been so real that I half-expected to find myself sprawled out on the promontory instead of back at home under my warm covers.

Stil , the dream clung. Rubbing my eyes to wipe it away, I heard a familiar voice cal up the stairs.

“El ie.”

I stil felt kind of drugged by the dream. I moved my lips to answer but couldn’t get out much more than a croak.

“El speth? It’s time to get up.”

The spel of the dream lifted the moment my mom’s voice got louder and she used my ful name. She only cal ed me El speth—my old-fashioned given name, which she knew I hated—when she was real y irritated with me. My voice returned, and I responded to my mom. “I’l be down in a minute!”

Disentangling myself from my sheets, I slid off the bed and padded over to my dresser, where I’d laid out my clothes for the day. I shivered; I could actual y see my breath in the air. Why was it so cold?

I looked around the room and saw that my window was ajar. Just a crack, but enough to let in the chil iness of the Maine autumn morning. I didn’t remember opening it before I went to bed. Odd, but I could be a bit absentminded at times.

I closed the window, gathered up my clothes, and headed down the short hal way to my bathroom. Shutting the door behind me, I turned on the water—hot. Then I lathered lemony soap onto a damp washcloth, and took my first look into the mirror.

I ignored the pale, almost translucent, blue eyes looking back at me as best I could: their odd, unsettling color had brought me nothing but stares for years. Instead, I focused on the things I could control. I studied my face, wondering for the mil ionth time just how I’d tame my unruly, obstinately straight black hair. Picking up my brush, I began the long, painful process of undoing al the knots, yawned, and slowly awakened to the sunny morning.

Its brightness drove away the creepy ending to my dream and lifted my spirits a tiny bit. I thought maybe I’d be able to make it through my first day at the upper high school after al . Then again, I’d probably stil wish I could fast-forward through al the nonsense—past the hal ways and classrooms ful of social posing and gossipy distractions from schoolwork—and go straight to col ege.

Within the hour, I was careening through the hal ways crowded with al -too-familiar seniors and juniors. I approached my newly assigned locker with a single, silent prayer on my lips: “please, please, for once let Piper’s locker not be near mine.” In an unfortunate twist of fate, I was regularly subjected to the uber-popular Piper Faires both at home—where she was my next-door neighbor—and at school. Our last names—Faires and Faneuil—doomed me forever to be Piper’s locker neighbor as wel . The fact that Piper routinely ignored me at school, while stil acting like my friend at home, made the whole situation very awkward. Although I had to admit, our unavoidable in-school proximity and neighborhood friendship had benefits: they brought me a certain immunity from her group’s petty little games.

Scanning the lockers, I didn’t have to look too hard or too long before I spotted my assigned number twenty-four, and realized my prayer hadn’t been answered. There stood Piper with her swarm of friends circling around their queen—Missy—like honeybees. With their even tans, perfectly faded jeans, and colorful summer flip-flops, they glowed and seemed carefree—even young—in a way I’d never experienced. With al our environment-saving missions to impoverished countries, my parents had imbued me with such a strong sense of responsibility to the world at large that I never real y felt happy-go-lucky. If I ever had a minute to spare, I felt like I should be volunteering more hours at the local soup kitchen instead of just hanging out.

I knew I shouldn’t care about their little pack, and real y, truly didn’t care most of the time. After al , Piper had “invited” me to be part of her inner circle back in middle school, and I rejected her. Even then, I just couldn’t stomach being part of a group that routinely voted their friends “off” the lunch table, relegating them to some “loser-ridden backwater table” until they were voted back “on.” Stil , in such close proximity to their light, I couldn’t help but feel like a black hole, with my dark hair and jeans.

Missy, the most malevolent of the group, leaned directly on locker number twenty-four. My eyes rol ed at the thought of having to cut through al Missy’s nastiness to get to my locker before the bel rang. She caught my gesture, and I braced myself for some sort of backlash. Instead, Missy flipped her golden brown hair over her shoulders and said, “Hey, how was your summer?” With a smile.

I turned to look behind me, wondering just who she was talking to. My relationship with Piper ensured that Missy never bothered to belittle me, but she sure never bothered to be nice, either.

She repeated herself. “How was your summer, El ie?”

“Fine,” I answered warily, as I opened my locker. I busied myself inside it, slowly organizing my books in the hopes that she’d disappear by the time I emerged.

It didn’t work.

“Where’d you go this time?” Missy asked when I peeked out.

“Kenya,” I said as I shut my locker. That she admitted to knowing my name and the fact that I took summer trips abroad was beyond me.

“You’re so lucky your parents take you al over the world. I was stuck here in Til inghast al summer long.”

I didn’t know what to say to her, especial y since Piper and the rest of the golden group were watching with expectant grins on their faces. And especial y since I was pretty sure that Missy’s glamorous vision of my world travels didn’t jibe with the third-world reality. So I didn’t say anything.

Missy fil ed in the silence. “The girls and I were just talking about meeting at noon for lunch. Want to join us?”

I was just about to ask why when Ruth walked down the hal toward me.

Ruth’s pace slowed and her shoulders tensed when she spotted me talking to Missy. Ruth knew that she’d have to pass by her to get to me, and that the immunity my relationship with Piper bought me didn’t extend to her, even though she was my best friend.

I watched as Ruth bravely squared her shoulders, tucked her long red hair behind her ears, and approached me. Compared to the suntanned perfection of Missy and her friends, Ruth looked plain with her pale skin, wire-rimmed glasses, and basic T-shirt and jeans. But I knew that she hid a quiet prettiness behind that camouflage; it was just that she hated any kind of attention, even the positive variety.

“I think the bel ’s about to ring, El ie,” she said. Our first class was AP English, and rumor had it that the tough Miss Taunton was a stickler for timeliness.

Before I could respond, Missy swatted her hand in the air. She said to her little audience, “Did you guys hear something?”

The other girls snickered. I shot a quick look at the unchar-acteristical y quiet Piper. I didn’t expect Piper to defend Ruth, but I was happy to see that she didn’t chime in.

“No?” Egged on by her friends’ laughter, Missy batted the air and continued with her little charade. “Must be some nasty fly.”

“What did you just say to Ruth?” I said, unable to keep the anger from my voice, which only made me real y mad at myself. Missy’s clique delighted in belittling those who could not—or would not—wear the “right” skinny jeans or date the “right” senior jocks. The bigger the reaction, the better. I didn’t like to satisfy them—or feed their little games—with any sort of reaction. Particularly since Ruth was plenty capable of defending herself in the classroom and in the hal ways, if she so chose. And today, she did not so choose.

Missy waved her hand around again, and this time, it nearly brushed up against Ruth’s cheek.

I felt anger sweep over me like a wave, something I’d promised my peace-loving mom to avoid ever since I got into a nasty argument this summer with a spiteful member of our mission. I sensed my fair skin turning a fiery red and experienced the oddest sensation of my shoulder blades lifting and expanding.

Without thinking, I grabbed Missy’s wrist. Suddenly, the school hal way faded away, and I got a vivid flash of six-year-old girl Missy as if I were her.

She stood at the edge of the pool at the posh Til inghast country club she so often bragged about. In the image, a group of boys and girls teased her about her buck teeth and knock-knees. Missy turned around, looking for the protection and consolation of her mother. Her mother was indeed watching. But rather than answer the cal for help in her daughter’s eyes, she gripped her gin and tonic and walked over to her own gaggle of friends, many of whose children were teasing Missy. Her mother kept pretending she’d never seen the weakness in Missy’s eyes. In that very moment, the young Missy promised herself to never show that weakness again. She vowed instead to create that weakness in others, to make others buckle at her feet.

I started to get another, more recent, image. Missy was locked in a tight embrace with a guy. Looking through Missy’s eyes, I couldn’t see the guy’s face, but I could hear his low, gravel y voice whispering in her ear. At first, I couldn’t make out his words, but I could feel the warm, feathery sensation send shivers down Missy’s spine. Then the words became more distinct, and I swear he said, “El ie.” But the guy could only know my name from Missy, and why would she bother to talk about me?

Lost in that thought, I was jarred back to reality by Ruth, who was trying to pul my hand off Missy and whispering, “C’mon, El ie, she’s not worth the bother.” The image disappeared as quickly as it came, bringing me back to the horrible, and very real, teenage Missy. Yet, of the two images, the childhood scene remained so real to me that I felt Missy’s six-year-old feelings and thought her six-year-old thoughts as if I were the six-year-old Missy, and I experienced a deep sense of pity for her.

It wasn’t the first time I’d had this kind of flash, as I’d come to think of them. They’d been occurring more often since my sixteenth birthday in June, although they usual y didn’t amount to much. Usual y, they showed me what people had for lunch or told me what they thought of their friends’ outfits.

In the beginning, I thought my imagination was just going into overdrive, but it wasn’t long before I realized that what I was hearing and seeing in my mind wasn’t made up. It was true. One of the first times it happened, I imagined the girl sitting behind me in Spanish class was wondering about whether to break up with her boyfriend, and then a few seconds later she turned to her friend sitting next to her and asked about that very thing. But who could I tel without getting locked up for delusions?

Despite Ruth’s attempt to pul me away, my grip on Missy’s wrist tightened as my feelings about her swung wildly between sympathy and rage.

She didn’t move; I guess she was too stunned by my action to lash out with one of her usual barbs or even yank her hand away. We stood frozen until I felt Ruth’s hand forcibly pry my fingers off Missy’s wrist and lead me away.

“What were you thinking, El ie? You know I can take care of myself with those idiots,” Ruth whispered as she pul ed me toward our classroom. I could tel she was mostly mad that I’d put myself in jeopardy; Ruth was very protective of me.

“I’m sorry, Ruth, I know you can. I real y don’t know what came over me,” I whispered back.

We grew silent as we wove slowly through the crowded hal way. I felt someone staring at me, and I turned, hoping that it wasn’t Missy or her crew behind us ready to retaliate.

It wasn’t. A tal , impossibly blond-haired guy was leaning against a door frame, watching me. He smiled a wry smile as though he’d seen the whole scene with Missy and company, even though he couldn’t possibly have witnessed it from his vantage point. He wasn’t traditional y good-looking, but he seemed older than the average high school guy. His body language was comfortable in a way that I’d never seen before in the other guys. I usual y hated arrogance. But this was something else. He had an easy confidence that I was surprised to find instantly attractive. I felt certain that I didn’t know him—an oddity in the town where I grew up and where I recognized pretty much everyone.

The bel rang. “Oh my God, we can’t be late on the first day with Miss Taunton,” Ruth said and picked up the pace. I let her drag me away from his penetrating gaze. And away from my own pounding heart.

Chapter Two

I forgot al about him over the next week of school. That was the little lie I told myself as I embarked on advanced English, history, chemistry, Spanish, and calculus, al of which had piled on their workload this year, supposedly to prepare us for col ege.

But the truth was, I was distracted. I looked for him everywhere. The relative smal ness of the upper school—just a hundred students for the junior and senior grades—made his absence that much odder. It was almost like he was a figment of my imagination.

But I couldn’t real y ask Ruth if she had seen him too. I’d never hear the end of it. For years I’d been proclaiming indifference and immunity to guys our age. I’d never real y felt comfortable with them. They always seemed sil y or self-important, and I never felt like I had any common ground with them. Or they with me.

But by lunch on Friday, I was scanning the tables and the cafeteria line for this guy. I could hear the buzz of voices around me, but my focus was elsewhere. It didn’t help that I was exhausted. My nightly dreams were getting more and more vivid, and I woke up feeling as if I’d been up al night.

The details would get fuzzier as the day went on, but every night I’d be back in the sky, flying over the town.

“El ie, are you listening to me?”

I turned to Ruth. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I swear, you’re like a ghost these past few days. Where are you?”

I thought about how to answer that loaded question. Should I tel her about Missy and company’s suspicious continued attempts at friendliness and blame my distractedness on that? I knew that Ruth didn’t real y care that much about their clique, but no one liked to be snubbed and they weren’t exactly seeking her out, even though Ruth and I were kind of a package deal. Or should I stick with the overwhelming schoolwork as the excuse for my preoccupation? I sure didn’t want to pin it on some mystery guy in the hal way. “I’m sorry, I guess the teachers’ constant harping about col ege has got me distracted. What were you saying?”

“I was actual y talking about col eges. Geez, you real y are somewhere else, aren’t you? There wasn’t some guy in Kenya this summer that you’ve been keeping to yourself, was there?”

Ruth’s suggestion was ridiculous given the stark reality of my summer in Kenya, and I almost laughed. Until I saw her face. She looked real y hurt at the thought that I might keep something from her. I would have thought that my best friend of seven years—almost like the sister I didn’t have—

would know better.

But Ruth was complicated. Anyone close to her could see that she was witty, smart, dependable, and intensely loyal, albeit the kind of loyal that occasional y bordered on possessiveness. But you had to get close to see al her wonderful qualities, which wasn’t easy. Ruth lost her mother to cancer when she was in first grade—only months before we met—and she was afraid to let people in, in case they left her, like her mom. To protect herself, she’d erected enormous barriers to friendship, and I was one of the only ones who’d managed to surmount those wal s.

“No, I swear. I was up to my elbows in composting and African animal manure. It was hardly a glamorous atmosphere to meet a guy.”

Ruth laughed. “Gross. But knowing your parents, I’m not surprised.” Satisfied, she started talking about her wish list of col eges and the criteria for acceptance, who got in at what rates and al that stuff. I wished that Ruth didn’t worry so much; I knew she’d have her pick when the time came, even though she’d have to rely on scholarships and financial aid to pay her way. Her dad’s salary as a groundskeeper at the university didn’t go too far.

We bussed our trays and made plans to meet up at the coffee shop after school. I walked back to my locker to switch out my English textbooks for Spanish, hoping to avoid Missy and her friends if at al possible. Letting out a sigh of relief as I neared number twenty-four without Piper’s trademark auburn ponytail in sight, I saw him—standing by my locker.

He couldn’t be waiting there for me. It had to be a coincidence. Whatever his reason, I sure wished that I’d stopped in the bathroom after lunch and at least brushed my hair.

Up close, he was better-looking than I remembered, even though he was more striking than cute. But his eyes, so pale and green, unsettled me.

Much as mine must unnerve people, I suddenly realized. It was the first time I’d seen anything like them on another person.

I almost couldn’t talk as I reached my locker. But I didn’t have to. Within seconds, he said, “You look different.”

I reminded myself that I’d never met this guy before. What did he mean, and who did he think he was, talking to me with such familiarity?

“Different from what? I don’t know how I could possibly look ‘different,’ when we’ve never met before,” I said and buried myself in my locker.

“We have. Three summers ago. In Guatemala.”

That stopped me short. I had been in Guatemala then. As I took my time sorting through my books, I racked my brain. Three summers ago, I had tagged along with my parents’ university training program to a remote, rural area in Guatemala. My parents were col ege professors specializing in organic farming and, during the summers, they organized trips to destinations around the world, teaching local farmers’ methods to increase production in an earth-friendly manner. Not exactly the jet-setting world travel that Missy probably envisioned. I was expected to rol up my sleeves just like al the other professors, students, and local farmers, so I got to know everyone in the summer programs real y wel . But I had no recol ection of this guy. And he was the kind of guy you’d remember.

This had to be some kind of prank. Maybe this was Missy’s backup humiliation plan because her attempts at faux friendship were failing. Why else would a cute, new senior be approaching me, claiming some nonexistent past acquaintance? Not that I thought I was without charm, mind you, but I was hardly the typical pick for a good-looking senior.

I would not be made a fool, especial y by the jerks who thought of themselves as popular. As if that label meant anything in the scheme of life.

Slamming my locker door shut, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

As I started to walk away, I heard him say, “You don’t remember the University of Maine agricultural outreach program in Guatemala? Three summers ago? We were both there with our parents.”

The confusion in his voice sounded real. And so did his command of the details. No way Missy would have known al that. No way Piper would have remembered it from our few neighborly conversations. I turned around. He actual y looked hurt.

I was about to risk further discussion, when Riley—one of the most popular senior guys and a star athlete—walked by and grabbed his arm. If this guy was friends with Riley, I definitely wasn’t his type. Assuming this wasn’t a joke, of course.

Before I could say anything, Riley started to drag him down the hal way. “Come on, Chase. We’l be late for practice.”

Chapter Three

“Do you remember a guy named Chase? From one of our summer trips?” I asked as casual y as possible over dinner that night. I kept my eyes down and played with the pasta on my plate to avoid contact with my parents’ perceptive eyes. I wasn’t used to being coy with them; I’d never had anything of interest to hide. But saying the question aloud made me feel oddly exposed.

“Chase?” my mom asked.

I didn’t look up from my plate, but I swore I heard something like alarm in my mom’s usual y serene voice. Normal y, she was irritatingly unflappable, the tougher of the two. And infuriatingly beautiful, by the way, despite an avowed aversion to makeup or anything that resembled

“fashion.” Only in the past two years had a few lines appeared on her total y natural face and a few grays in her chocolaty-colored hair. Of al their peers and friends, only my dad rivaled her in looks; it was annoying having such attractive parents.

“Yeah, Chase.”

“That doesn’t sound familiar,” she said.

My dad piped in, almost too casual y. “I don’t remember a ‘Chase’ either. Why do you ask?”

“Because he introduced himself to me at school today. He’s new. He said he remembered me from the Guatemala trip.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad shoot a look at my mom. “Now that I think of it, the name does ring a bel . Chase, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Huh, I seem to recal a nice-looking couple and their son. I think the parents were ethnobiologists. Chase is their last name, if I’m not mistaken.”

I groaned. “Now I real y feel like an idiot.”

“What do you mean?”

“When this Chase guy came up to me, I drew a complete blank.”

“Wel , it was three years ago, and that team was unusual y big. In fact, it was one of our biggest and busiest projects, so I’m not surprised that you don’t remember him,” my mom quickly interjected.

“Your mom’s right, El ie,” my dad said as he got up from the table and started clearing plates.

“It’s just real y strange that I have no memory of him at al , especial y since there usual y aren’t any kids my age on the trips. Do you remember his first name?” I asked.

“Michael, I think,” my dad answered. He cleared his throat and turned on the water in the sink. “Did this Michael—if that’s even the right name—

say why his family moved to Til inghast?”

“We didn’t get that far in the conversation. I felt embarrassed about not knowing who he was, even though he claimed we’d met, so I was a little rude. Real y rude, actual y.” I groaned again. “I feel awful now.”

“Don’t worry about it, dearest. You can always apologize.”

