One thing’s for certain: my brother can eat. It’s like he has a hollow leg, and all that food gets crammed in there: four pancakes now, three scrambled eggs, hash browns, a side of wheat toast, three strips of bacon, three links of sausage, and a pitcher of orange juice. I’m feeling kind of sick to my stomach just watching him.
“What?” he says when he catches me staring. “I’m hungry.”
“Clearly.”
“This is good. All I ever get to eat these days is pizza.”
Ah, a Jeffrey tidbit. That’s what this breakfast is all about. Crumbs that he occasionally throws me. Clues. From which I am piecing together a picture of his life.
“Pizza?” I say all nonchalant. “What’s up with pizza?”
“I work at a pizza joint.” He pours more syrup on his final pancake. “That smell gets into everything.” He leans forward like he wants me to sniff him. I do, and sure enough, I get a definite whiff of mozzarella and tomato sauce.
“What do you do there?”
He shrugs. “Run the cash register. Bus tables. Take phone orders. Make pizza, sometimes, if we’re short a cook. Whatever needs to be done. It’s a temporary gig. Until I figure out what I really want to do.”
“I see. Is this pizza joint around here?” I ask slyly. “Maybe I’ll stop in and order something. Give you a big tip.”
“Nuh-uh,” he says. “No way. So. What’s been going on with you?”
I put my chin in my hand and sigh. A lot’s been going on with me. I’m still in a kind of disbelieving shock over seeing Tucker. I’m also still obsessing over the idea that somewhere in the near future I’m going to have to use a sword—me, who’s never particularly thought of myself as the Buffy the Vampire Slayer type. Me, fighting. Possibly for my life, if my vision is any solid indication.
“That good, huh?” Jeffrey says, studying my face.
“It’s complicated.” I consider telling him about my training session yesterday, but I think better of it. Jeffrey has a sore spot when it comes to Dad. Instead I ask, “Do you still have visions?”
His smile vanishes. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
We stare each other down for a minute, me unwilling to let the subject drop so easily, him not wanting to go into it because he’s decided to ignore his visions. He’s not on God’s payroll anymore, is how he feels. Screw the visions. He still feels a pang of bone-deep guilt every time he thinks about his last vision, which didn’t turn out so well.
But deep down he also does want to talk about it.
He finally looks away. “Sometimes,” he admits. “They’re useless, though. They never make sense. They just tell you things you don’t understand.”
“Like what?” I ask. “What do you see?”
He readjusts his baseball cap. His eyes get distant, like he’s seeing his vision happening in front of him. “I see water, lots of it, like a lake or something. I see somebody falling, out of the sky. And I see …” His mouth twists. “Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it. Visions only get you in trouble. Last time I saw myself starting a forest fire. You tell me how that’s any kind of divine message.”
“But you were brave, Jeffrey,” I say. “You proved yourself. You had to decide whether to trust your visions, whether to trust the plan, and you did. You were faithful.”
He shakes his head. “And what did it get me? What did I become?”
A fugitive, he thinks. A high school dropout. A loser.
I reach across the table and put my hand on his. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey. I’m really, really, ridiculously sorry, for everything.”
He pulls his hand away, coughs. “It’s fine, Clara. I don’t blame you.”
This is news, since the last time I checked, he was all about blaming me.
“I blame God,” he says. “If there even is such a thing. Sometimes I feel like we’re all chumps, doing stuff from these visions just because somebody told us to, in the name of a deity we’ve never even met. Maybe the visions have nothing to do with God, and we’re just seeing the future. Maybe we’re all just perpetuating the myth.”
Those are some big words coming from my brother, and for a minute I feel like I’m sitting at the table with a stranger making somebody else’s argument. “Jeffrey, come on. How can you—”
He holds up his hand. “Don’t give me the religious talk, okay? I’m fine with the way things are. I am currently avoiding all large bodies of water, so my vision won’t be a problem. We’re supposed to be talking about you now, remember?”
I bite my lip. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Are you dating Christian, now that you’re—” He stops himself again.
“Now that I’m broken up with Tucker?” I finish for him. “No. We hang out. We’re friends. And beyond that, we’re figuring stuff out.”
We’re more than friends, of course, but I don’t know what more really means.
“You should date him,” Jeffrey says. “He’s your soul mate. What is there to figure out?”
I almost choke on my orange juice. “My soul mate?”
“Yeah. Your other half, your destiny, the person who completes you.”
“Look, I’m a complete person,” I say with a laugh. “I don’t need Christian to complete me.”
“But there’s something about you two, when you’re together. It’s like you fit.” He grins. Shrugs. “He’s your soul mate.”
“Whoa, you have got to stop saying that.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my sixteen-year-old brother. “Where’d you even hear that term, anyway—soul mate?”
“Oh, come on….You know, people say that sort of thing.”
My eyes widen as I feel the flutter of embarrassment from him, the image of a girl with long, dark hair, ruby red lips, smiling. “Oh my God. You have a girlfriend.”
His face goes a charming shade of fuchsia. “She’s not my girlfriend….”
“Right, she’s your soul mate,” I croon. “How’d you meet her?”
“I knew her before we moved to Wyoming, actually. She went to school with us.”
My mouth drops open. “Get out! So I probably know her, then. What’s her name?”
He glares at me. “It’s no big deal. We’re not dating. You don’t know her.”
“What’s her name?” I insist. “What’s her name, what’s her name? I could go on like this all day.”
He looks mad, but he wants to tell me. “Lucy. Lucy Wick.”
He’s right; I don’t know her. I sit back in the booth. “Lucy. Your soul mate.”
He points a warning finger at me. “Clara, I swear….”
“That’s great,” I say. Maybe this will turn him around, give him something positive to think about. “I’m glad you like someone. I felt bad when—”
Now it’s my turn to stop myself. I don’t want to dredge up his ex or that horrifying scene in the cafeteria last year when he dumped her in front of the entire school. Kimber was clearly not his soul mate. She was a cute girl, though. Nice, I always thought.
“Kimber was the one who called the police on me, I think,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t have told her I started the fire.” I open my mouth to bombard him with questions, but he doesn’t let me get them out. “No, I didn’t tell her what I am. What we are. I only told her about the fire.” He scoffs. “I thought she would think it was badass or something.”
“Oh, she did. She really did.”
We’re quiet for a minute, and then we both start laughing quietly.
“I was kind of an idiot,” he admits.
“Yeah, well, when it comes to the opposite sex, it’s hard to keep your head on straight. But maybe that’s just me.”
He nods, takes another drink of OJ. Looks at me hard.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Tucker,” Jeffrey says then, which catches me off guard. “It’s not fair to him, what happened. I’ve been putting some money aside. It won’t be a lot. But something. I was kind of hoping you’d give it to him, once I get it together.”
I don’t fully understand. “Jeffrey, I—”
“It’s to help buy a new truck, or put a down payment on one. A new trailer, a saddle, trees to plant on his land.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what he needs. I just want to give him something. To make up for what I did.”
“Okay,” I say, although I don’t know if it will work for me to be the one who gives it to him. Last night between Tucker and me did not go well. But Tucker has a right, I remind myself, to be mad at me. And I never even apologized for what I did. I never tried to make it right. “I think that’s a great idea,” I tell Jeffrey.
“Thanks,” he says, and I can see in his eyes how he knows it isn’t enough, given all he’s taken from Tucker, all we’ve taken, but he’s trying to make amends.
Maybe my brother’s going to turn out okay, after all.
After breakfast I head back to Stanford, full of carbs and deep thoughts. I plan to have a nice, low-key kind of day, maybe take a nap, get started writing a paper I’ve been procrastinating on all week. But I run into Amy as I pass by the Roble game lounge, and she ropes me into a game of table hockey. She rants about how the administration has canceled the Full Moon on the Quad—which is where students meet up around midnight on the night of the full moon and kiss each other while a local band plays romantic music in the background, basically a ritualized-and-thereby-socially-acceptable, well-lit make-out session—because they’re afraid we’re going to spread mono all over campus.
“I don’t see how they can stop us, though,” she’s saying. “I mean, there’s still going to be a full moon and the quad’s still going to be there and we’re still going to have our lips.”
I nod and grumble agreeably about how unfair it is, but I could care less. I’m still ruminating on the conversation at breakfast: Jeffrey with a new set of opinions and a new love interest and a new vision.
“Well, I think it’s kind of gross,” Amy says. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s so much older than she is.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Wait, who’s older?”
“You know. The guy Angela’s hooking up with.”