“True.” I stood up and began helping my dad with the dishes. As I handed him a rinsed plate for loading, my fingers brushed up against his arm, and it occurred to me that—for al the flashes I got when I touched people—I never got one when I touched my parents. But my thoughts quickly returned to Michael. “To answer your question, I bet his parents are working at the university. I mean, where else would they be working in Til inghast as ethnobiologists?” Although Til inghast used to have a bustling mil inery industry back in the eighteen hundreds, it was now sort of a one-horse town in terms of employment. Nearly everyone served the university in some capacity or other—whether as professors or as store-owners or something in between.

“But I don’t think I saw their names on the roster of visiting professors. Did you see any Chases on the list, Hannah?” he asked my mom.

“No, Daniel, I didn’t.” She answered quietly, staying seated instead of getting up to help us clean the kitchen as she usual y did.

Why was she acting so strange? I wondered. Was it real y that weird that I’d asked about a boy? I kind of wished I’d never brought it up. Then again, maybe my parents were just being their normal awkward selves; they always seemed to be acting the role of parents, uncertainly searching around for the right line. I always chalked it up to their being academics through and through—not real y entirely in this world.

“Oh, wel , you’re probably right, El ie. I’m sure the university brought them here. We’l probably run into Michael’s parents in the hal s before long,”

my dad said.

“I’m sure we’l run into the whole family soon enough,” my mom echoed, final y rising from the table. “It’s a smal town, after al .”

As I continued to rinse off plates and pass them to my dad, I cringed inwardly thinking about my exchange with Michael. On one hand, I felt relieved that his claims to know me weren’t a hoax, but on the other, I knew I’d have to apologize next week.

The phone rang. My dad picked it up and made some smal talk before handing it to me. “It’s Ruth, dearest.”

Before I could even say hel o, Ruth launched in. “Where were you? I cal ed your cel , I texted you—nothing. I final y just went home. Not cool, El ie.”

“What do you mean?” I was genuinely mystified.

“The Daily Grind? After school?”

In my haze over Michael, I had forgotten about our plans to meet at the coffee shop. I wandered into the family room, so my parents couldn’t overhear our conversation. “Oh Ruth, I’m so sorry. It total y slipped my mind. Can you forgive me?” I felt terrible. Ruth’s early experience losing her mother made her worry about people’s welfare, among other things.

“Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. But you had me worried. You never forget things. What’s going on with you?”

“Can I chalk it up to jet lag? We got back less than a week ago.” I scrambled for an explanation, any explanation.

“Yes, but please promise to keep your cel on. Okay?”

It annoyed Ruth to no end that I routinely failed to turn on my phone. No one ever cal ed me on it except Ruth and, in emergencies, my parents. “I promise.”

“Now, you’re not going to forget our plans to go to the movies tomorrow night, are you?”

I laughed in relief at the mock scolding in Ruth’s voice. “Of course not. Would I miss Audrey Tatou’s latest?” We both adored foreign movies, though for very different reasons, and went nearly every weekend. Ruth loved how different cultures told stories, while I was drawn to the exotic settings. Ruth could never understand why I didn’t get my fil of that over the summers. No amount of explaining on my part could make her understand that farming in rural Kenya or Guatemala bore absolutely no resemblance to the Parisian café culture.

“Good. I’l see you at seven at the Odeon.”

Chapter Four

On Monday, I expected to pass Michael in the hal ways and get the cold shoulder, at best. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he told me off for my rudeness; he would’ve been justified. I certainly didn’t anticipate—or deserve—seeing Michael waiting for me with a friendly smile on his face.

But there he was.

Michael stood against the wal near my locker so casual y that, once again, I thought maybe he wasn’t waiting there for me. After al , he could have any number of reasons for being there. But then he waved and smiled at me. A fierce blush spread across my pale cheeks when I realized he was waiting for me. How did he know where my locker was?

Although I shyly returned his smile and wave, I got more anxious as I walked toward him. Michael wore average-looking jeans and a black T-shirt, but he looked different—more mature, maybe—than the average Til ing-hast guy. Plus, I had this business of apologizing to address.

Michael’s warm smile made the apology a lot easier. I bit the bul et and said, “Hey, I feel real y bad about not recognizing you at first on Friday—”

He interrupted me. “Don’t mention it. It’s been three years, and we both look different. You especial y,” he said with an appreciative glance that made me blush. I hated to blush. He seemed to notice my discomfort, and rushed to lighten the mood by teasing me. “I hope I look different than I did three years ago, too. Maybe better?”

I laughed a little, but didn’t know what to say next. I never knew what to say to guys, unless it was about class work or organic farming. Obviously neither topic lent itself to casual banter, although normal y I didn’t mind. And anyway, I stil had this weird amnesia when it came to Michael and Guatemala, and I didn’t know how to avoid that topic in a conversation since it was our main common ground.

We stood in what seemed, to me, like an eternal awkward silence. To fil the void, I started walking down the hal , and he quickly fol owed. But the quiet final y got to me, and I blurted out, “So, your parents want to save the world, too?” I figured that he could relate if his parents dragged him on far-flung missions to Guatemala, like mine did.

“Something like that,” he said pleasantly enough. Maybe I had passed the first conversational hurdle. “We’ve traveled al over for their work, that’s for sure.”

“Did your family move here so your parents could teach at the university, M—?” I almost said his name, and then I stopped myself. Technical y, we hadn’t introduced ourselves, and I definitely didn’t want to admit that I’d discussed him with my parents, and got his name that way.

“We moved to Til inghast over the summer so my parents could work on a special project.”

“So it’s just a temporary move?” Even though I barely knew this guy, I felt disappointed that he might not be in town for long.

“We’re here until the project meets its goal, I guess.”

Before I could ask any other number of polite, conversational questions, he turned to me with a broad smile and asked, “So where are we headed?”

“English.”

“What are you reading?”

“Pride and Prejudice.”

“I had to read that for English last year. I thought my teacher would never stop talking about it. I think she’s stil looking for her Mr. Darcy.”

I had to laugh. I had heard the same thing about my English teacher, Miss Taunton.

We started talking about Pride and Prejudice, which I’d read on the long, hot Kenyan nights when there wasn’t much else to do. In fact, I had finished the assigned Pride and Prejudice and worked my way through al of Jane Austen over the summer. He asked me what I’d thought of the novel. I loved it, and he admitted that he’d found it slower than molasses and about as interesting. But he said it with the kind of smile that made me forgive him for having such a negative view on a book that I loved. I’d never had this kind of conversation with any other guy before. With anyone other than Ruth, actual y. My parents and their col eagues stuck to practical scientific texts and world issues, and my other friendships were of the superficial variety. And even though we didn’t agree, it was such a rush to find a guy that I could talk to—after so long pretending to myself and everyone else that I didn’t much care that I couldn’t speak the language of guys my own age.

Too soon, we stood near the entrance to my English class. I paused near the door. I felt awkward about how to break off. Would it be real y 1950s of me to thank him for walking me to class?

“Wel , it was real y nice seeing you again. . . .” I let the sentence drift off as I faced the uncertain business of whether I should say his name or not. I hoped he didn’t notice.

He did, of course.

“Michael. Michael Chase,” he interjected and then smiled that disarming smile again. “In case you forgot.”

“Right, right. Thanks, Michael. And I’m—”

“I know who you are. You’re El ie Faneuil.”

He started down the hal way toward his own class, but then turned back suddenly with a devilish grin. “Actu-al y, you’re Ellspeth Faneuil, aren’t you?” With a wave, he walked away.

Chapter Five

To my surprise, Michael sought me out each day that week. I’d step out of class, and he’d be waiting nearby. I’d pop out of lunch and head to my locker, and he’d be strol ing alongside me down the hal way. His constant attendance never seemed weird. In fact, his easy manner and our effortless conversations—mostly about classes—made it feel real y natural. By Friday afternoon, my reserve about him had chipped away.

Just before two o’clock, I stood in the back of gym, waiting for Ruth to join me before I sat down for the principal’s first assembly of the school year. The space was crowded with bleachers and chairs, instead of the usual sports equipment. Students were beginning to pour in.

I spied Missy and her usual entourage approaching my spot, and I just didn’t want to interact with them. So I slid away into a darkened corner next to the bleachers. From there, I could stil see the doors to the gym and catch Ruth’s attention when she arrived, but didn’t have to deal with any of Missy’s annoying, ongoing efforts at friendship.

As I watched the clock tick closer to two and the seats fil , I wondered where Ruth was. Ever punctual and organized, it wasn’t like her to be late.

Not to something like this. I didn’t dare take one of the few remaining chairs without her; she’d be furious at having to sit alone.

Ruth. Just thinking about her reminded me that I hadn’t mentioned Michael. Our somewhat conflicting schedules meant that she hadn’t seen me with him. And I hadn’t felt like tel ing her about our conversations yet. I just didn’t want to bump up against that overprotectiveness of hers when I wasn’t even sure that there was anything between Michael and me for Ruth to protect.

The clock hit two, and the principal strode across the stage. Craning my neck, I scanned the room to be certain that I hadn’t missed Ruth. The gym was packed with students, but no Ruth. I settled back into my little nook and waited. I would give her one more minute before I snagged one of the few open seats nearby. At this point, she’d have to understand.

Without warning, I felt a presence in my dark alcove. I hadn’t seen anyone approach my little corner, so I was confused by the sensation. I looked around. But there was no one standing to my left or right.

Then I felt a hand on the smal of my back. The light pressure sent chil s up my spine, and my heart started racing. I did not need to turn around to see who it was. Somehow I knew it was Michael behind me.

Removing his hand away from my back, he inched closer. “Is this spot taken?” he whispered, as he sidled up next to me.

We’d never been so close to each other. I felt like I could hardly breathe, let alone answer. Where had this strong, physical attraction to him come from? Over the past few days, I’d grown to real y like him, but I hadn’t experienced anything like this with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“No,” I final y managed, with a gulp.

“Good. Maybe I’l just stay here with you instead of sitting down, if that’s okay. That way, we can scoot out early.”

“Sure,” I answered with what I prayed was a calm voice. Even though I felt anything but calm.

The lights dimmed, making our dark alcove even darker. The principal began to rustle some papers on the podium. He tapped the microphone, which let out an ear-piercing shriek. Michael and I turned to each other, covered our ears, and laughed. Then we stood next to each other in companionable silence while the principal started his speech.

I heard Principal Robbins greet the incoming class of juniors and welcome back the seniors, but I wasn’t real y listening. I heard the crowd laugh politely at some lame joke the principal told, and I smiled along with them as if I were paying attention. But al I could hear and see and feel was Michael.

Principal Robbins introduced the vice principal, and quiet fel over the crowd while he walked across the stage to the podium. In that brief silence, Michael leaned toward me. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek, and I wondered what he was going to do or say.

He nudged me in the direction of the gym doors and said, “I think someone’s looking for you.”

I looked over. In the darkness of the gym, a person stood silhouetted against the bright light streaming in from the opened doors. It was Ruth.

More than anything in the world, I wanted to stay alone in that alcove with Michael. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to signal to my friend.

Before I motioned for Ruth’s attention, I turned back to thank Michael for pointing her out. But he was already leaving.

As he walked away, I thought I heard him say, “Maybe I’l see you this weekend.”

Chapter Six

The weekend that fol owed was long and fil ed with misgivings. Michael never reached out to “see me” like I thought he had said. So I had way too much time on my hands to stare at my neglected cel phone and think about him.

I couldn’t help but wonder why Michael had been so persistent in seeking me out over the preceding week. Not that he’d declared a specific interest or anything, but he clearly went out of his way to see me during the school days—for friendship or more I couldn’t quite tel . Could it real y be that we had connected on that Guatemala trip? And why me? He seemed to have made other friends in the short time he’d been in Til inghast, the sort of guys who hung out with the most popular girls and ignored the rest of us. I couldn’t help but feel like Michael would start ignoring me, too, one day.

By Monday morning, I had my guard back up. So when I stepped out of English and spotted him talking to a group of jocks instead of waiting alone for me, it seemed that my fears were confirmed. Fears that he’d given up on our tenuous relationship, fears that he hadn’t been genuinely interested from the start. I let my hair hang in front of my face, and walked in the opposite direction to avoid passing him. Even though it was the wrong way to my next class.

Darting down the hal way as quickly as I dared, I heard my name being cal ed out.

“El ie.”

I knew it was Michael’s voice, but I was so embarrassed that he might have caught my glance and my hasty exit that I kept moving.

“El ie.” His voice was getting louder, and I could hear his footsteps approach. But I kept pretending I couldn’t hear him.

Michael reached my side, and reached out for my arm. It tingled where he touched it. “El speth,” he whispered, and his breath sent shivers up my spine. The long, disappointing weekend had done nothing to change his physical effect on me.

I stopped walking and turned to look at him. He seemed upset.

“I know you saw me. Why did you walk away?”

“You seemed”—I reached for an explanation—“busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You should know that I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in you.”

“Real y?”

“Real y.”

Our eyes locked for a brief second, when I realized that Piper and Missy were walking nearby. And watching our every move.

Michael must have realized it too, because he broke my gaze and changed the subject.

“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to cal you this weekend. Did you have a good one?” he asked as we started walking down the hal again.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I desperately wanted to ask what kept him from cal ing, but I didn’t want him to think I’d fixated on his parting words from Friday.

“How’d you like the movie on Saturday?”

“You were at the Odeon?” I was shocked. No self-respecting Til inghast upper-class guy would be caught dead at the Odeon, which only showed foreign movies and independent films. From what I remember, the theater was almost empty.

At the mere mention of the Odeon, Piper and Missy giggled and walked away. In that split second, they clearly decided that Michael—no matter how cute and how senior—wasn’t worth their attention. He had revealed himself as an indie-movie-watching geek. I was relieved.

Michael answered as if total y unaware of, or even better, uninterested in, the judgment just passed by Missy and crew. “I came in late by myself.

You and your friend looked like you were having so much fun that I didn’t want to interrupt you guys.”

“You were there by yourself?” I blurted out and then my cheeks flushed. Of course I wanted to know if he’d brought a date, but why did I have to be so obvious?

He smiled. “Yeah, I was. That’s probably not very cool, is it? To go to the movies on a Saturday night without any friends?” But he didn’t seem the least embarrassed. In fact, his ability to do whatever he wanted without worrying about the social consequences was one of the things I liked most about him.

If possible, I got even redder. I hadn’t meant to insult him, but at least he didn’t grasp the real reason I’d asked the question. Or at least he had the decency to pretend that he didn’t.

Michael continued, “I’ve lived in enough places that I’ve learned not to care what is cool. I’ve learned to suit myself. And anyway, Til inghast is a smal place. It helps to get out of it for a while, even if it’s just at the movies. If that makes any sense at al .”

“It does.” He made it sound acceptable, rather than strange, to spend a Saturday night at the Odeon. And I real y did get what he said. Having spent so much time in other cultures, I shared his compulsion to escape from the confines of Til inghast into other worlds.

He changed the subject back to the movie, a French film. Before long, we were back on track and engrossed in a discussion over the best French movies. I favored the Three Colors Trilogy, while he advocated for La Femme Nikita with its stylized action scenes.

We arrived at my calculus class door too quickly. For me, anyway. The embarrassing moment of departure arrived once again. But before I could say anything sil y, Michael said, “I wanted to ask you—”

“El ie, there you are!” Ruth bounded over and landed directly between us. “You almost forgot this in my car this morning, and you ran out of English before I could hand this to you.” She stuck out a folder and handed it to me. I took the folder from her, careful not to touch her directly. Since the flashes started, I always took extra care to make sure I didn’t get any from Ruth. Late last school year, I accidental y brushed up against her arm as she was looking at Jamie, a junior guy she often described as “thick,” and I saw that she actual y had some pretty intense feelings for him. I didn’t want any more flashes from Ruth. It would make our friendship real y weird.

I stared down at the folder Ruth had jammed into my hand and realized that it contained my calculus homework. “Oh, wow, thanks, Ruth. I can’t believe I almost left it behind.”

Looking up, I saw that Ruth was gaping at Michael—and speechless. I realized that Ruth had leaped between Michael and me without realizing that we were talking. Why would she think that I’d be talking to him? After al , I’d made a conscious decision not to mention him to her. But based on her reaction, it was clearly a very bad decision. I definitely wished that I had brought up Michael already.

What else could I do at that moment but introduce them and try to act normal y? “I don’t think you two have met. Ruth Hal , this is Michael Chase.

Michael, this is Ruth.”

“Nice to meet you, Ruth,” Michael said.

Stil Ruth said nothing, just kept staring. You’d think she’d never seen a guy speak to her best friend before.

Since he was getting no response from Ruth, Michael turned back to me and continued where he left off. “Anyway, El ie, I know it’s early in the week, but I wanted to ask if you were free this Saturday night. Maybe we could go to the Odeon together?”

I shot a glance at Ruth, whose mouth had literal y dropped open. We had talked about going to see the new Odeon release ourselves, this upcoming Saturday night. “Actual y, Ruth and I had plans—”

With a start, Ruth came out of her spel . “El ie, I forgot to tel you that I have a family party to go to on Saturday night. So you’re free, you’re total y free.”

Family party? Ruth didn’t have any family besides her dad. That was one reason she’d gotten so close to me and my parents, and her dad had gotten so tight with my mom and dad. That, and the fact that her dad and my parents shared a near-obsession with the environment. Ruth was real y looking out for me, despite the shock at seeing me talk to Michael.

“Great,” Michael said with a smile at Ruth. He looked at me again. “Should we meet there at six thirty?”

I was a little surprised that he didn’t offer to pick me up, but then what did I know about going on a date? This would be my first. “Sure. I’l see you there.”

He laughed. “Okay, but it’s only Monday. I think I’l run into you before then.”

I blushed yet again. “Right, right.”

Just then the bel rang. We al said a hasty farewel , and went our separate ways to class.

Chapter Seven

I expected Ruth to be waiting for me at the end of the day. I knew I had some explaining to do. I’d never mentioned Michael to her before, and suddenly we were going on a date. It was kind of a big deal, and Ruth only knew about it because she walked up to me at the right moment. I wasn’t sure what her reaction to the news would be, but the fact that she’d sacrificed our plans so I could go out with Michael was a good sign. I hoped.

I saw her standing just inside the main doors, looking distracted, and tugging at some strands of her long, red hair—clearly lost in thought. Ruth was quiet as we walked out of the building toward the parking lot. We’d planned to go to the library to work on our first serious English project, and she was driving. My eco-friendly parents didn’t believe that we should own more than one car—the whole carbon footprint thing. They figured I could

—and should—walk anywhere I needed to go in Til inghast, even in the winter. It irked them that I circumvented their wishes by driving everywhere with Ruth.

I was quiet, too, waiting for her verdict.

“Why didn’t you tel me about Michael?” she final y said.

Stil unsure how to read her, I tread cautiously. “Tel you what?”

“About your relationship with him.”

“Relationship? We’ve only been in school for a little over a week, and Michael and I have talked a total of maybe five times. Today’s the first time that an actual date came up.”

“Don’t be literal with me, El ie. You’ve obviously been talking to him, and you haven’t mentioned him even once. And you had plenty of opportunities; we were together al Saturday night.”

I had my answer: Ruth was mad. As mad as the reserved Ruth got. I guessed that her anger wasn’t from jealousy of my marginal success with a guy, but because I hadn’t told her. I knew that the very thought of keeping secrets from each other was beyond her comprehension. In fact, to her, it was tantamount to betrayal. It offended her sense of loyalty.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think there was real y much to say.”

“I thought we told each other everything. Whether it seems inconsequential or not.”

“Ruth, no one knows better than you that I have absolutely no experience with guys. I didn’t know if he was just being friendly because we’d both been on that grueling summer program to Guatemala a few years ago. So I didn’t real y know what to tel you—”

“He was on one of your parents’ trips?” She paused to process that little nugget. “So that’s why he was staring at us on the first day of school. . . .”

Ruth saw Michael that day. I was shocked that she noticed him but never mentioned him and offended that she thought the only reason he’d stare at me was familiarity. But I was in the hot seat, not Ruth, so I said, “Yeah, our parents do similar kinds of work. He recognized me in the hal way, and it was so awkward because I didn’t remember him—”

Ruth’s anger couldn’t hold. She interrupted me. “I get it, El ie. Even though I’m stil a little mad that you kept it from me, I’m excited for you,” she said and sounded like she real y meant it. “So, what are you going to wear on Saturday?”

I was forgiven, and Ruth was off and running, mental y cul ing through my limited wardrobe. My parents were not big believers in amassing goods beyond the absolutely necessary. This dismayed Ruth, who was a secret student of fashion although you’d never know it from her bland school

“uniform” of jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters. After listening to Ruth debate the merits of jeans versus skirts, I ventured a question about Michael. One I’d wanted to ask al week, but I’d hesitated to bring up to the very protective Ruth. Until now.

“You don’t know anything about him, do you?” I asked, and there was that crimson flush on my cheeks again. “I mean, have you heard anything about Michael’s move here?”

“Wel , sure, let’s see.” I could practical y see Ruth ticking through her internal file folders on every person in the upper school—another one of her secret hobbies. She col ected gossip, but she didn’t spread it. At least, not to anyone other than me. She claimed that she cul ed this information out of necessity rather than true interest; she said that, as we learned in The Art of War, which we read for history last year, we needed to “know our enemies.” We’d had enough unpleasantness with the popular crowd and wannabes for her taste. Again, part of her protective personality—for herself and me.

“His family moved to Til inghast this summer. He plays footbal and is supposedly amazing. That is what the new footbal coach has been saying, anyway. Al the different groups of guys are friendly with him—the footbal players, the soccer guys, even the stoners—but he hasn’t latched on to one group. He seems to prefer his own company, by his choice, not anyone else’s. Oh, and he’s smart. Scary smart, I hear.”

Blush notwithstanding, I plunged back in with the question I real y wanted to ask. “Has he dated anyone?”

“No.” She laughed. “A couple of girls have crushes on him already, but I haven’t heard about him paying any particular attention to anyone.” She paused and smiled at me. “Until now.”

I smiled back. My private little connection with Michael had suddenly become real.

By the end of the week, I’d grown sick of talking about what I should wear on my date. Ruth had torn through my closet in frustration, judging my col ection of dark-colored jeans, cords, sweaters, T-shirts, and tops completely unsuitable. She then steered me through her own closet, with its rarely worn but definitely cooler mix of casual clothes. But none of them worked on my slimmer, tal er body. Desperate, Ruth final y dragged me to the mal —a place my parents frowned upon as a sad temple to materialism—looking for something “date-like,” whatever that meant.

There was only one good thing about Ruth’s mad quest for the perfect date outfit. Between that and my regular schoolwork, I was so distracted that I barely had any time to think about the purpose for al this madness. So by the time 6:30 on Saturday evening rol ed around, and my parents dropped me off in front of the Odeon with eyebrows arched at the fact that Michael didn’t pick me up, I wasn’t even that nervous.

I stood at the Odeon’s doors al by myself watching the clock tick off fifteen minutes. Those fifteen minutes gave me ample time to review al my conversations with Michael and cringe over my awkward comments, to wonder what on earth we’d talk about, and to triple-guess my Ruth-approved outfit. I started to feel so anxious that I wondered if I should leave.

But then Michael rounded the corner. When I saw him wearing a pair of khakis and a button-down, I was glad to have worn the vintage blazer, long-sleeve black J. Crew top, and skinny black pants that Ruth had insisted upon. And I was real y, real y happy that I had stayed.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, El ie,” Michael said as he handed me a beautiful, gold-foil gift bag. “This isn’t an excuse, but I hope it explains my delay.”

I took the bag with a smal , cautious smile. I reached inside and slid out a box of expensive chocolate truffles with a cinnamon center. I couldn’t believe it. Over the course of the week, Michael had casual y asked me about my favorite candy, and I’d named my dream treat. I never imagined that he’d get it for me.

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“You didn’t tel me how hard these were to come by in Til inghast.”

“I can’t believe you found them in town at al . I’ve only ever had them abroad in duty-free shops when I traveled with my parents for those summer trips.”

He smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t find them in Til inghast exactly.”

“Please don’t tel me that you went too far out of your way.”

“Let’s just say that the gift shop in the big hotel in Bar Harbor carries a real y nice selection of candy.” He took me by the hand and said, “Come on, we don’t want to miss the movie, do we?”

Chapter Eight

The movie and dinner couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted them myself. The movie was a perfect choice, enough action and philosophy to satisfy us both, but no embarrassing love scenes. I had enough trouble concentrating on the movie given that my arm kept brushing up against Michael’s, without having to deal with some on-screen love interest. The diner where we had burgers and fries afterward seemed somehow transformed into a French bistro straight out of one of the movie scenes. And we talked easily al night.

Over a shared dessert, we playful y debated some more foreign films. As we finished both the chocolate cake and our cheerful dispute, he said,

“God, I’m glad you’re in Til inghast.”

I felt my cheeks burn bright red. I wasn’t sure how to take his statement, so I pushed the chocolate cake crumbs around the plate and said, “You are?”

“I mean it’s so great to find someone in this smal town who’s smart and interested in the world beyond Til inghast. Someone who’s traveled to the same kind of obscure places and who’s dealt with the same kind of single-minded parents.”

The way Michael said “someone” made me hesitate. Was he happy to have found just anyone with whom he could connect? Or was he happy to have found me?

As if he knew what I was thinking, he said, “I’m so glad to have found you here, of al places. Imagine seeing you again in Til inghast after first meeting you in rural Guatemala.”

I smiled and looked up. “Even if I can’t remember you from Guatemala?” I’d tried and tried to conjure up even one image of him from Guatemala, but couldn’t. It was like a wal in my head that I couldn’t scale or peer around no matter how hard I tried.

He smiled back. “Even if I was forgettable in Guatemala.”

We laughed over my forgetfulness, and I was hugely relieved. Up until now, we’d managed to skirt the issue of Guatemala and my strange amnesia about him. But I’d always felt awkward about it. Not anymore.

As he helped me into my jacket after dinner, I thought about how I loved what I saw in Michael. He was funny, chivalrous, and thoughtful, always opening the door for me and even stopping to help an older woman struggling to cross the street in between the theater and diner. He was obviously wel -traveled, and real y bright. He had only one flaw: He seemed too good to be true. In fact, he was so comfortable it made me wonder whether he’d been on tons of dates before.

We walked toward the diner door, and I wondered if I should cal my parents for a ride. After al , Michael hadn’t said anything about driving me home, and he did ask me to meet him at the movies. Maybe he didn’t have a car, and I didn’t want to be presumptuous.

I pul ed out my cel phone, and started to dial. He asked, “Who are you cal ing?”

“My parents.”

“Do you always cal them to report in midway through a date?” he said with a laugh.

“No. Wel , I don’t go on dates—” I turned bright red at my unintentional confession. “What I mean is I don’t have to ‘report in’ or anything—”

He laughed. “I’m only kidding, El ie. If you need to cal your parents for some reason, by al means, please do.”

“I just thought we were probably heading home and I should cal them for a ride.”

“A ride? I was hoping to drive you home myself.”

“You were?”

“Of course. If that’s al right with you?”

I nodded happily.

Michael was quiet as he helped me into his parents’ navy Prius and headed toward my house. I wondered if I’d done or said something wrong, and tried to fil the void with chatter. But Michael seemed perfectly content driving in near-silence, with one hand on the wheel and the other nearly touching mine.

He pul ed up in front of my house. Our little white Victorian, with its whimsical y painted Kel y green trim and wide front porch that my parents had resuscitated from demolition, looked especial y inviting. The warm lights coming from the kitchen were a sure sign that my parents were waiting up for me.

“Would you like to come in?” I wasn’t sure if I should ask, but it seemed the normal thing to do. Plus I was nervous. I’d never been on a date before—let alone kissed a guy—and I figured that might come next. Part of me hoped it would, even though I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do.

“Maybe it’d be better if I came in and saw your parents next time. I’d kind of like to keep you al to myself tonight.”

The words “next time” had such a sweet ring to me. They were a reassurance of sorts that he had enjoyed our evening, even if he’d grown quiet. I put my hand on the car door handle and said, “Until ‘next time,’ then.”

Michael reached across me and gently took my hand off the handle. “Are we done with ‘this time’ so soon?” If his voice hadn’t cracked when he asked the question, he might have seemed smooth, too smooth. Instead, he just seemed endearing.

I didn’t want the date to end either, even though I was anxious. I shook my head and looked down.

With his free hand, Michael traced my cheek and lips, and rested his hand at the back of my neck, lifting my face to his. He slipped his other hand around the smal of my back and drew me close. So close I could feel his breath on my skin.

He leaned in to kiss me, and I surrendered. His lips were soft and gentle at first, as gentle as he’d been with me al night. I responded intuitively, fol owing his lead as he grew more persistent.

Slowly, so slowly, he parted my lips with his tongue. The delicate, but powerful, motion took my breath away. I waited as he ran his tongue around the tip of my own and then along the ridge of my upper teeth with an al uring deliberation. The movement sent shivers down my spine.

I wanted to provoke the same reaction in him. Ten-tatively, I touched his tongue with the tip of mine and then sought out his upper teeth.

Mimicking his motions, I ran my tongue along the ridge, but it was razor-sharp. I cried out in pain, as my blood fil ed both of our mouths.

Instinct told me to pul back and I started to apologize, but Michael grabbed hold of me. Just like that, the intensity heightened. His kisses became more and more demanding, and I found myself swept away by his ardor and my own. My pain did nothing to lessen my desire. The feeling was so new . . . but the rush felt almost familiar. Like I was in one of my nightly dreams, flying high above the town below.

Panting, Michael broke away first. We looked into each other’s pale, pale eyes, and I saw a hunger in his matched only by my own. I never knew that kissing could be like this. Not even from the movies.

“I think we should stop,” he said.

I’d never dreamed of feeling so much, so quickly. I didn’t want it to stop. As if in a dream, I said, “No, I don’t want to.” And I reached for him.

“Yes, El ie.” He placed his hand on mine to keep me at bay.

Stil , I wanted more. “Please, Michael.” I pressed forward, against the pressure of his hand.

He pushed me back into my seat. Gently, but it was enough to break the spel .

What on earth had come over me? I was mortified at my aggressive behavior, and embarrassed by his rejection. I recoiled into the far corner of my seat, as far away from his spurning as I could get. But it wasn’t far enough. More than anything in the world, I wanted out of that car.

As I reached for the door handle, he grabbed my hand. “El ie, please believe me when I say that I’m stopping only because we are meant to be together. And this is just the beginning.”

I tried to wrench free of his grip. “Don’t bother letting me down easy, Michael. I may be inexperienced, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Michael locked his hands around mine. “Please, El ie.”

I met his gaze as if I understood—and agreed with—his excuses. But I nodded only so he would release my hands. Once free, I opened the door and ran from the car. From him.

Chapter Nine

I tossed and turned for hours after our date. I was restless, both mental y and physical y. My mind raced with replays of our evening together, while my body was plagued by a longing for Michael that even memories of his pushing me away couldn’t shake.

When I final y fel asleep sometime near dawn, I sunk back into my recurring dream. It started out on its normal course; I flew out of my bedroom window and into town. I made my usual pause at the vil age green and town church before heading out to the sea.

Before I could reach the rocky cliffs bordering the ocean, I noticed a clear blue light coming from a house near the beach—a serious departure from my dream’s customary path. It was the only visible il umination in the otherwise black landscape. Somehow my body knew precisely how to perform, and I streamlined my limbs to gain speed.

Within seconds, I neared the street and circled the perimeter of the house. I noted a few lit lamps in the empty family room and kitchen, but this was not the il umination I sought. Although the rest of the house seemed dark, I soon realized that the blue light came from an upstairs bedroom—

Michael’s bedroom.

Michael sat at his desk, staring out at the sea. I couldn’t see the source of the blue light, so I flew close to his window. He looked so handsome and contemplative that I wanted to touch him. Even though he didn’t see me, I reached out my hand for him. But then the wind kicked up and begged for my attention. I watched as it whipped through the copse of apple trees in Michael’s backyard, violently rustling the branches and late summer leaves.

For a moment, I left Michael behind, and fol owed my undeniable compulsion to rise. My head tilted upward toward the sky, and my shoulders broadened as if I had wings unfurling. My eyes closed as the wind swept me into its arms, and the sky tugged me gently toward the heavens. I surrendered to the joyous feeling of flight and freedom.

But then my body lurched downward, tangling me in the apple trees. I looked down, expecting to see hands clutched at my ankles or sinuous branches wrapped around my calves. But there was nothing. Nothing except the earth keeping its hold.

* * *

The next thing I remembered was the phone ringing. I sat up with a start, surprised to see bright sunlight streaming through the slats of my window shades. What time was it? I groped for my clock, and couldn’t believe it was almost ten o’clock. I never slept this late, even on the weekends. I just wasn’t wired for it.

As I grabbed my things for the shower, I noticed the cal er ID alert on my cel phone. I checked and saw that I had messages from Ruth and Michael. I could guess what Ruth was dying to talk about, but what did Michael want? To offer his sugarcoated excuses again? I didn’t think I could face either one just yet.

Instead, I made my way down the hal to my bathroom. I hoped a long, hot shower would help wash away some of the dream and the thoughts of Michael that started to creep back into my consciousness. After I dried my face and moved on to the thicket of my hair, I heard my mom cal from downstairs.

“El ie? El ie, honey, are you up?”

I cracked open the bathroom door, and cal ed back, “Yes, Mom.”

“Good, we need to leave in fifteen minutes.” Although my parents weren’t sticklers for church every Sunday morning, they did insist that we serve at a local soup kitchen on Sundays. They believed God was best worshipped by action, not words.

“I’l be ready.”

So, there would be no long, hot shower this morning. But maybe a morning at the soup kitchen was exactly what I needed. Hard reality would wipe Michael right out of my head.

I raced to get ready, but my brush kept getting stuck in a particularly dense knot in the back. I tried to separate out the tethered strands one by one with a comb. When the knot refused to budge, I realized that something was holding the hairs together. Final y, I shook the object free to the floor and bent down to pick it up. It was a single leaf from an apple tree.

I lifted the leaf up to the bathroom light to be absolutely certain. There was no denying what it was. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been anywhere near an apple tree. Except in my dream. Last night.

Chapter Ten

I successful y avoided Michael on Monday and Tuesday. He tried to get my attention as I left a few classes, but I feigned obliviousness. I did not want to relive the humiliation of our date, and my raw need for him toward the end. In the light of day, walking around school, it was hard to believe I’d actual y acted that way. Just to be safe, I kept Ruth by my side as a shield. She thought I was making too big a deal out of it, even after she heard what happened, but she supported me. As always.

By Wednesday, I didn’t see Michael waiting anywhere. At first, I experienced overwhelming relief that I could stop the playacting. But as the day progressed, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Even though I was stil cringing over my actions and Michael’s response, I was drawn to him.

Fol owing an after-school meeting on Wednesday, I walked to the town library by myself. Ruth’s yearbook meeting was running even later, so she couldn’t drive me. And truth be told, I looked forward to the short strol in the crisp autumn air—alone. I needed some solitude to clear my mind of the al -encompassing thoughts of Michael and refocus on my neglected schoolwork.

I rounded a lazy bend in the road and spied the library a few blocks off. The library was a marble and granite confection from the eighteen hundreds, when the prominent mil inery families stil had money to spend on Til inghast, and its founders had spared no expense on an entry staircase worthy of the building’s grandeur. I was just about to walk up its imposing steps when I spotted Michael’s car idling in the no parking zone in front of the library. Did he know I was coming?

Quickly starting up the stairs, I kept my head down. I reached out for the huge brass door to pul it open. I began to let out a sigh of relief, when I felt a hand on my upper arm.

“Please, El ie. Just listen to me for a second.”

I couldn’t pretend any longer. Turning around, I stared into Michael’s pale green eyes. Keeping hold of my arm, he whispered to me in a rush, as if he was scared I’d run off.

“El ie, I’ve never been more certain about anything than my feelings for you. In fact, they’re so strong that they shock me sometimes. I pushed you away the other night because I wanted you too much. And I was afraid I’d scare you if I gave in to my feelings.”

Michael stared into my eyes as he spoke, never wavering in his gaze or his words. His confidence made me feel doubly mortified. How could I have refused to give him a chance to explain over the past few days? I broke our connection and looked down at my feet. I wasn’t sure I deserved his persistence.

He put his finger under my chin and lifted my face so he could look into my eyes. But I kept them averted. “El ie, you did nothing to be ashamed of on Saturday night. I wanted you, too. I slowed us down only because I wanted things to be perfect between us.”