I stare at her. The puck clatters into my goal. “What? What guy?”
“I can’t remember his name, but he’s definitely older. A senior, probably. Oh my god, what is his name—I know this!” Amy scoffs at herself in disgust. “I swear, my brain is so crammed full of random facts for my philosophy exam on Monday that it can’t hold any more information. Seriously, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Starts with P.”
I feel immediately guilty that I didn’t call Angela last night after my dad told me to watch out for her. My mind whirls. Why would Phen come here? What could he want? What happened to we’re just friends and we know it’s impossible for us to be together and it’s temporary and all that other crap he fed to Angela this summer? I know I probably shouldn’t be butting into Angela’s love life—not again, anyway—but this is seriously bad. Phen claims that he’s not on the side of evil, but he’s definitely not, from what I saw this summer, on the side of good. Angela deserves something better. I’ve always thought so.
“Pierce!” Amy bursts out, relieved. “That’s it.”
Hold up. “Pierce? The PHE? That’s who you think is involved with Angela?”
“That’s the guy,” she confirms. “The one who helped me with my ankle that time. He’s a senior, right?”
This I do not believe. Angela’s all wrapped up in her purpose right now, even more obsessed than usual, it seems. No way would she take time out to mess around with some random guy. Something is wrong, I think. Something weird is going on.
“Why do you think Angela’s been hooking up with Pierce?” I grill Amy.
“Well, because she’s been going out all of a sudden, like almost every night. And two nights this week she didn’t come back to the room at all, and Robin saw her this morning coming out of his room,” Amy reports. “Hair all messed up. Not wearing her shoes. Same clothes she was wearing the night before. Post-hookup, definitely.”
My mind whirls some more. It’s like a Category 5 hurricane inside my brain.
“Pierce is the dorm doctor,” I say after a minute. “Maybe Angela wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh,” Amy says. “I didn’t think of that. She has been looking kind of worn-out lately.” She shrugs. “I guess she could have been sick.”
“See, let’s not jump to conclusions. There could be another explanation,” I say, but I can tell Amy doesn’t buy it.
I don’t buy it, myself. Angela’s not sick. I know this better than anyone.
Angel-bloods don’t get sick.
“What are you so upset about?” Christian asks later when I fill him in on the Angela situation. We’re sitting in the CoHo (the Stanford Coffeehouse) drinking coffee, our usual Saturday afternoon ritual. “What, Angela’s not allowed to hook up with anybody?”
I really, really wish I could tell him about Phen.
“I think it’s a good thing if Angela’s seeing somebody,” Christian goes on to say. “Maybe it will help her get out of her own head a little.”
I take a sip of my latte. “It’s not like her, that’s all. She’s been acting weird for weeks, but this—a guy, staying out all night—is really not like her.”
But then, come to think of it, maybe it is like her. That’s what happened in Italy. Once she reconnected with Phen, she pretty much disappeared every night, sneaking back to her grandmother’s house in the mornings before anybody else woke up.
“Angela dated guys back in Jackson,” Christian reminds me.
I shake my head. “Not so much. She went to parties sometimes. And prom. But she never even kissed anybody, she told me. She said boys were a complete waste of time and energy.”
Christian’s dark eyebrows furrow, and I can feel him remembering that one party back in eighth grade where they played spin the bottle and he and Angela went out on the back porch and kissed. Then his eyes meet mine and he knows that I know he’s remembering this, and his face starts to get red.
“It wasn’t anything,” he mutters. “We were thirteen.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “She said it was like kissing her brother.”
Christian stares into his coffee cup. Finally he says, “If you want to find out what’s going on with Angela, you should ask her.”
“Good idea.” I pull out my cell and dial Angela’s number for like the twentieth time today, put it on speaker so Christian can hear as it goes straight to voice mail. “I’m busy right now,” Angela’s voice says in the recording. “I may or may not call you back. Depends on how much I like you.”
Beep.
“Okay, okay,” Christian says as I hang up. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s a mystery.”
I let out a frustrated breath. “I’ll see her in class Tuesday,” I say. “Then we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Tuesday is three days away—you sure you can wait that long?” Christian asks playfully.
“Shut up. And anyway, it’s probably nothing. I bet you ten bucks it has to do with her purpose, not some guy. Something about ‘the seventh is ours.’”
“‘The seventh is ours’?”