My cheeks turned bright pink, and I continued staring down at the ground. “Me too, Michael. I was just so embarrassed. I’ve never behaved like that—felt like that—in my life, and then to have you—”

He placed his finger over my lips and whispered. “Shh. El ie, I’ve never behaved or felt like that either. And I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

“Real y?” I asked without shifting my gaze, too scared that if I looked at him he might just disappear like a character from one of my dreams or suddenly rebuff me again. Once again, Michael seemed just too good to be true.

“Real y. Can we start again?”

Final y, I looked into his eyes. I smiled sheepishly and said, “I’d like that.”

Michael led me down the steep library steps to his waiting car and opened the door for me. As I waited for him to get into the driver’s side, I noticed a couple walking up the stairs to the library. Their attractiveness caught my attention at first, and then I realized that I recognized the girl. It was Missy. She was walking very close to a tal , blond guy who definitely wasn’t Charlie, the senior I thought she’d been seeing since last year.

The driver’s door opened, and Michael slid in. Before he said a single word, he leaned in to kiss me. The chaste action was a far cry from the night before, but the gesture helped assuage my fears and drove out al thoughts of Missy and whomever she might be dating these days.

“Do you mind if we drive down to the ocean? There’s a great spot where we can watch the sunset,” Michael asked.

“Sure, that sounds great.”

To my relief, Michael launched into safe topics like homework and classes during the drive to the shore. I hardly noticed the change in scenery because I was so engrossed in Michael. And happy to be back with him.

We pul ed to the side of the road and got out of the car. Michael had parked at the flat top of a steep cliff that overlooked a beach. I crept over to the edge and looked down onto a picturesque cove that I’d never seen before, not in al my years living in Til inghast.

“What is this place?”

“It’s cal ed Ransom Beach.”

The sun was just beginning to descend. Its fal cast purple shadows over the white sand beach below. Michael grabbed my hand and started to lead me down a jagged trail cut almost invisibly into the cliff face. He directed us so expertly down the precipitous path that I realized he must have come this way many times before. In minutes, we scuttled down the rocks onto the sand where the cove’s huge, craggy boulders wrapped around us like a cold embrace.

Michael put his arm around my shoulder to shelter me from the moaning wind, as we watched the sun. We made smal talk about how pretty it was, and then he asked quietly, “I’d like to talk about last night, if that’s okay.”

I stiffened and then tried to lighten the mood a little. “We haven’t talked about it enough already?”

He laughed. “Almost. I want to talk to you about the reason I think we respond so strongly to each other, El ie.”

“You do?”

“Have you ever sensed that you were different from other people?”

I had to laugh again, and not just because he was acting so melodramatic. Looking up at him, I answered honestly. “If by ‘different’ you mean more awkward than most people, then yes.”

“Awkward? You’re kidding, right?”

I shook my head. Even though I found my gawkiness funny sometimes, I definitely wasn’t kidding.

“If you’re real y serious, then you’ve got to understand that you are the only one who sees you that way. Everyone else sees you as smart and intimidating and worldly and pretty.”

I almost snorted with laughter, but then stopped myself. “Yeah, right.”

“Piper and Missy have been real y friendly to you lately, haven’t they?”

“Yes . . .” I wondered how he knew and where he was going with his question.

“But they stil ignore you sometimes, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Idiots like Piper and Missy seek you out at the same time they ostracize you because you scare them. They don’t know what to do with someone like you. Someone attractive and bright and completely uninterested in their games. Someone that they sense is different and special, but they don’t know in what way.”

I was genuinely shocked. “Come on, Michael. I already like you; you don’t have to flatter me. I am not different and special.” My parents had worked long and hard to make me feel smart and important and loved, but at the same time, were always careful to remind me that I was just a regular girl, just like everyone else. With responsibilities to other people and the planet.

“If only you could see how beautiful and unique you real y are,” Michael said, and leaned in to kiss me.

The howl of the wind and the increasing chil receded as I lost myself to him. He wrapped himself around me and kissed me with rapidly growing intensity. Just like when we were in the gym and his car, I could only see and think and feel Michael.

Gently, so gently, he pressed me back into the sand. His kisses grew more insistent, and I enjoyed his mounting excitement. In a familiar motion, he parted my lips and ran his tongue along my tongue. He swept his tongue back into his own mouth and ran it along his own teeth, and I then felt his tongue lightly touch my own.

A metal ic taste flooded my mouth. Michael had caused the slightest drop of his blood to drip onto my tongue. The sand and the wind and the cove disappeared, and I experienced a powerful flash—much stronger than I’d ever experienced before. I saw myself on that first day of school, walking down the hal way with Ruth after the episode with her and Missy. I watched as I whipped my head in Michael’s direction, and I couldn’t believe how I appeared. My pale skin and eyes looked striking against the sleek blackness of my hair, and my long, lithe body was outlined in a glowing light. As seen through Michael’s eyes, I was indeed beautiful, almost ethereal y so.

Just then, the upper school hal way faded, and I saw another, more disconcerting image of myself. I watched as I elevated to Michael’s second-floor bedroom window and stretched out my hand in an invitation to flight. It was a scene from my dream.

I drew back from Michael’s kiss, and the image disappeared. Pushing myself up from the sand, I asked, “What was that? How did you know—”

“How did I know that you saw images like that? That you get insights into other people’s thoughts and feelings and baggage?”

“Yes.” I could barely breathe.

“How did I know that you dream of flying? And that, last night, you flew by my bedroom window in your dream?”

“Yes.”

“El ie, I told you that you are different. We are different. And that difference means we are meant for each other.”

Chapter Eleven

Different—what did Michael mean by different? I was too freaked out to ask. I was also too terrified—of him, the images, even myself—to stand there next to him on that remote beach as darkness fel around us. I felt betrayed, too. Had he orchestrated the whole reconciliation just so he could bring me here and frighten me? And how did he know about my flashes? About my dreams? Something was off. I backed away from him and headed toward the rocky pathway leading to the road.

Michael hurried after me. “I’m sorry, El ie. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I turned around and said, “Wel , you did.” Then I kept moving up the path.

I felt his hand as he reached out for me. “Come on, let me help you back up the trail.”

Keeping my hands glued to my sides and marching forward, I said, “No thanks, you’ve ‘helped’ enough. I’l make my own way.” I didn’t want him touching me just then. What if he could transmit more of his thoughts and images to me—or, worse, obtain more of my thoughts and images?

The sun had almost sunk beneath the horizon, and the pathway was getting real y hard to see. I trudged ahead as if I knew what I was doing—and where I was going. As I made my way along the narrow path, I heard some rocks slide down the steep cliff face. The sound startled me, and I lost my confidence and my footing. I started to slip, and Michael grabbed me just in time.

I sat for a moment to catch my breath. Since I didn’t experience any weird flashes as he pul ed me up, I figured that I should accept his help the rest of the way. I walked with his hand on my arm until we final y reached the peak. There, I tried to shake off his hand so I could walk to the car on my own. But he held tight.

“El ie, look at me.”

I didn’t want to look at him. As we had hiked up that treacherous path, I had thought about what had passed between us. Whether or not the sensations were real—and I wasn’t ready to tackle that just yet—I was furious. How dare he bring me to such an isolated, even dangerous, spot to inflict al this on me? And I didn’t want my anger to soften when I looked into his eyes, which I suspected it might.

“Please, El ie.”

I kept my gaze fixed on the ground. “Why should I, Michael? You dragged me out here to this remote beach to scare me with some kind of game.”

“Game?”

“Yes.”

“You think that the images I shared with you were some kind of game?” He sounded shocked, even a little mad. I didn’t dare look at his face.

“Yes.” In truth, I wasn’t sure. I’d experienced enough flashes, visions, or whatever you wanted to cal them, of my own to suspect that they might be real. But I didn’t want to admit it out loud to him—because then I’d have to face it. And I desperately wanted to be regular, like my parents had always told me I was. I’d never had any trouble thinking of myself that way until right now. I did not want to be different, especial y not in this weird way.

“They were no trick, El ie. You are different. We are different.”

“We are not. I don’t know how you did what you did, but there’s nothing different about either of us.”

I felt Michael stare at me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes averted any longer. Even though it was fairly dark, I could see the startling greenness of his eyes. I refused to let them unnerve me, so I met his gaze. He released my hand. Then, very deliberately, he walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out at the ocean.

“Michael, what are you doing?” I was fuming, but I didn’t want him to do anything crazy.

Twisting toward me, he asked, “Are you so sure that your flying is just part of a dream? That you are just a regular girl?”

When I didn’t answer, Michael turned back to the sea. He stood frozen for a moment, a black silhouette against the remnants of the simmering crimson sky. For a second, I thought he wanted a moment alone, to cool off. So I walked away from him, in the direction of the car, and then turned to see if he fol owed.

But Michael hadn’t fol owed me. He hadn’t even looked back at me. Instead, in that moment, he stretched out his arms and dove off the cliff.

I lunged for him, but I was too far away. Only the precipice stopped me. Frantic, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to the very edge. I scanned the cliff and beach below, but could make out nothing but the blue-gray rocks and the white sand. And then I screamed.

Within seconds, the shock subsided and the obvious occurred to me. I needed to go back down there to search the cliff side and beach for signs of Michael. He could be hurt, or worse, given the sixty-foot drop. The very thought of “worse” started me crying. I felt so guilty, as if my lack of faith in him had pushed him over.

But tears wouldn’t bring him back. So I wiped my face and struggled to my feet. Just as I was about to head down the path, I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around, thinking that some passerby had heard my screams. I welcomed the help. But I was wrong.

Chapter Twelve

It was Michael.

Michael. Alive. Unhurt.

I could have kil ed him.

“How could you do that to me?” I yel ed.

He had the audacity to smile. “Do what? Fly?”

“Trick me!”

I spun around, away from him and toward the car. Of course he had tricked me. The pieces al fit together. He had brought me to this secluded spot with this whole scheme mapped out to make me believe some crazy fantasy about our shared “difference,” whatever that was. And as a last-ditch attempt to convince me, he staged a “flight,” real y a premeditated jump into some cliff-side niche he obviously knew wel , fol owed by a

“magical” reappearance. Why he had gone to al the trouble, I didn’t know. Clearly, he didn’t need to resort to sleight of hand to get me.

“Boy, this sure isn’t going the way I’d hoped,” I heard him mutter to himself.

I kept walking.

“El ie, it was no trick. Surely you must know that the only way I’d survive a leap like that is by flying. I thought you needed to see the truth to believe what I’ve been tel ing you.”

I stood by the passenger car door, waiting for him to open the lock with his keys. I didn’t look at him or speak. I could see that any effort would be of no use; he was going to stick with his story regardless. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit alone in a car with him, but I had no choice. I wanted to go home.

He kept on trying to explain himself—“ourselves,” he kept repeating—on the ride. But I literal y couldn’t hear him. I clung to my anger at him as a way of blocking him out. Of blocking out whatever feelings I stil had for him and whatever truth might lie deep within his words.

I didn’t bother to say good-bye as I got out of the car. Instead, I ran to my front door and closed it behind me. The compulsion to race up the stairs to my bedroom and bury myself under my quilt was strong. I just wanted to forget—about the night, about Michael, about al the weirdness—and awaken to a fresh, new day. But my parents were waiting for me in the kitchen.

“Where have you been, El speth?” my dad asked in an alarmed voice I’d never heard from him before. And he used “El speth”—which he never, ever did.

“At the library.”

“Real y?” Now it was my mom’s turn to use a total y foreign, troubled tone.

“Real y.”

“Is there anything you want to tel us, El speth?” It was my dad’s turn again.

“No,” I answered. But as I uttered my denial, I remembered that I had told them that I’d be at the library after school with Ruth. And I never cal ed Ruth to tel her that I wouldn’t be there, that I’d be with Michael instead.

I knew what my mom would say before she said it. “Then why did Ruth cal here over two hours ago looking for you—from the library?”

I gave the only excuse that I could in the circumstances, even though it created its own host of problems. “I was at the library, Mom. But with Michael, not with Ruth. And then we left to get a cup of coffee.”

“The boy from the other night? The boy from Guatemala?” my mom asked.

“Yes.”

My parents exchanged a glance I couldn’t read.

“El speth Faneuil, you explicitly told us you would be at the library with Ruth. You know better than to leave the library with someone else and not inform us. Especial y since it was with a boy we haven’t laid eyes on for three years,” my mom said, scolding me for the first time I could recal .

“I’m real y sorry. I should have cal ed you.”

“Yes, you should have. You should have turned on your cel phone, at least,” she said.

“Why didn’t you, El ie?” My dad sounded so hurt that it brought tears to my eyes, for the second time that night.

“I just forgot, Dad.”

My dad sighed. “Oh, El ie, if you only knew how important you were, you wouldn’t scare us like this or place yourself in jeopardy. You are so special, not just to us, but—” What on earth was my dad saying? Cal ing me “special” went against everything they’d taught me.

My mom uncharacteristical y interrupted him. “What Dad means is that we love you and we want you to be safe. We thought that we had fostered a trust among us, but we can see that the teenage years are putting that to the test. You are going to have to be honest with us from now on, is that clear?”

“Yes, Mom.” At that moment, I real y meant it. I’d do anything to avoid seeing that wounded look on either of their perfect faces. They looked like they’d aged ten years in that one evening.

They stood up and gave me a hug. The squeeze reminded me that my body ached in exhaustion from al the evening’s tumult. I yearned for sleep.

“Do you mind if I head up to bed?” I asked.

“Of course not, El ie.” My dad gave me a kiss good night, and then smiled. “There’s just one more thing.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“We’re going to need to reacquaint ourselves with this Michael.”

Chapter Thirteen

I expected that rest would elude me even though my body desperately craved sleep. I guessed that thoughts of Michael and the cove and his cliff-dive would prevent my eyes from closing at al . But the moment I crawled under my quilt and laid down on my pil ow, I was out.

Wel , out to this world, anyway. Instead, I entered the familiar world of my recurring dream. I awoke in that world with a stronger urge to fly than ever. The impulse propel ed me out of my bedroom window and onto my usual route. I soared through Til inghast’s old cobblestone streets with new speed and reckless abandon. Although I made the customary stop at the vil age green with its whitewashed church gaping at me like some cyclopic eye, it was quicker than ever. I had the feeling that there was somewhere else I needed to be.

Before heading to the shore like I usual y did, I fol owed the blue light coming from a house near the beach. From my last dream, I knew this was Michael’s house. Although I remembered what had gone on between us earlier that day in the real world, the knowledge did not lessen my desire to see him in this dreamscape. I didn’t feel mad at him anymore, just peaceful and excited to be with him.

I went immediately to the second floor bedroom where the light came from—Michael’s bedroom. As before, he sat at his desk, staring out at the sea, his blond hair bright against the darkness. I flew close to his window, but unlike my last dream, the wind didn’t compete for my attention to Michael. I reached out my hand for him.

This time, Michael saw me. He stretched out his arm and clasped my hand with his. With that motion, he lifted out of his window and floated in the air by my side. It al seemed so natural and effortless that we didn’t even need to speak. We smiled at each other and set out.

At first, we just flew around the sleeping streets of Til inghast. Darting in between stores and homes and campus buildings, we reveled in the experience of flying together. He pushed me to climb higher, and I dared him to race me down the streets. We laughed at the sheer thril of it, and I wished that real life could be this easy.

But then Michael took my hand and led me away from Til inghast toward the coast. In my dreams, I’d often flown along the shore, but Michael guided me on a route unknown to me. I gaped in awe as we sped past huge razor-edged rocks and pebbly sand beaches and enormous white-capped ocean waves.

And then he stopped. As I peered down, I realized that I had been here before—by car earlier in the day. We had arrived at the cliff overlooking Ransom Beach.

Slowly, we lowered ourselves to the ground. I studied the setting. It was the darkest hour of the night and the moon was only a quarter ful , yet I could see every rock and every blade of grass as if it were midday. Better, in fact. I was real y starting to like this dream world.

Even though standing on that flat cliff top reminded me of my earlier anger and fear, it didn’t shake the sense of calm and delight that pervaded this idyl ic dream. I was curiously detached from my rage. Real life only crept in for a moment as I silently wished I could bottle the peace and use it whenever Piper and Missy real y got to me.

Michael strode to the very edge of the cliff. Strangely, I felt compel ed to join him. As I walked toward him, my feet felt heavy, almost leaden, after the ease and lightness of flying. Michael smiled at me, as if he understood that walking had become foreign to me after al the flying, and offered his arm. I grabbed on to it tightly and fol owed him back to the precipice. Somehow I knew what we were about to do, and I welcomed it.

We stretched out our arms and dove.

The wind whipped against my face as we plunged headlong down the sixty-foot cliff face. Jagged rocks and smooth-edged boulders whizzed right past me, but I wasn’t scared; I was exhilarated. Anyway, I knew that, if it got to be too much, I could always wake up.

Just before we hit the sand headfirst, we leveled off. We floated down the remaining few inches and landed feetfirst in the cove, our hands stil locked together. In the hazy moonlight, the white sand of the cove shimmered against the blackness of the sea. I was so happy Michael had brought me back to Ransom Beach. It occurred to me that perhaps that had been his intention earlier that day—to share this beautiful spot with me.

“It was my intention. In part.” He spoke as if answering my thoughts. Or had I said my thoughts aloud?

“I realize that now. I am so sorry that I got mad and cut our visit short.”

“Don’t be sorry, El ie. It’s my fault. I had another intention, one you weren’t ready for.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to show you something. But it was too much, too soon.”

I didn’t respond. I knew what he was going to say next, but I didn’t want him to say it. I wanted to remain in this tranquil moment, happy with Michael and this place. But I knew he couldn’t let it go—wouldn’t let it go—once he started, and I knew his words would shatter the serenity.

“I wanted to show you what we are.”

I shook my hand free of his. “Michael, I told you already. There’s nothing to show.”

“El ie, think about it. The flying, the insights we have about others, and the power of blood. Especial y the blood.”

I felt myself getting mad at him again. “And exactly what does this bizarre equation equal?”

“I think—” He stopped as if the words were hard, even for him. “I think that we’re vampires.”

Even I hadn’t guessed his ludicrous theory, and I was torn between laughing and hitting him. I opted for laughing. “Come on, Michael, that’s ridiculous. And anyway, this is just a dream.”

“This isn’t a dream, El ie. Don’t you remember the apple tree leaf caught in your hair from your last ‘dream’?”

I didn’t want to hear any more, so I wil ed myself to wake up. The cove started to blur, and I could feel myself fade away.

Before I total y disappeared, I heard Michael cal out. His voice was muffled and faint as if from a far distance, but I swear he said, “When you leave your house tomorrow morning for school, I promise that I’l be waiting for you. That way you’l know that this is not a dream.”

Chapter Fourteen

I sat up in my bed. The quilt slipped off my shoulders, but sun streamed through my bedroom windows and warmed me up. The clock flashed seven A .M. Only twenty minutes to get ready before my mom drove me to school, so I had to move fast. I was glad I didn’t have too much time to think.

Racing around, I washed my face and brushed my hair. I threw on some blush and mascara and pul ed my hair back in a ponytail. Jeans and a sweater would have to suffice, since I didn’t have the luxury of rifling through my closet for something more interesting. I could already hear my mom cal ing up to me.

Wheat toast with raspberry jam sat waiting for me on the kitchen table, along with a tal glass of orange juice. My mom hurried me along as she did every other morning; she liked to be in her office first thing. She didn’t mention the lie about the library, and I felt relieved that she didn’t seem upset anymore. We each grabbed our bags and headed for the front door.

Just before she pul ed the door open, I realized that I had left my English paper on the desk in my bedroom. I told her that I’d meet her in the car, and I ran upstairs to grab the paper. As I dashed back down the steps, I heard voices on the front porch. I opened the front door to see my mom chatting away—with Michael.

I stopped. Why was he here? I spotted the gift basket in his hands, and I surmised that this was a peace offering for his stunt—a way of buttering up my parents. Michael’s outfit—parent-friendly khakis and a rugby shirt—confirmed my suspicions, and made me wish I’d had more than twenty minutes to get myself ready.

My mom turned to me. “Look, dearest, your friend Michael brought us a present. Homemade breads.” To him, she probably sounded sweet, but I knew from the cold way she said “your friend” that the bread hadn’t won her over. She knew that it was I who had acted badly last night—not Michael

—but I’m sure she blamed him in part, for being a bad influence. My mom was way tougher than she looked, way tougher than my dad, in fact. “You must have been up al night making these. After al , you guys got back pretty late from the library.” The last dig was for both our benefits.

Michael didn’t look in my direction, but kept his focus on my mom. “Mrs. Faneuil, I have to confess that the present real y comes from my mother.

She said that I should deliver it to you with her regards.”

“How nice of her. Please pass along my thanks.” She paused. “And please tel her that we should get together soon. It’s been a long, long time.”

“I’l do that. In fact, she mentioned the same thing. That it’s been too long.”

Deftly, Michael turned the talk to our time together in Guatemala. I listened as they recal ed people and events on which I drew a complete blank.

He and I had talked about the gaps in my memory, so I didn’t feel uncomfortable with their conversation, even though it was stil troubling. My mom glanced at her watch abruptly and said we should al get going.

Final y, Michael seemed to remember me. He asked, “Mrs. Faneuil, do you mind if I take El ie to school?”

She paused for a split second that no one but me would have noticed. “No, that’s fine. Just be careful with our El ie.”

How embarrassing. “Oh, Mom—”

Michael interrupted me. “I promise, Mrs. Faneuil.”

My mom gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and watched as Michael opened the passenger door for me. I slid inside and waited for him, unsure what to say when he closed his door and we were alone.

Once he got in, he leaned over to give me a kiss. His audacity brought the right words to my lips. I wrenched away and said, “Nice move, Michael. Did you think that I’d forget to be mad about the stunt you pul ed yesterday just because you brought some bread for my mom?”

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.

A tap sounded on his window. We jumped apart, and stared out. It was Mr. Morgans, the phys ed teacher, motioning that the bel was about to ring.

Chapter Fifteen

Michael and I raced to our respective classes, but not before I agreed to meet him back at his car at the end of the day. The bel finished ringing before I made it to Miss Taunton’s classroom, and she wasn’t about to let me get away with sneaking in the door.

“Miss Faneuil, you know my rules about tardiness. You owe me a ten-page biography of Jane Austen.”

My jaw dropped; she must have been in a real y bad mood because her punishments were usual y in the five-page range. My astonished expression didn’t escape Miss Taunton.

“You don’t like that assignment, Miss Faneuil? You are welcome to detention instead.”

I rushed to accept the lighter sentence. I could just imagine the look in my parents’ eyes if they learned that Michael delivered me late to school to the tune of detention. “No, no, Miss Taunton. I’m happy to learn more about Jane Austen.”

“Good, Miss Faneuil, so am I. I’m sure you’l dazzle me with some esoteric piece of information about one of my favorite writers. Now class, let’s hear from . . .”

As I walked to my seat in the back of the classroom, I caught Ruth’s sympathetic eye. I couldn’t imagine how I’d dredge up fresh biographical details about one of the world’s most written-about authors, but I had more pressing concerns. Michael and our “gifts,” to name a couple.

After I slid into my chair and unzipped my bag, my cel phone quietly vibrated with a text message. The rare occurrence intrigued me; maybe it was Michael. I created a barrier with my bag so I could glance at it. Nothing made Miss Taunton more furious than students checking their cel phones.

I scrol ed to the text: sorry with a sad face. It was from Ruth.

I was confused. Looking to make sure that Miss Taunton was safely engrossed in gril ing another student, I answered. Why? The Austen bio?

The cel vibrated back. No. Your parents.

Oh, no. Between the confusion of the dream and Michael’s unexpected visit this morning, I’d completely forgotten about Ruth’s cal to my parents last night. I felt terrible. Why should she feel bad about cal ing my house when I was the one who didn’t give her the heads-up about meeting Michael? I wrote back: My fault. I’m sorry.

Risking Miss Taunton’s wrath, Ruth turned around in her seat and smiled to show that al was wel . It made me feel even worse, like I’d betrayed my own family. For years, Ruth and I had shared everything with each other. In the absence of other siblings, we’d become like sisters, with my mom even playing the role of mother to Ruth when she needed it. I should be begging forgiveness for keeping secrets and using Ruth as a cover for my date with Michael. Not vice versa.

Worse, I’d have to continue keeping secrets from her. How could I tel her about the flying and the flashes I got about people? Or the way blood affected me? With good reason, she’d run off to my parents, and they’d have me committed. No, I’d have to explore this with Michael alone, while I spun a fairy tale for Ruth about the normal side of my relationship with him.

Miss Taunton’s voice grew shril as she subjected a poor junior named Jamie and his “inadequate” assessment of Jane Austen to her scrutiny. I reached for my bag to slip my cel phone back inside, when it dawned on me that I might have a few free minutes while Miss Taunton continued with her tirade. Yielding to temptation, I searched Wikipedia for “vampire.”

I scrol ed through the long entry, and other than some terrifying definitions of blood-sucking, death-dealing vampires, I didn’t find any descriptions that sounded like Michael or me. Relief coursed through me; maybe Michael was wrong.

The name Professor Raymond McMaster was quoted extensively on the page. There was a link to the Harvard University webpage with his bio.

He was an expert in the history of vampires and other supernatural beings. Some of his academic papers sounded interesting, and I was about to click onto “In search of the real Dracula” when I heard my name.

“Miss Faneuil, am I boring you?”

My head snapped up. Miss Taunton marched toward me. I scrambled to hide the phone under the mound of papers I’d scattered on my desktop.

On top, I placed the paper due. She stopped within inches of me and waited for my answer while the class held its col ective breath.

“Of course not. I was just rereading the paper we’re turning in today.”

Miss Taunton looked over my shoulder at the paper in my hand, smiled, and lunged for it. Her hand brushed against mine, and I received a very intense flash. I was in a fussy, formal-looking living room, complete with lace doilies on the end tables and cloyingly flowery wal paper. For a second, I was disoriented, but then I caught a look in a mirror facing the couch on which I sat. Miss Taunton stared out at me. On her lap was a copy of Wuthering Heights. Tears streamed down her face. She was about to turn the page when I heard my name: “El ie Faneuil.”

The sad image faded, and I found myself staring right into Miss Taunton’s eyes. I nearly wanted to reach over and pat her hand—her life was that pitiful, that macabre—but then she gave me a sick grin. My stomach lurched, and she said, “Thank you for returning to us, Miss Faneuil. I can see how this paper would be far more interesting than what I have to say about Jane Austen. Why don’t you read your paper aloud to the class, since it appears to be so mesmerizing?”

I rose from my chair, ready to be humiliated. My paper was titled “Sex in Pride and Prejudice.”

One positive emerged from my mortification in English class. It wiped clean from Ruth’s mind the incident from Sunday night. Loyal friend that she was, she stepped forward to defend the teasing I took from my classmates right afterward. By lunchtime, the story had spread to Missy, Piper, and their lesser lights, and Ruth stood up for me with them, too. No one wanted to believe that I used the word “sex” in the title to denote “gender,” no matter how many times Ruth explained it or the fact that they actual y heard me read the paper.

I couldn’t wait for the school day to end, even though the afternoon presented its own chal enges. Merciful y alone, I walked to the stil -empty back lot where we’d parked. There stood Michael. He pul ed a bunch of perfect red tulips from behind his back and handed them to me.

“Thank you. They’re so pretty. Where did you get them?” I asked. They hardly sold flowers in the cafeteria.

“I can fly, can’t I?”

I was horrified, and my face must have shown it.

He pul ed me into his chest. “I’m sorry, El ie. I was joking. I drove to the florist shop right down the road.”

“Thank goodness.” I stayed buried in his chest.

“I figured you needed them today.”

I looked up into his face. “Oh, no, you heard about English.”

Michael winced. “I think everyone heard.”

I groaned and buried my head in my hands. “It real y was nothing like everyone is saying,” I said, suddenly more embarrassed. At his mischievous smile, I groaned again. “I’l never live this down.”

“I have a plan that might take your mind off of it,” he said, and opened the car door for me.

As I climbed in, I asked warily, “What’s this plan?”

“I think it’s time we practiced your flying.”

Chapter Sixteen

Michael didn’t mean that we should take off right there and then. Instead, he took me home, came inside to say hel o to my mom, who’d just arrived from work, and stayed to make smal talk with her before heading home to do his schoolwork. He did al the things you’d expect from a new boyfriend—except for the plan to meet me at my bedroom window at midnight.

Dinner dragged on and on that night. My parents mentioned Michael a few times, but I was relieved that they seemed appeased by his visits that morning and afternoon. Mostly, I felt antsy; I just wanted to get up to my room and get ready for him. It was amazing that I was so wil ing to indulge in our strange abilities. I hated being the odd one out. I hated these “gifts” as Michael cal ed them. Until I met him. Whatever these powers were, not having to face them alone was the gift. And tonight we were going to fly together, while wide awake. No more hiding in dreams.

By the time my clock signaled twelve, I had been sitting at my window seat in the dark for nearly a half an hour. I had chosen sweats that could pass for pajamas should I run into my parents before I left, and I had stuffed my bed with pil ows to make it look like I was in there asleep. Staring out the window, I wil ed Michael to appear.

But when he final y arrived, nothing could quite prepare me for the sight of his face floating outside my window. With his blond hair looming white against the black night and his wide grin resembling a jack-o’-lantern’s smile, I stifled a scream. Breathing deeply to slow my racing heart, I unlatched the window and prayed that the creaky old windowpanes wouldn’t wake up my parents.

“Ready?” Michael asked.

I nodded, even though I was terrified. He stuck his hand through the opening and motioned for me to take hold. My hand was shaking, but I grasped on to him.

Taking a leap of faith like no other, I let Michael wrap his arm around my waist and lift me through the window and into the air. We hovered two stories over the ground, and I clung to his arm like a life preserver. Even though I’d flown before, I’d always believed it to be dream—with no fears, no repercussions. Michael was right; once I understood that it wasn’t a dream, everything changed. This experience was entirely different, almost hyper-real.

“Are you al right?” he whispered to me.

Stil clinging to his arm, I whispered back, “I think so.”

“Okay, let’s go.” He pul ed me tighter and we took off.

I wondered where we were headed, but I couldn’t look. Instead, I buried my face in his shoulder. Sensing and hearing the wind as our speed increased, I could barely make out his words. “El ie, you should real y open your eyes. It’s an amazing view.”

I shook my head. Michael wound his other arm around me.

Other than the wind, we flew in silence. My body began to remember how to fly, and I could feel my shoulders expand and my legs streamline. But then my mind took hold—fear permeated my thoughts—and Michael had to carry me along.

We slowed, and I could feel Michael lower us toward the ground. I peeked out through my formerly hermetical y sealed eyes and gasped. We were stil a good forty feet off the ground. How high had we been flying? I vowed to keep my eyes shut until I could actual y feel the earth beneath my feet.

With a thud, we hit land. Michael removed his arm, and dizzily I fel to the soft grass-covered ground. Rushing to my side, he helped me up with a joke. “You’d think you’ve never flown before.”

I laughed. “I haven’t. Not awake, anyway.”

“You were awake, you just didn’t know it.”

“I think that’s the problem tonight. I know I’m not sleeping.”

I stood up and looked around, my eyes able to see the finest details of the landscape. We were in a flat open field ringed by fir trees. The place seemed safe and secluded, the perfect spot for a first flying date. The very thought gave me pause; what was happening to my life?

“Should we start?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, even though I real y didn’t want to try. Not only was I scared, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself any further in front of Michael.

He said, “When I was first trying, I found it easier to start high and dive down, rather than lift off from the ground. Unfortunately, we don’t have that option tonight. This is real y the only secure area for practice.”

Michael lined me up in front of him. Straightening both of my arms, he positioned them above my head. Then he whispered, “Relax,” and stepped back to watch.

I felt like a dork. At first, I could not rise off the grass. But then I fol owed Michael’s advice; I closed my eyes and envisioned myself ascending. I tried to stop analyzing my every move and summon up the sensation from my dreams. With a lurch, my feet lifted up, and I started to fly.

The feeling was different from my dreams, more halting and awkward. A sensation I knew al too wel from my daytime life. My instincts competed for my attention, begging me to lengthen my arms and legs as I swooped through the air. When I surrendered to my impulses, I recaptured some of the grace from my “dream” flying.

I began to enjoy myself. I climbed and plunged through the night sky like it was my playground. As I made one particularly steep dive, I noticed Michael on the field below watching me. Instead of sweeping back up before I got too close, I decided to land next to him.

But I didn’t quite know how to touch down softly. I landed on my bottom, knocking Michael down in the process. Laying there in the field, we burst into hysterical laughter. I started to wipe my tears away and sit up when he pul ed me back down. He kissed me with such force it took my breath away.

I forgot al about the flying and the field. I yielded to his hands as they ran up and down my arms and legs, tracing circles wherever they went. I submitted to his tongue as it explored my lips and mouth and neck with the lightest touch. And then I tasted the blood.

I felt the blood—his blood—course through me. It burned like the wine I’d snuck once at a wedding, making me feel weak and invincible at once.

As the blood surged through me, a breathtaking image seared my consciousness.

He broke away. “Tel me what you saw.”

A tiny droplet of blood remained on my lip. I licked it before answering. I wanted more.

With effort, I said, “I saw a beautiful winged woman.”

“Winged?” Michael looked confused.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the image more clearly. “Wel , she didn’t have wings exactly. More like two arcs of light behind her shoulders.”

He nodded, as if that made more sense. “Did you recognize her?”

I suddenly realized who she was. “Yes, it was me.”

He smiled. “Do you believe me now that we are special?”

“Yes.” I did, even though it went against my parents’ teachings. Whether it was the heady influence of the blood or the flying or merely his proximity, it didn’t matter. I believed him.

Michael kissed me again. I could feel myself being overtaken by him. But a tiny, nagging question stood in the way of being total y engulfed by him. I broke away. “How did you discover the way blood affected you? I would never have known unless you showed me.”

Even though it was real y dark, my newly sharp eyesight al owed me to see him blush. “I took this girl to the junior prom last year, when we lived in Pittsburgh.”

“Yes?” I recoiled a little.

“Wel , we kissed at the end of the night and her tongue got cut by my teeth. You know how sharp they are—”

“Yes, I do.” I felt sick at the thought of Michael kissing another girl.

“I got the strongest sensation from it, much more powerful than anything I’d seen by touch. I learned something real y disturbing about her childhood, something she had never told anyone.”

“What was it?”

He hesitated. “Her dad used to hit her mom. They got divorced when she was little, but I got these real y clear images from her childhood. I felt so uncomfortable that I couldn’t even look her in the eye afterward.”

“I’m sorry I made you tel me.” Although I wasn’t sorry that he couldn’t bear to be around her after the incident.

He hugged me. “Don’t apologize, El ie. It’s critical that we tel each other everything. Even real y unpleasant things, okay?”

“Okay.” I paused, weighing whether I should share my “unpleasant” speculation with him. There would never be a better time. “Then I should probably tel you that I think your vampire theory is off the mark. I did a little research, and I don’t think we fit the bil of straight-from-the-grave, bloodsucking ghouls. We must be something else.”

He grew quiet. “We don’t have to resemble movie-character vampires to qualify, El ie. We fly, and I don’t think you can deny the unique sway of blood over us. I don’t know how the whole ‘flash’ thing fits in, but real y, what else could we be?”

I had no idea, but from Michael’s tone, I could tel he didn’t want an argument. I kept quiet. I didn’t want to taint the magic of the night with the questions about our nature.

His tone softened, and he squeezed me tight. “Anyway, what does it matter? We have each other, and we’re the same. Whatever we are.” He gave me a mischievous smile. “Even if I stil think we’re vampires.”

In a way, he was right about it not mattering. Soon enough, we’d have to figure out who—or what—we were. So I relaxed into his arms and let my questions rest. For the moment, I al owed myself to just be, whatever I was—with Michael.

Chapter Seventeen

I did transform, though the change did not happen overnight. I discovered that, as I acknowledged the existence of my powers to myself, they grew.

A new El ie struggled to come into being sooner than I imagined possible, one that liked the gifts—the differences—that surged beneath the surface. Almost as if she’d been sleeping for a long, long time and had final y awakened.

At first, I managed to keep the two parts—the powerful nighttime self and the ordinary daytime self—completely separate. But then, my nocturnal side began to creep into the day. As I walked down the school hal ways, I felt the power race through my fingertips, and a war began to simmer beneath my seemingly normal surface. I knew I had the ability to see the other kids’ true identities and darkest secrets—and I itched to do it.

Sometimes, it was al I could do to stop myself from reaching out and touching them, even helping them with their secret problems. Was this compulsion part of whatever I was? It was heady, tempting stuff, and I could barely maintain the facade of the old El ie.