“It’s what Angela says in her vision. She’s been driving herself crazy trying to figure out what it means. She keeps going to the church to make herself have the vision, but she hasn’t got much beyond the location on campus where it’s going to happen and ‘the seventh is ours,’ at least not that she’s told me lately.”
“That’s cryptic.” Christian’s eyes are thoughtful. “Wait,” he says, officially catching up. “What’s this about church? Angela makes herself have the vision? How?”
I tell him about the labyrinth and Angela’s theory that it will, under the right circumstances, induce visions. Christian sits back in his chair and stares at me like I’ve told him that the moon is made of cheese. Then he presses his fingers to his eyes as if he has a sudden headache.
“What?” I ask him.
“You never tell me anything, you know that?” He drops his hand and looks at me accusingly.
I gasp. “That is not true. I tell you loads of stuff. I tell you more than anybody. I mean, I didn’t blab to you about this thing with Angela, but it’s Angela, and you know how she is.”
“How she is? What happened to ‘there are no secrets in Angel Club’?”
“You never agreed to that,” I point out. “You had the biggest secret of us all, and you never breathed a word.”
“Is there anything else I don’t know?” he asks, ignoring my very good point about his blatant hypocrisy. “Besides the stuff with this Phen guy that you can’t tell me about?”
“I saw my dad,” I say. “But this only happened yesterday, okay? I was going to tell you today. Right now, as a matter of a fact. See, I’m telling you.”
Christian pulls back, surprise all over his face, his mind reeling with it in a way that makes me feel surprised all over again by what happened. “Your dad? Michael?”
“No, my other dad, Larry. Yes, my dad, Michael. He said he’s been given”—I inflate my voice to sound all authoritative and official—“the task of training me. We went back to my house and spent a couple hours in the backyard whacking each other with broomsticks.”
“You were in Jackson yesterday?” Christian looks dazed. He’s in that phase where he’s repeating everything I say because he can’t process it fast enough. “Training?” he says. “Training you to what?”
I become aware that we’re sitting in a public place and we shouldn’t be openly discussing any of this. I shift to talking in his mind. To use a sword.
His eyes widen. I look away, sip the last dregs of my cold coffee. The enormity of what I just told him—that I’m going to be expected to use a sword, too, to fight, maybe even to kill somebody—is really settling in for the first time.
This is the part where my life becomes all apocalyptic, I think.
Which sucks, quite frankly. I remember how good it felt to help Amy that night, to use my power to fix her ankle even the little bit that I did. How happy I was with the idea that I could use my power to heal hurts and right wrongs. Now it all feels like a silly pipe dream. I’m going to fight. Possibly die.
You were right, I say bleakly. We’re never going to be allowed to live normal lives.
I’m sorry, Christian says. He wishes something better for me, something easier.
I shrug it off. It’s what we’re supposed to do, right? Maybe that’s our purpose, to become fighters. That makes sense, if you think about it. Maybe it’s what all the Triplare are meant for. We’re like warriors.
Maybe, Christian says, although I can sense that he doesn’t want to accept this any more than I do.
Oh. And I asked my dad if you could train with us, since you’ve been seeing yourself wielding a sword in your vision (the sword’s made of glory, not flame, by the way), and he said yes, probably around winter break. FYI.
He gives an incredulous laugh at the idea that he could be taking lessons from the archangel Michael. “Wow,” he says out loud. “That is—thank you.”
“At least we can do this together,” I say, reaching across the table and laying my hand on his, which sends that familiar spark between us.
We belong together. The words come to mind immediately, and this time, instead of fighting the idea or worrying about what it might mean, I accept it. Whatever our fate is, we’re clearly in it together. Through thick and thin.
Come hell or high water, he adds in my mind.
I smile. Preferably high water, right? I have no intention of going to hell.
Agreed. He slides his fingers up through mine so we’re clasping hands. I get a nervous quivery sensation in the pit of my stomach. “In the meantime,” I say to get back to the topic at hand, remembering what my dad said about watching out for Angela, “let’s figure out what’s going on with Angela. Maybe we can help her.”
“If she’ll let us.”
“True, that.” I check my watch. “I should go. I’ve got a paper to write on The Waste Land by Tuesday. Worth twenty percent of my grade, so no pressure there.”
He squeezes before he lets go of my hand. “Thanks for hanging out with me this afternoon. I know you’re busy.”