But I had to keep up appearances; otherwise my dual existence would unravel. This meant stopping for coffee with Ruth and having dinner with my parents, as wel as paying attention in class and laboring at my homework. As if nothing had changed. Even though I’d tried to keep my normal routines with Ruth—lunch every day, coffee after school on Fridays, even the Odeon—I knew that the veneer wasn’t without cracks. I had a whole life with Michael from midnight to five A.M.—not to mention a whole new secret self—and it made regular activities chal enging, to say the least. The role-playing made me feel exhausted and conflicted, particularly around Ruth, with whom I’d vowed to share everything.

One morning, after the ongoing torture of Miss Taunton’s class, I stopped in the bathroom on the way to calculus. I needed a minute alone to compose myself.

The bathroom looked empty, but as I washed my hands, I thought I heard an odd noise in the back stal . I turned off the water and waited a minute in silence. The total quiet made me doubt myself. I reached for the faucet to finish cleaning up when I heard a stifled sob.

The girl must have thought the stil ness signaled my departure, because the stal door slammed open a second later. Out stepped Piper.

I was so shocked to see a pretty, popular girl crying in the school bathroom stal that I froze. Girls like her never showed weakness, at least not during school. When I final y regained my composure, my compassion, and my manners, I asked, “Are you al right, Piper? Here, let me get you something.” I rushed over to the paper towel dispenser. Although Piper and I usual y ignored each other in school, we had long maintained a civil, albeit secretive, relationship outside of it.

The typical school Piper resurfaced, and she waved her hand dismissively as if I was her servant. “No, no, El ie. I’m fine. I’ve just got something in my eye.” I hated it when she reverted to her school behavior, as if I didn’t know the other side of her.

I caught a glimpse of her in the bathroom mirror as she patted down her face. A wayward eyelash could not possibly explain her swol en eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and blotchy nose. If it had been any of her jerky friends, for whom I couldn’t muster up a shred of sympathy, I might have laughed at the lame excuse. But I couldn’t mock Piper under the circumstances.

“Come on, Piper. You look real y upset. Can I do anything to help?”

She stopped her ministrations and gave me a cold, hard stare. “Yes, you can.”

“What can I do?”

“Don’t tel anyone that you saw me in here crying.” And with that command, she pul ed out her makeup bag and started to powder her mottled face.

“Tel who? Ruth?”

“I don’t care about Ruth.” She waved her hand dismissively. Then her voice changed. “But everyone knows that you and Michael Chase are seeing each other. Don’t tel him, okay? He knows a lot of the guys. He could real y spread it around if he wanted to.”

Piper wouldn’t care so much if her friends weren’t the source of her tears. I was real y curious to know what they did to cow the indomitable Piper.

“Don’t worry, Piper. I won’t mention it to him or anyone else,” I lied. Then I handed her the paper towel I’d grabbed, brushing my fingers up against her hand ever so slightly.

The flash hit me hard. I saw Missy just inches from Piper’s face, as if I were Piper. Missy was screaming, her expression venomous. I felt Piper cringe in terror as words lashed out of Missy’s mouth like a whip.

“Who do you think you are? How dare you mess with my plans?” Missy shrieked.

“I’m sorry, Missy. I just think that we might be going too far,” Piper said. I sensed that it was real y tough for Piper to disagree with Missy, but for once, she felt compel ed to take a stand.

Piper shuddered as the malicious look faded from Missy’s face, only to be replaced by a smile. It seemed that she feared a grinning Missy more than an overtly malevolent one. “Real y? Too far?” Missy asked, mocking her.

“Yes,” Piper said, although her voice was weakening.

Missy kept smiling and started to circle Piper slowly, like a hawk about to attack its prey. There was someone else standing behind Missy, but I couldn’t see who it was. Because Piper didn’t dare take her eyes off Missy. “It suddenly occurred to me that you might be a better subject for my plan than the person I original y picked,” Missy final y said.

“Me?” Piper had to work hard to keep her voice steady.

Missy stopped circling and got right into Piper’s face. “Yes, you.”

I could feel Piper’s heart race. “I was wrong, Missy. Your plan is perfect just the way it is. Let’s go ahead with it.”

Missy’s threatening smile became a triumphant one, and she beamed it at Piper and the shadowy figure behind her. “I knew you’d see reason.

We’l start tonight.”

Piper stared down at the floor, feeling sick and scared. Even though she didn’t look up, she could see Missy rejoin the person at the back and walk with him—I could tel it was a him from his shoes—toward the door. As the mystery guy passed Piper, he reached out and ran a finger along her shoulder. I felt Piper shudder with a strange mix of revulsion and desire.

The image faded, and I returned to the bathroom. I was stil standing there with my hand outstretched, having just given Piper the paper towel.

Only a second had passed, but it felt like hours. We turned our attention to the mirror, standing next to each as if nothing had happened. Just two girls fixing their hair and makeup. It was surreal.

I watched Piper check me out. “You look good, El ie.”

“Thanks,” I said and glanced at myself in the mirror. Instead of my typical jeans and T-shirt, I was wearing a printed top and skinny black pants that somehow worked. Michael’s encouragement and my own increasing self-confidence had emboldened me to try out some new looks. I stil felt awkward, but I liked Michael’s reaction. The clothes seemed to suit my new self a little better.

“Michael has changed you for the better.”

I smiled. He had affected me, but not in the way she imagined. “I’l be sure to tel him.” I zipped up my bag, ready to leave the bathroom.

Piper shot me one last imploring look before I left. The mask slipped, and she showed her neighbor face, rather than her school face. “Please, El ie, don’t tel anyone what you saw in here.”

If she only knew what I saw.

Chapter Eighteen

The flash plagued me al day at school, even driving out my usual temptations to read the other kids. By the time my painful after-school meeting with Miss Taunton was over, I practical y ran to the Daily Grind to meet Ruth. I figured that she might have heard something about Missy and Piper’s plan, and I itched to learn more.

In my haste to open the coffee shop door, I nearly crashed into the back of a man who walked in just before me. As I started to apologize, he turned around to face me. He had blond hair and bright blue eyes, and wore a sweater and jeans. But his age confused me; he wasn’t an old man exactly, but he seemed a lot older than the teenage guys who hung around the Daily Grind. Maybe he was a col ege student. I couldn’t deny that the man, or kid, was handsome, but there was an unsettling quality to his attractiveness. I found him appealing and repel ent at once. Particularly when he smiled a strange, bemused smile at me in forgiveness for my clumsiness.

Unnerved, I eked out one more “I’m sorry,” and raced over to the table where Ruth waited with my latte. I was worried that she’d notice how flustered I was, but she was utterly preoccupied by the upcoming Fal Dance. Jamie from English had asked her—the Jamie I’d seen Ruth fantasize about in that one flash—so the four of us were going together. I sipped my coffee and listened to Ruth chat away, while I waited for my heart to stop racing from my peculiar little encounter.

“So are we going shopping for your dress this weekend?” I asked, grateful for the coffee. I needed the caffeine; the late nights were taking their tol .

She smiled. “Yes, I can’t wait. I’ve been looking through magazines for ideas. I even found something perfect for you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s in this real y cool blue color that’l look great with your eyes.”

I hadn’t wanted to tel Ruth, but I already had my dress. One day after school, Michael and I passed the only real y nice boutique in Til inghast, and he practical y dragged me in. He stood outside the dressing room while I tried on six dresses he picked out. I refused to leave the room to let him see me in any of the first five. But when I slipped on the last one, a red strapless silk dress with shirring around the bodice, I couldn’t stay in that room. I looked and felt so different, but I wasn’t certain. I needed Michael to be my reflection.

When I stepped out into the store, Michael’s reaction told me it was the one. As I stood in front of the ful -length mirror, he came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, and whispered. Sitting there at the table with Ruth, I almost shivered thinking about what he said: “You look as beautiful as when you fly.”

Ruth paused for a second, and I figured I had my opening to ask about the flash from Piper. Discreetly, of course.

“Have you heard any gossip about Missy or Piper lately?” I figured if anyone knew about the plan outside the inner circle, it would be Ruth. Her unassuming exterior masked an insatiably curious mind and provided the perfect cover for some adept eavesdropping. I knew I could have just touched her to see if she had any information, but I’d learned that it was impossible to act normal y around her if I read her thoughts. So I continued to abstain from reading Ruth.

“No, other than the normal junk about boyfriends and parties. Why do you ask? You usual y don’t care.”

“I overheard something about some plan of theirs. It sounded like it might be nasty.”

“A plan from those two? Who did you hear talking?”

How could I explain my source? For about the mil ionth time, I felt guilty about keeping secrets from her. I scrounged around for an explanation, and said something close to the truth: “I was in the bathroom, and I heard two girls talking by the sink.”

“Did you recognize the voices at al ?”

“It sounded a little bit like Piper and Missy.”

“I’l keep my ears open.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know why I cared. After al , Piper’s problems were her own, and she’d never reach out to help me. But since I’d acknowledged my gifts, I’d been experiencing this overwhelming Good Samaritan impulse, and the flash I experienced with Piper left me with the desire to swoop in and help out this unknown victim.

“Although seriously, El ie, I don’t think I’l hear anything. Piper and Missy don’t have the brains.”

I was about to disagree—maybe Piper and Missy couldn’t take the heat of an AP class but they were no dummies in the scheming department—

when she blurted out, “Is everything al right, El ie?”

It was the question I’d been dreading. I real y hated to lie to Ruth outright. “Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?”

“You seem so distant sometimes.”

“I’m real y sorry, Ruth. It’s just that—” I started to trot out the excuse I’d prepared just for this occasion, when Ruth’s attention drifted off. She was staring at something or someone behind me. Wondering if she was trying to demonstrate just how inattentive I’d become, I twisted around to fol ow her gaze.

She openly gawked at a guy sitting in the red club chair in the corner of the coffee shop—the guy I’d nearly crashed into when I walked in. From afar, he appeared even cuter, since the distance muted the whole disconcerting quality. He held a cup of coffee and a newspaper like most of the other people in the store, but somehow they looked like movie props and his clothes looked like a costume. Because he was far too good-looking for Til inghast.

I spun back to Ruth to discuss him, and realized that she would disagree with any observation of him I might have. He mesmerized her. I literal y had to snap my fingers and cal her name before she tore her eyes away from him. And when she did, I was thankful he’d visited our coffee shop rather than the Starbucks across the street, whatever lingering eeriness I felt about him. Because the very presence of this strange man made Ruth forget al about her question.

Chapter Nineteen

That night, Michael and I lay in our field, spent from flying along the coast. My head rested on Michael’s arm as we stared up at the night sky. The grass was springy and soft after a light afternoon rain, almost as if we’d spread out a blanket. I felt so peaceful that I didn’t want to bring up my flash with Piper. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“What’s wrong, El ie?”

Clearly my attempts to act normal weren’t working.

“I had this real y weird flash today, and I just can’t shake it.”

“What was it?”

I told him every detail of the vision I could remember. The exchange between Missy and Piper. The references to a plan. The strange guy lurking in the background. The fear that Piper experienced.

Michael listened careful y, and then asked, “Of al the flashes you’ve had, why should this one affect you so much?”

His reaction disappointed me; he didn’t seem particularly moved. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I expected him to feel everything I felt. We were alike in so many ways.

“I don’t know. But I feel like I need to find out more and do something.”

He twirled a strand of my black hair in his fingers and then sighed. “Why, El ie? They’re such jerks. You don’t need to rescue Piper from anything.”

“It’s not Piper that I plan on rescuing. It’s the victim.”

“That’s very noble, El ie. But we’re not superheroes.”

I sat up. Michael had pul ed me away kicking and screaming from my somewhat happy oblivion into this new existence. He basical y made me acknowledge and embrace these “differences” of ours—and now he wanted me to ignore the impulse to help that came along with some of the flashes. This one especial y. “No, Michael, we’re not superheroes. But we’re something more than regular humans.”

“I know. But I don’t see why that obliges us to fly in and clean up whatever mess Missy and Piper are making.”

“Michael, I can’t ignore this compulsion to get involved. Don’t you ever feel it?” I had just assumed that he did. I’d never felt the urge to assist so intensely before, but I did experience it from time to time when a classmate transmitted a particularly troubling image to me.

“A little, I guess.”

“Ever since we started”—I gestured around the field—“al this, I’ve been getting the strong feeling that we should use our gifts for something other than our own entertainment. Like helping the people whose minds we read. Do you ever get that sensation?”

He paused for a second. I saw his hand reaching out to stroke mine, but I drew back a little. I didn’t want this conversation to be tainted by his touch; I was just too susceptible. “I guess I’ve been so wrapped up in you that I haven’t let those thoughts get much play,” he said.

For al my efforts to keep a physical distance, I felt like melting. Here was the guy of my dreams tel ing me that I so distracted him he couldn’t see straight. How could I be irritated with him? Especial y since I felt the same way.

Stil , I wanted him on board with me. Not just about this Piper and Missy incident. I wanted him to feel what I felt. And given al my parents’ training about helping out mankind, I was more than a little disappointed that he didn’t.

“If you did think about this idea—that we have some kind of obligation to others because of our differences—what would you think?”

Even in the darkness of the moonless night, I could see Michael smile at me. “I’ve never heard of do-gooder vampires,” he joked, to which I rol ed my eyes. “What would I think?” he continued. “I’l tel you what I do think. I think that I’m lucky that you are sharing this experience with me. And I think that I’l help you. Because, even though I don’t care about Piper and Missy, I care about you.”

I curled into the crook of his arm, and whispered, “Thank you.”

We talked for a moment about a game plan for gathering information and then Michael whispered, “El ie?”

“Yes?” I answered. His tone was so silky and inviting that I figured he was going to kiss me. He usual y did at the end of the night. But I was always careful to stop it there; those first experiences kissing him real y shook me up, and I didn’t want to lose control.

His lips tickled my cheek, and his sweet breath warmed me. I turned my face toward his, ready.

In that same honeyed voice, he said, “You know if we used their blood, we could find out nearly anything.”

“Michael,” I said in frustration. He knew how I felt about the whole blood thing. And anyway, I wanted a kiss, not another argument on this topic.

“Come on, El ie. It’d be a chance to try out its power.”

Other than those first few, unplanned occasions, I hadn’t tried Michael’s blood. Or let him try mine. I remembered the addictive headiness of its taste al too wel , and it scared me. I was afraid that, once I started, I wouldn’t be able to turn back. But I couldn’t tel Michael that.

“No.”

“It would be for a good cause,” he said suggestively, as he traced his finger up and down my arm.

“You’l try anything to persuade me, won’t you?”

He just smiled, unable to deny it.

“Let’s see if we can’t find another way,” I said and kissed his neck very lightly.

“Now who’s being persuasive?” he said, his voice growing thick.

It was my turn to smile.

He said, “Al right, we’l try it your way first. But promise you’l just consider—”

“I promise.”

I kissed him hard. I was so relieved and happy that he was on my side for the Piper thing, I let my guard down. Within seconds, we were wrapped in each other’s arms. I felt his tongue on mine, and I surrendered to the feeling of it. He must have sensed that I wouldn’t fight him, because I soon felt a tiny cut on my tongue and tasted the blood. His and mine. Together.

The sensation was pure pleasure, unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I closed my eyes and let the bliss wash over me. Until a flash—more like a vision than a memory—came. The light was blinding; I squinted in my mind’s eye. As my vision adjusted, I saw Michael and me standing on a pristine beach of white sand, arcs of light at our backs. We looked so beautiful, so serene. And then I noticed something real y peculiar.

Emblazoned across our chests were letters, written in light. I struggled to read them, but the characters were in an unfamiliar language.

I could have lingered in the moment, but I felt Michael’s tongue graze over my teeth again and I knew he was searching for more blood. I awakened from the image, understanding that, if we continued this practice of blood sharing, we would never, ever stop.

I pushed Michael off me and sat up. I struggled to speak. “Do you understand why we can’t do this with anyone else? Why we shouldn’t even do this with each other? Do you see how you can’t stop hunting for blood once you start?”

“I do.” His breath was belabored.

“Promise me, Michael, you’l never taste anyone’s blood but mine.”

He stared into my eyes, his chest stil heaving but his gaze steady. “I promise.”

Chapter Twenty

Michael and I had agreed to divide and conquer Missy’s clique. I took Piper for obvious reasons and Missy out of guilt, since I’d instigated this whole thing. In exchange for my handling of the heavy hitters, Michael took the remaining six group members—Hal ie, Kristen, Elizabeth, Samantha, Jennifer, and Shadley. Soon we unleashed ourselves on the unsuspecting Til inghast Upper High School.

Or so we believed. We had this fantasy of sauntering in, touching them, and gathering up al their secrets. Not so, when we had specific secrets we wanted to gather.

The stars had to be perfectly aligned to learn the tiniest detail. First, we had to actual y make physical contact. Then, the person had to be thinking about the scheme at the exact moment we touched them. Final y, the flash—if we were lucky enough to get the one we sought—had to make sense.

We had learned that people’s thoughts weren’t linear, but often so disjointed and jumbled that we couldn’t understand the image.

But the most difficult part was touching them. How could we brush up against them and make it seem accidental—instead of looking like some kind of a pervert? Plus I faced an additional hurdle. Usual y, I avoided Missy and Piper at al costs. But now I had to place myself in their path in a seemingly natural way—and then find a way to touch one or both of the school’s most unapproachable junior girls. It wasn’t easy, particularly since they seemed to have abandoned their efforts to woo me.

I lingered at my locker, hoping to run into them. To no avail. I memorized their class schedules, and I shifted my route so I could bump into them.

Without success. I forced poor Ruth to have coffee at the Starbucks instead of the Daily Grind because that’s where they hung out. No sightings.

After al these weeks of trying unsuccessful y to avoid them, suddenly I couldn’t cross their paths to save my life.

Michael’s efforts were stymied as wel . While he had more luck making physical contact with the group’s minor members than I did—no surprise given that he was a cute senior guy—he couldn’t wrangle any relevant images from their minds. Whether the reason stemmed from their ignorance about the plan or the fact they weren’t thinking about it when Michael made contact, we didn’t know. But he loved to torment me a little with the description of romantic images of himself he extracted from some of their minds.

In desperation, I thought maybe I’d try the next-door neighbor gambit. I hoped beyond al hope that the friendlier version of Piper who appeared once we left school might be more amenable to my efforts. But, day after day, a solid opportunity eluded me.

One afternoon, while my mom was making cookies, I spotted my chance. Much to her astonishment, I offered to drop off a dozen at the Faireses as a “friendly” gesture. Both of Piper’s parents worked pretty long days—her mom was a secretary at the university and her dad was an associate professor of political science—and I guessed they’d stil be at work. I’d seen Piper’s car in the driveway, so I figured that I might have a few minutes alone with her.

I had no fixed game plan, but I had to try. Balancing the tinfoil-wrapped plate on my hip, I walked the short distance between our two houses. Then I lifted the ancient door knocker and let it bang down with a clang. As I’d hoped, within a few seconds, Piper opened the door.

Her mouth was wide in surprise at the sight of me on her doorstep. Since I came bearing gifts, she had no choice but to invite me in. As she held the door open for me, I grazed my finger against her forearm. Al I got was a faint image—as weak as milky tea—of her struggling over an English paper on Shakespeare. I must have interrupted her homework.

Piper ushered me into the kitchen, thanked me, and pointed to an open spot on the counter to lay the cookies. Her neighborly duty done, she pivoted and started to walk back toward the door. I was about to be discharged like a servant; apparently, friendly Piper was not going to make an appearance. Not readily, anyway.

I had to get her thinking about the plan and make contact. Fast.

“So, are you doing al right?” I asked, al concern and empathy.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Piper had a quizzical expression on her face, but it looked forced. She knew what I was talking about.

“You know, the bathroom.”

“Oh, that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “That was nothing, like I said.”

Here was my chance.

“Wel , if you ever need anyone to talk to . . .” I reached out and touched her shoulder.

I got a strong flash. The vision showed her and Missy in the school library, transfixed by Piper’s laptop. They were sitting so close, I could actual y smel the coffee on Missy’s breath. Looking through Piper’s eyes, I saw an open Facebook page.

Missy was barking orders at Piper. “Hurry up, Piper. I’ve got to meet Zeke at the Til in ten minutes.” The Til was a bar frequented primarily by university students, and had a pretty strict carding policy. How did Missy think she would get in there?

Piper typed furiously in response, but didn’t look up. Although, I could feel her heart race and her stomach churn at the mention of Zeke. Who was he? I couldn’t think of a single Til inghast teenager named Zeke. Maybe he was a University student.

As Piper typed, I looked closer at the screen; she and Missy were creating a new user profile. This struck me as odd given that both girls had been active on Facebook forever. Just as I tried to make out the user name, the image faded. I returned to Piper’s kitchen.

Piper shook off my hand. “El ie, I don’t need your help.” Then she marched off to the front door.

I fol owed in her wake with a private smile. I didn’t care if she dismissed me, because I final y had something to go on.

Chapter Twenty-one

I was wrong. The more Michael and I mul ed over the flash I’d gotten from Piper, the less excited we became. On closer analysis, the flash didn’t real y shed much light on the scheme—beyond the Facebook element—or the intended victim. On balance, we were left with more questions than answers.

Even though I hated to admit it, we were both getting a little frustrated and burned-out from our little investigation. So when Michael suggested—

in the nicest way possible—that we leave off our “research” for the week before the fal dance, I told him I’d seriously consider it. After he mentioned I was looking worn-out, I agreed to take a break; I wanted to look good for the dance, as he wel knew. But I found it hard to put the whole thing out of my mind.

I tried to let the dance distract me. Once Ruth final y forgave me for buying my dress without her—after I pointed out that it left me more time to dedicate to her search—we spent hours at the mal . She tried on gowns in every shade imaginable—from black to pale green to lavender to chocolate brown—and final y settled on a pale pink dress that looked surprisingly perfect with her reddish hair. The big hurdle over, she then turned her attention to the smal er details like our hair, makeup, shoes, and even nails, not that she thought of these finer points as minor. We pored over countless magazines and visited every Til inghast makeup counter and shoe store until we found the perfect accessories. Happily, I let her sweep me up in al things dance, relishing feeling like a normal teenager for a change.

We made plans to have everyone meet at my house just before the dance. Everyone included not just me, Ruth, Michael, and Jamie, but the parents as wel . Ruth didn’t feel comfortable having Jamie pick her up at her house with just her dad around. And anyway, Ruth’s dad and my parents were close. Once my parents and Ruth’s dad were going to be on the scene, we felt like we had to include the guys’ parents too. I never thought the guys would actual y ask them. But surprisingly, they did.

Friday night before the dance everything was in place. I had my dress, shoes, purse, and makeup lined up and ready to go, even though we had hours to get ready on Saturday. I finished my homework that afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to think about it Saturday and Sunday. I’d even begged off flying with Michael; I told him that I needed at least one night of uninterrupted sleep to look perfect for the dance. He begrudgingly agreed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I was restless, though I couldn’t say exactly why. Thoughts of Missy and Piper crept into my consciousness, but they weren’t the sole source of my agitation. Anxiety about my powers and what they meant crossed my mind from time to time, yet I’d real y let go of my worries over the past week and enjoyed myself. So, why couldn’t I sleep? Had I grown used to staying awake al night? Was it just typical pre-dance jitters that average teenage girls experienced? I didn’t know.

The minutes ticked by, a half hour, an hour, two hours. I grew madder and madder at myself. I should’ve just gone flying with Michael; it always tired me out. Final y, at the three-hour mark, I threw off my quilt and sheets and padded over to the computer. I had to do something other than lie there in my bed.

I stared at my Google homepage. Before I knew it, my fingers were racing across the keypad. I looked up and saw the name “Professor Raymond McMaster” typed into the previously blank search box. Where had that come from?

I real y hadn’t given him much of a thought since that humiliating day in Miss Taunton’s class. Or so I thought. My subconscious must have been working on overdrive. The truth was, I didn’t feel like a vampire. I always imagined vampires as cold-hearted, or no-hearted. The feelings I felt were . . . big, warm, inclusive. I needed an expert to help me sort this out. I clicked onto the Harvard University webpage and read Professor McMaster’s résumé. Under-grad and grad work done at Harvard, fol owed by a post-grad stint at Oxford. He did an assistant professorship at Stanford, after which he took on his current tenured role back at his alma mater. Impressive. Especial y for a Dracula expert.

Scanning down the bio, I saw a list of his published papers. They weren’t al about vampires; some of them focused on other “supernatural folklores and mythologies.” But vampires certainly seemed to be his specialty. I clicked on one paper that looked particularly interesting:

“Multicultural Origins of the Vampire Legend.”

I clicked open the paper. The very first words made me shiver unpleasantly. Professor McMaster might not serve as the al y I’d been hoping for, to convince Michael that we were not vampires.

Vampires walk among us. Whether the Scottish baobhan sith, the Indian baital, the Chinese jiang shi, the Croatian kosci, the Romanian moroi, or the Mexican tlahuelpuchi, every society and every culture harbors vampires. The question is not whether vampires exist—in our collective subconscious or on our streets—but in what form and why.

Page after page, Professor McMaster’s thesis—al around the notion that vampires must be real, given their presence in every civilization—

enthral ed me. And chil ed me. This wasn’t some kook spouting off crazy conspiracy theories on the internet, but a respected scholar at Harvard University, of al places.

But, Professor McMaster saved the real zinger—to my mind, anyway—for the last paragraph.

This survey makes clear that, although each society’s vampires take different forms, they share two unsettling characteristics: an inhuman ability to transport themselves, and a fascination with blood. But while interesting, the precise form and nature of a culture’s vampires ultimately is of no import to the vampires’ purpose. Wherever they might be found, whatever form they purport to take, all vampires embody our darkest and most primeval fears of the unknown and serve as the key to the mystery of what, if anything, comes after death.

Suddenly, Michael’s vampire theory seemed al too possible.

Chapter Twenty-two

By morning, I had no time to think about Professor McMaster, vampires, Missy, Piper, or anything other than the fal dance. Ruth arrived at eight A.M.

with as many bags as my parents and I took with us on our summer trips and a computer-generated timetable of our appointments and activities. I was never so happy to see Ruth; I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts for company.

Al day long, Ruth swept me up in a tidal wave of manicure and pedicure appointments and professional makeup applications. I drew the line at having my hair done by her stylist—no one could ever make sense of my thick, pin-straight hair, not even me—but I watched as Ruth had her hair pinned into a complicated style that real y suited her. I thought my parents would balk at al the overt displays of frivolity and materialism, but they didn’t. They seemed relieved to have a normal sixteen-year-old daughter getting ready for a dance. I found it a relief to play the part, rather than wal ow in the reality that I was some freak of nature, like one of the creatures described by Professor McMaster.

“Ruth, El ie! Come down, girls. Everyone wil be here in a few minutes,” my mother yel ed up to my bedroom from the base of the staircase.

“Oh my God, it’s almost six,” Ruth nearly shrieked.

I looked at the clock in disbelief. Had we real y been primping and preening for almost ten hours? I guess if I cut out the time we spent getting coffees and lunch as wel as the time in transit and gossiping, we had spent more like four hours beautifying ourselves. But stil , it was kind of unbelievable.

Ruth and I walked over to my old, stand-alone ful -length mirror. Gazing into it, I gave her the once-over first, not quite ready to face my final self.

“You look gorgeous, Ruth,” I said and meant it. With her long reddish hair pul ed off her face and neck and the pale pink dress setting off her physique, she was transformed into a princess.

She gave me a huge hug and then quickly pul ed back to check me out. “El ie, Michael is going to faint when he sees you. You look so glamorous, like a movie star or something.”

Laughing, I stared back at the mirror. I definitely did not look like a movie star, but I looked better. Somehow, the fitted red dress and new makeup enhanced my figure, straight black hair, and blue eyes. Instead of appearing gangly with oddly bright eyes, I looked, wel , striking. It felt weird to apply that word to myself even in my private thoughts.

“Girls!” my mother yel ed again. That tone meant hustle.

Teetering on our heels, we hurried to the top of the staircase. Just as we were about to walk down, we heard a loud knock on the front door.

“Too late,” my mother whispered harshly from the bottom stair.

Our momentary delay in front of the mirror cost us. We would now be forced to descend my steep, long staircase with an audience, like a pair of modern-day Scarlett O’Haras. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make on Michael’s parents. I’d been kind of hoping to go the nice-girlfriend route, not the drama-queen path.

Glancing at each other first with a mixture of fear and excitement, Ruth and I put on our game faces. We pasted on brave smiles and headed downstairs hand in hand. My dad opened the door about mid-staircase so I couldn’t get a good look at our guests until we neared the bottom stair.

When I final y glanced up from the final step, to which I had my eyes glued so I wouldn’t fal , there stood Michael, so handsome in a dark blue suit and yel ow tie. His green eyes pierced mine, and I didn’t need to ask him how I looked. His expression said it al .

In front of everyone, before he even brought me over to his parents, he took me by the hands and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then he strapped an exquisite rose corsage around my wrist; he already knew there was no space for it on the bodice of my dress. He whispered, “It’s nowhere near as beautiful as you.”

I should’ve been embarrassed, but I wasn’t.

He broke our gaze first, saying, “Mom, Dad, you remember my El ie.”

My El ie. He knew precisely how to make me melt. I stretched out my hand to a very pretty, chestnut-haired woman who was beginning to gray around the temples. Just like my parents. I’d met his parents twice before—once when they had me over for dinner, and once when we sat together at one of Michael’s footbal games. They were unfailingly pleasant, if a little distant and formal, and somehow we managed to avoid the awkward topic of Guatemala. I stil couldn’t dredge up an image of Michael from the far reaches of my trip memories.

“Mrs. Chase, it’s nice to see you again.”

“You too, El ie. You look absolutely lovely tonight. Michael told me about your dress, but his descriptions didn’t do justice to the dress—or you in it.”

I blushed, thinking of Michael talking about me to his parents. Trying to ignore the redness of my cheeks, I welcomed his dad next. He was attractive, with an olive complexion and nearly black hair. I kept searching for family resemblances, but blond, fair Michael didn’t favor either one of them.

My parents joined our conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Ruth, Jamie, and their respective parents made their introductions.

The group moved into the living room, and my mom passed around appetizers while my dad poured soft drinks for the kids and wine for the adults.

An hour passed with surprising ease. School and the dance provided ready topics of conversation, and even Ruth’s usual y recalcitrant dad seemed to relax and open up. Around seven, Michael and Jamie started glancing at their watches and dropping hints that we should leave. The parents acquiesced, but only after they took about a mil ion pictures.

Everyone said their farewel s, and Ruth, Jamie, Michael, and I hopped into Michael’s car. We had decided on one car. We had no idea what the parking would be like, and in any event, we had agreed to hang out at my house afterward.

Michael was just about to pul out of the driveway, when I cal ed out for him to stop. Unused to carrying a purse, I’d left mine on the kitchen counter.

Michael drove me right to the porch’s front steps, and I climbed up them as fast as my spindly heels would al ow. Opening the front door, I was relieved that none of the parents were lingering in the front hal way. I wanted to slip in and slip out without the holdup of more chitchat.

Tiptoeing down the back hal way toward the kitchen, I heard my mom and Michael’s mom talking. So much for going undetected. But then a rush of water from the kitchen sink sounded. I peeked in and saw our moms’ backs as they rinsed off the dishes. Maybe I could slide in and grab my purse unnoticed.

“I stil cannot believe that you and Armaros are in Til inghast,” my mom said in a tone that wasn’t exactly warm.

“We real y had no other choice,” Michael’s mom said apologetical y.

“After we worked so hard to make them forget that they’d ever met—in Guatemala. . . .” My mom’s voice trailed off.

“I know. And so successful y with El ie. Those same techniques didn’t work so wel with Michael, as you know.”

“We did need to have them meet at least once before they come of age, to see how they’d react to one another and to find out what they were capable of together. We needed to take that risk in Guatemala. I just wished they’d ful y forgotten each other,” my mom said.

The way my mom said it made me wonder whether something awful had happened in Guatemala that they wanted me to forget. If only I could get flashes from my parents or Michael about that trip. I’d tried without success. I kept coming up against that same wal .

My thoughts were interrupted by Michael’s mom. “I know, and that’s the only reason we’ve let them spend time together. But it would be so much easier to keep them in the dark until it’s time.”

“It would have been easier if you’d stayed away from Til inghast,” my mom replied, her voice getting louder and angrier.

“You know that the best way to protect them is to have them in the same location. To keep watch over them.”

“You should have contacted us beforehand.”

“It didn’t seem wise. You know that. Tonight—al of us together in one place—was risk enough.” Michael’s mom sounded almost repentant.

“Even once the children had found each other of their own accord? You didn’t think that you should contact us then?” My mom’s voice rose; she was real y mad.

“We couldn’t take the chance, Hananel. It seemed better to wait and al ow their relationship to develop of its own accord. And watch.”

Hananel? Who was Hananel? My mom’s name was Hannah. And what were they talking about?

My mom was almost screaming. “Watch? Those are rich words coming from a former watcher, whose watching was anything but passive waiting. Just what did you think this passive waiting and watching would gain us?”

“Time, Hananel. I thought the watching would give us time.”

My purse dropped to the ground with a clap, and both women pivoted toward me.

“El ie, honey, I thought you’d gone,” my mom said, her voice as sweet as sugar.

I bent down to pick up my purse and brandished it like a sword. I smiled as if I hadn’t heard a thing, and said, “Couldn’t leave without my purse, could I?” Then, uncertain of what to say or do, I waved good-bye and raced back to the car. The conversation I overheard was bizarre, to say the least, but I wouldn’t let it ruin my first dance with Michael.

Chapter Twenty-three

The expression on our classmates’ faces as we walked into the gym was worth every moment of preparation. The girls mostly gave Ruth and me sidelong glances of appreciation and mild astonishment, but the guys were another story. Some of them openly gaped as we sauntered across the room.

Ruth basked in the attention, and I could tel that Jamie derived a certain vicarious thril being by her side. As for myself, I experienced a surge of power not unlike the sensation I got when I had a strong flash. And looking at Michael, I saw that he did as wel . The feeling helped dispel the nagging voice inside my head about the conversation I’d overheard in the kitchen, which I hadn’t dared to mention to Michael yet. I didn’t want to ruin our perfectly normal teenage night with a reminder of our strangeness.

We smiled at the other kids as they stared at us, and tried to act casual. The four of us commented on how the dance committee had real y transformed the place. Our gym no longer looked like a relic from decades past, but more like an intentional y retro eighties dance club.

Al the while, Ruth’s voice buzzed like a little bee in my ear as she gave a running commentary on the other girls’ dresses. Lexie, she pronounced, looked great in her strapless blue mini, as did Charlotte in her black-and-white lace dress. But, Ruth said, what was Nikki thinking wearing that gold satin ful -length gown with a crystal neckline?

I spotted Piper and Missy in a dark corner, almost behind a set of bleachers. The out-of-the-limelight spot seemed odd for the girls; I expected them to hold court front and center, especial y at an event like this. And where were their dates? I knew Piper was going with Lucas, but I wondered who Missy’s date was. I hadn’t seen her with Charlie lately, but I had spotted her walking up the library stairs with that other guy. I guessed that guy was the Zeke mentioned in the flashes, and the figure I’d seen in the shadows.

Maybe Piper and Missy had sequestered themselves in the corner because one or both was mad that they hadn’t been named Fal Queen, and maybe that had something to do with their plan. Their former friend Vanessa had somehow managed to ral y an overwhelming majority in order to win the votes. I stopped dead in my tracks. Why was I spending even a minute of my night thinking about them, especial y when Michael and I had made a pact to take a break from our investigation? I pushed al thoughts of Piper and Missy out of my mind so I could enjoy my night.

One of my favorite songs, Coldplay’s “Lost,” started to play, and Michael pul ed me onto the dance floor. He carved out a place for us in the crowd, and then wrapped his arms tightly around my back. I looked up into his green eyes, bright even in the darkened room. For the mil ionth time, I thought how lucky I was to have found him.

The music grew louder, and he pressed his body up against mine. I held on to his strong upper arms and rested my head on his shoulder. The tempo of the song picked up, but Michael slowed down. He lifted up my chin and leaned down to kiss me.

His lips felt so soft, so inviting. I kissed him back and savored the gentle touch of his tongue. As he ran his tongue lightly over my teeth, I began to experience a surge of desire for him, unlike anything I’d felt during the many times I’d been physical y close to him before. But this was no normal desire to kiss him, or go further. This was different than anything I’d ever felt before. This was bloodlust.

We broke off and stared at each other. Michael felt it too. We had to leave the dance floor before something happened. Something we couldn’t control. Something that would freak out everyone around us.

“I’m going to the bathroom to freshen up,” I said, for the benefit of anyone nearby who might be listening.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked, his voice cracking a bit.

“No, no.” The last thing I needed was Michael in close proximity to me. He shot me a concerned look, so I smiled and reassured him. “I’l be fine.”

Michael walked me to the gym door nearest the bathrooms. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and then leaned against the wal , as if he needed its support. “I’l wait right here,” he said, stil breathing a little heavy.

I nodded and opened the door. A little unsteady on my feet—and my heels—I wobbled out into the jarring fluorescent glare of the hal . Blinking in the bright light, I turned right toward the girls’ room. A long line of girls—al waiting to jockey for position in front of the mirror, no doubt—snaked out of the door into the hal way. I just couldn’t face al that aggressive female energy in my state.

Instead, I turned left, passing by the gym doors. Maybe a little walk would help distance me from the urge. I started down an empty hal way, lined with lockers and classroom doors. Funny how the hal looked so unintimidating and smal without al the kids streaming through it. After I cooled down, I turned back toward the gym—and Michael.

Then I heard a whimper from a connecting hal way. Backing up a few steps, I peeked down the hal . On first glance, it appeared empty. But then I saw a smal movement in a darkened doorway, and I heard the whimper again. I hesitated. I real y didn’t want to deal with someone else’s problems tonight of al nights. But the Good Samaritan in me won out over my apprehensions.

Not bothering to soften the click of my heels, I approached the dark niche. The whimper grew louder and became an actual bawl by the time I got there.

“Are you okay?” I said to the girl cowering in the doorway. Her face was buried in her hands, but I could see her upswept auburn hair and her chocolate brown dress. Maybe the poor girl had gotten into a fight with her date.

The girl lowered her hands. At first, al I could see was the welt on her cheek from a hard slap and a long, bloody scratch on her arm, undoubtedly from a fingernail. Only then did I realize that the girl was Piper.

I almost left. Another thankless encounter with Piper wasn’t what I needed. And anyway, it was my special night with Michael. But then I smel ed a strong metal ic odor, and I realized that I couldn’t leave, even if I tried. The smel was Piper’s blood, wel ing up from the deep scratch on her arm. It mingled with the distinctive smel of someone else’s blood. Maybe the blood of the other person she’d fought with. How I could detect and discern the presence of two distinct blood scents was beyond me.

More than anything in the world, I wanted to touch and taste the blood, and not just because I sought information about her and Missy’s scheme.

My instinct compel ed me to do it. No matter the promise that Michael and I made about not tasting anyone else’s blood.

As I reached into my purse for a tissue, I asked her, “Who did this to you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a sob.

“Of course it matters, Piper.”

Tissue in hand, I leaned forward as if to dab her wound clean. As I did so, I touched some of the blood from her wound with my fingertip. Then I turned away slightly—ostensibly to reach for another tissue from my purse—and licked it.

The blood burned like liquor as it coursed down my throat and made me woozy immediately. Then two separate flashes struck. Their force nearly knocked me off my heels, and I reached for the wal to steady myself. Stronger than any flashes I’d received from anyone but Michael, they told me everything I wanted to know. And much, much more that I didn’t want to know.

Chapter Twenty-four

Without a word to Piper, I kicked off my shoes and carried them with me as I ran back down the hal . I didn’t have a spare second to make excuses to Piper, and she didn’t deserve them. I needed every moment to get to the gym and stop the figurative bloodshed.

The hal seemed to have doubled in size since I walked down it a few short minutes before, like some hazy, frustrating dream. I longed to fly down the hal , but had to rely on my gangly legs to propel me. The slower gait gave me al too much time to think about the malevolent images I’d cul ed from the blood. And it gave me too much time to think of Vanessa, Missy and Piper’s victim.

Why hadn’t we thought of Vanessa? This summer, she’d been on the outs with the group for trying to unseat Missy from her veritable throne.

Since then, Vanessa had been relegated to the “reject” lunch table, below Missy’s notice. Michael and I had believed that Missy had deemed the cafeteria demotion adequate punishment for whatever wrong Vanessa had inflected on Missy. Not so.

The first flash from Piper told me that, just before Vanessa would be crowned Fal Queen, every single Til inghast junior and senior would receive an email on their cel s inviting them to be Vanessa’s Facebook friend. The perfectly timed invitation would be irresistible to nearly everyone at the dance, who presumably would accept and be transferred immediately to Vanessa’s page. There, via a dummy account, Missy and Piper had posted not only a montage of horrific drunken photos of Vanessa but—worse—entries purportedly from Vanessa that revealed a litany of awful, humiliating secrets about many of Til inghast’s juniors and seniors. It wasn’t normal dirt in those entries, but terrible things like cheating and hidden pregnancies and familial meltdowns. The whole plan was designed to disgrace Vanessa and, through her supposed revelation of so many people’s closest-kept secrets, make her the object of everyone’s hatred. The only redeeming second of the flash was the disgust Piper felt for participating in it. Not that her distaste stopped her, mind you.

But it was the second flash that transmitted a sense of evil so palpable that I felt sick. The flash seemed to come from Missy, the source of the other blood. Through her eyes, I saw her in a tight embrace with some guy. Because she had her head nestled on his shoulder, I couldn’t see the guy’s face, just the fine black fabric of his suit jacket. But I could hear his voice. In the most enticing whisper imaginable, he told her that she was beautiful and deserved the Fal Queen crown more than anyone in the world. Though his words sounded like innocent flattery, somehow they had spurred Missy on to this plan and made her want to bathe Vanessa in metaphorical blood at the moment of her crowning. I saw—in her soul, it seemed—a desire for wickedness and destruction worse than my worst nightmares.

Final y, final y, I reached the gym door. I pul ed it open and ran over to Michael, who was stil leaning up against the same spot on the wal . I struggled to speak; it was amazing how running tired me out so quickly, when I could fly for hours with ease. “I know what Missy and Piper are going to do.”

Gaping at my disheveled state, he grabbed me by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”

I brushed aside his hands. “I’m fine. Michael, I don’t have much time. Have they announced the Fal Queen yet?”

“No, Vanessa and Keith are stil standing over there. I think the crowning ceremony is supposed to start in a few minutes.”

Stil panting, I said, “Good, I stil have time to stop it. Or defuse it, at least.”

“Defuse? As in a bomb?” From the terrified look on his face, I saw that he thought—by my unfortunate choice of the word “defuse”—I meant something much worse.

“Don’t worry. It’s not a literal bomb, but it’s stil real y awful.”

I wanted—no, needed—to save Vanessa and al the other kids from the virtual bloodbath about to rain down on them. And there was only one way to do it in the time I had available. To sacrifice myself by naming myself as the creator of the Facebook entries and deem them fiction. To point the finger at anyone else as the architect of this scheme left too much room for denial—and possible belief by the viewers in the horrific stories they’d see on the Facebook page. I couldn’t let that happen.

I didn’t have enough time to explain my intentions to Michael before the room started buzzing with cel phones containing Facebook invitations from Vanessa. Leaning down, I quickly strapped my shoes back on. I reached into my purse and slid out my brush and lipstick. As Michael stared incredulously, I hurriedly fixed my hair and makeup. If I was going down like a phoenix into the ashes, I wanted to look presentable—even good—

doing it.

I gave Michael a kiss, and whispered, “I’m so sorry that I’m about to ruin our night.”

Turning toward the stage, I heard him cal out, “El ie, what’s going on?”

I could hear the apprehension in his voice, but I couldn’t look at him. His concern would only make me hesitate, and I couldn’t afford to falter.

Squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I walked to the front of the gym. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Vanessa and Keith preparing to go on stage. Ignoring them as best I could, I started up the stairs. A couple of kids and at least one teacher tried to discourage me. But I just smiled and plowed ahead.

Once on stage, I searched around for the mike. The white-knuckled student council president held it tightly in his hand as he reviewed the note cards for his speech. I sidled up to him and said, ever so sweetly, “Can I borrow that for a minute?”

Surprised at the request, he said, “Um, I’m about to make a speech.”

Smiling agreeably, I said, “I know. I just have to make a quick announcement first.”

“Sure,” he said with a smile and handed me the mike.

“Thanks so much. You can have it back in a second, I promise.”

Mike in hand, I stared out at the crowd. My self-assurance—real and pretend—left me as I surveyed the nearly two hundred kids on the dance floor. But I couldn’t succumb to my fears; I had to move forward. I was moved by a compulsion that was more powerful than anything I had ever felt.

Even my desire for Michael.

I cleared my throat and said, “Hi. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m El ie Faneuil.”

Even though the kids had stopped dancing, they continued to mil around and talk. They appeared as uninterested and unimpressed with the Fal Queen and King crowning ceremony as Michael. I half-waved and tapped the mike. A loud screech reverberated from the speakers, and suddenly I had everyone’s attention.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your night. In a few minutes, you wil al receive a Facebook invitation from Vanessa Moore, our Fal Queen. If you accept the invitation, you wil be directed to a Facebook page that contains several pictures that seem to be of Vanessa and some posts al egedly by her hand. But the page is complete fiction. The pictures are Photoshopped, and the entries are made up.” I paused; the next words stuck in my throat. “I created the entire thing.”

In the crowd, I saw Ruth’s face staring up at me in disbelief. The magnitude of my actions hit me, and my voice cracked. “I want to apologize to Vanessa and everyone else named on the Facebook page. Even though I know none of you wil ever be able to forgive me.”

Before I handed the mike back to a stunned student council president, I glanced out at the crowd. There, at the center, I saw Missy, murderously furious that her plan had been thwarted. At her side stood a guy—a blond, good-looking guy who had to be her date. A guy who had to be the shadowy Zeke from the flashes.

Something about him seemed familiar, and not just from the visions I’d gotten about him. In the split second before I left the stage, I looked at little closer, and realized that he was the guy from the coffee shop. He noticed my stare, and smiled that strange, bemused smile of his. As if he’d expected me to be up there on that stage al along.

I dropped the mike and ran.

Chapter Twenty-five

Over the next few days, darkness seeped into my soul.

Maybe it came from the hatred of me I saw in my classmates’ eyes and minds. When I returned from my three-day suspension for my Facebook prank, as it was dubbed by the administration, I’d become the object of loathing for every student at Til inghast Upper High School. My locker was vandalized, my homework destroyed before it reached the teachers’ hands, my face spit upon. God forbid that I accidental y touched someone; the abhorrence seared my fingertips. But I could speak not a word in my own defense: I conceded that right on the gym stage.

Maybe the darkness came from the evil that I’d witnessed in Missy’s heart, or the blood I’d sampled from her via Piper. In the flash from her blood, I saw the desire for such unspeakable acts that I couldn’t al ow myself to revisit the images. It was like becoming a character in one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings of hel .

I didn’t know the source of the darkness. I knew only that the Good Samaritan compulsion al but disappeared the night of the dance. Looking back, I had no idea why I did what I did. Once I’d realized that I had the capacity to spare al those kids al that pain, I just had to take the fal . Was this part of who I was? It certainly didn’t sound like the impulse of a vampire. But real y, what did it solve, my taking the fal ? Although it wouldn’t have fixed anything to point the finger at Missy.

Regardless, al that had vanished. I fil ed the void left in its wake with me and Michael.

Ruth hadn’t spoken to me since the dance, and I wasn’t sure why. Since I was certain that she must know that I didn’t create the Facebook page, I could only guess that she was furious that I’d ruined her dream night. I couldn’t even tel her why. Whatever her reason, her abandonment of me made my own submission to the darkness easier. It was one less tie to my old self.

The only ones who didn’t detest me outright were Piper and Missy, who were uniform in their disbelief and confusion even though they were no longer in league as friends. Instead of hating me, they seemed to be frightened of me. And with my urge to act charitably gone, I certainly felt no impulse to reach out toward Piper and encourage her better nature.

Only Michael stood by my side, even though part of him wished that I’d tel the truth about Missy’s act. Only he understood what I had done and why. The knowledge brought us closer. So close that there was no longer any room for anyone else.

By day, Michael and I strode down the Til inghast school hal ways impervious to everyone but ourselves; I felt powerful in a way I’d never experienced. By night, we flew through the skies like gods. Like the vampires that I guessed we were. We surrendered to each other. And to the blood.

“Come on,” I urged Michael. Where he used to push me along, I now dared him to fol ow me. The darkness had fil ed me with a recklessness I’d never before experienced. I now acted with abandon—without concern for anyone other than Michael.

He didn’t move.

“Come on,” I said again.

“Are you sure there’s no one inside?” Michael didn’t sound convinced.

“Positive. I can’t sense anyone.” Ever since I’d submitted to my powers, my skil s had grown. I could scan a building or a room to discover how many people were present. With certainty, I knew the charming little townhouse, which dated from the eighteen hundreds, was empty.

Without waiting for Michael’s agreement, I slid open the third-floor window and flew inside. Narrowly missing a stack of boxes, I landed hard on the rickety wooden floor. Another thud ensued, and I knew Michael had fol owed. My eyes adjusted to the pitch-blackness and I saw a clear path to the attic staircase. I took Michael’s hand and led him downstairs.

We’d broken into Rose’s, the nicest restaurant in town, the one that al the undergrads dragged their moms and dads to on parents’ weekend. It was our two-month anniversary, and Michael wanted to celebrate with a real y special dinner even though my parents had grounded me indefinitely.

He had scouted out the restaurant during the day to crystal ize his plan.

After we got to the ground floor, he directed me to a private room that contained a table for two, as wel as a fireplace, a few scattered club chairs, and a couch upholstered in ivory damask. He seated me in one of the chairs and lit the silver candelabras at the table’s center and on the mantel. After which he disappeared into the kitchen.

Within a few minutes, Michael returned bearing a large waiter’s tray. Delicious aromas wafted from the silver-lidded plates on top. With a flourish, he unfolded a linen napkin and laid it in my lap. Then he placed before me a vase brimming with the restaurant’s signature variegated red roses.

Final y, he brought the two plates to the table. In a grand gesture, he lifted the lids simultaneously, revealing lobster with asparagus and risotto, dishes that he’d ordered earlier that day. My favorite.

Before he sat down, he knelt next to me and whispered in my ear, “Happy anniversary.” We tucked into dinner, talking and laughing—even giggling—as if we were any normal couple. But al the while, we knew that it was only playacting. Michael and I were anything but normal.

After we finished the last bites of a molten chocolate cake, I stood up and stretched out my hand to Michael. He rose, and I led him to the couch facing the fireplace. We hadn’t dared light a fire—the chimney smoke would be a giveaway—but we had no need. We could see each other wel enough in the dim candlelight; we were used to much less light.

I lay down on the couch and motioned for him to join me. Lowering himself down, he molded his body to mine. Our lips rested up against each other, and for a long moment, we just breathed each other’s breath. Through his breath, I experienced every aspect of his day as if I’d been with him the entire time. He did the same. We had no need for words.

Then I kissed him. At first, the sensation was simple, pure pleasure. My lips, his lips, our lips, our tongues. In time, the bloodlust began to build, the same urge we first experienced at the fateful Fal Dance. But we no longer fought it. We yielded to its power.

I ran my tongue along his teeth at the same moment he ran his tongue against mine. Tiny droplets emerged on the tips of our tongue, and our blood mingled. Intense waves of physical delight washed over us. Then, like a slow burn that becomes more intense over time, the images came. I saw Michael and myself with wide swaths of light at our backs and letters of light emblazoned on our chests. I saw us flying through places and times I could not identify or comprehend. I saw us battling and helping and fighting and saving. Much as I didn’t understand who or what we were, I didn’t comprehend many of the images; indeed most of them seemed vaguely futuristic. Yet I reveled in them.

The visions and the pleasure slowly receded. I lay in Michael’s arms, peaceful and content; we never discussed the images, and we rarely talked about our natures. But I knew that, from the instant I awoke until nightfal of the next day, I would wait for this moment. I lived in—and for—it. As did Michael. We had become addicted to each other’s blood.

Chapter Twenty-six

The next night, I stared at the clock. The hands seemed frozen at 11:50. I prayed and prayed for them to move. I desperately wanted that minute hand to hit the eleven and the twelve. Only then, only at midnight, could I rise from my bed and fly out to meet Michael. I didn’t think I could hold off the craving—for Michael and the blood—a minute past twelve.

My countdown had started as soon as I woke up that morning. Every day progressed that way now. As I got ready for school, as I sat in class, as I walked alone down the hal ways trying hard to ignore the hateful stares, as I sat at dinner with my parents, I thought about my upcoming night with Michael. Knowing that the sweet release was only hours away made the daytime misery of school bearable.

The clock’s hands final y joined at the twelve. Midnight. I wanted to leap from my bed, but instead I peeled back my quilt quietly, careful not to rustle the sheets. After I lowered my feet to the floor, I stuffed the bed with a blanket and then tiptoed across the notoriously creaky floorboards. I careful y modulated every step I took and every move I made to minimize noise; I didn’t want to risk awakening my sleeping parents.

I made it across the floor to my window with only a modicum of sound. Then I paused to listen for any stirrings from my parents. The house was silent.

Bit by bit, I opened the window. Even my gentle efforts caused the ancient window sash to groan. I winced and forced myself to wait a moment before pushing it up the rest of the way. Part of me wondered why I cared so much about my parents catching me. Most of the time I didn’t, which was probably one reason I’d never mentioned to Michael that conversation between our parents that I had overheard. My powers had grown such that my mom and dad couldn’t stop me from meeting Michael, no matter what tactic they tried. Yet, I guessed that enough of the old El ie remained to make me protective of my parents. More specifical y, I guessed that I wanted to protect them from me, from the vampire, or whatever it was, that I’d become.

Kneeling on the window seat, I created an opening wide enough to slip my body through. I planned on closing it once I made it into the nighttime air, as nothing would awaken my parents quicker than a cold blast. I worked my head, arms, and torso through the aperture and was just about to slide my legs through when I felt a hard tug on my ankle. For a second, I thought that my leg had gotten tangled in one of the blankets folded on my window seat. I shook my leg a little, trying to loosen it from the blanket. But the grasp only tightened.

I froze. The blanket felt distinctly like a hand.

Part of me wanted to just kick my leg loose and fly off, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to face him or her. Or worse, I suspected, them. Terrified, I slowly slid my body back through the window opening. I delayed sliding my head through until the very last second.

Final y, I mustered up the courage to turn around. There my parents sat, looking oddly vulnerable in their pajamas. My dad settled on the window seat—his hands must have been the ones to pul at me—while my mom perched on my bed. Right on top of the blanket I’d stuffed it with, as a matter of fact. We stared at one another in complete silence. I didn’t know what to say or do, and they didn’t seem to either.