“Christian, there’s nobody on earth, seriously, who I’d rather hang out with than you,” I tell him, and it’s absolutely true. Whatever we are—soul mates, friends, whatever—there’s that.
It isn’t until later that I realize I didn’t tell him about seeing Tucker. But then, I think, he really wouldn’t want to know.
I take a detour on the way back to the dorm to check out Memorial Church on the off chance that I might find Angela there. The church is empty. I make my way up the center aisle to the front of the sanctuary, where the labyrinth is still laid out on the altar. There’s a sign posted that says, SILENCE, PLEASE, WHILE VIEWING THE CHURCH. Somebody right outside is trimming the hedges with a weed whacker, but it still feels quiet in this place, a stillness that transcends noise.
Angela’s obviously not here, but I don’t leave yet. I stand looking at the twisting paths of the labyrinth.
What the heck, I think. I’ll give it a try.
I take a minute to read the pamphlet about the labyrinth, which I find in a small woven basket in the front pew. Does life have you wandering aimlessly in circles? it reads. Embark on a personal journey that’s stood the test of time for thousands of years. I slip my shoes off and position myself at the starting point, then begin to walk. The hems of my jeans scuff against the fabric on the floor. I try to make myself slow down and take deep breaths, the way I learned in happiness class: cleansing breaths from the belly. As you enter the labyrinth, the pamphlet says, let go of the details of your life; shed thoughts and distractions. Open your heart and quiet your mind.
I do my best, but part of me is already tensing, bracing for the vision, the blackness of the room, the terror I feel. I keep walking, trying to clear my head, the way I always do to call glory, which is coming so easily these days. You’d think this would be easy, too, but for whatever reason, maybe because having the vision is a bit like being slapped in the face, it’s not the same.
I reach the center of the pattern. I’m supposed to stop here and pray. Receive, the pamphlet says.
I bow my head. I’ve never learned how to talk to God. The concept seems as far away for me as making a personal phone call to the president of the United States or having a conversation with the Dalai Lama. Which is ironic, I know. I have angel blood in my veins, the strength of the Almighty worked right into my cells, God’s intent for me, His plan. Whenever I call glory, I feel that power, that connection to everything that Dad talks about, the warmth and joy and beauty that I know must be where God is. But I don’t know how to communicate in words with that presence. I can’t.
I look up, and there are angels all around, and I feel their eyes on me, solemn and questioning. What are you doing? they ask. What is your purpose?
“What is my purpose?” I whisper back at them. “Show me.”
But the vision doesn’t come.
I wait five minutes, which feels like longer, then sigh and make my way back through the pattern the way I came, faster this time. This is where the pamphlet tells me I’m supposed to enter the third stage: Return. Join with a higher power, come together with the healing forces at work in this world.
I’m so not feeling the healing forces.
I put my shoes on, suddenly exhausted and cranky and frustrated by my failure to connect. I better get back and start working on that nap, I think. The paper can wait. So much for finding Angela. So much for figuring out my vision.
So much for clarity.
The vision hits me as I’m biking home. It’s cloudy and chilly out—not Wyoming cold by any stretch of the imagination, but still cold enough to make me want to get warm and cozy under the covers. So I’m biking pretty fast, hurrying, when I suddenly find myself in the dark room.
This time it’s happening further along in the vision than it’s ever happened before. The noise, that high-pitched sound that echoes around us, is still ringing in my ears. It’s giving us away, I realize. It’s drawing their attention.
There’s the flash of light, as blinding as always.
“Get down!” Christian yells, and I dive for the floor, roll out of the way as he comes from behind me swinging a sword, a flaring, bright, beautiful blade, which he raises over his head and brings down hard. There’s a clashing sound like nothing I’ve ever heard before, worse than nails on a chalkboard, and then a curse and a low laugh. I scramble backward until my back hits something hard and wooden, my heart pounding. It’s still so dark in here, but I can make out Christian fighting, his light slicing the air around him, trying to get at the dark figures closing in on him.
Figures, I realize, plural. Two dark figures. He’s fighting them two to one.
Stand up, I tell myself. Stand up and help him.
I jump to my feet, my knees shamefully wobbly.
“No,” Christian yells. “Get out of here. Find a way out!”
There’s no way out without you, I think, but I don’t have time to form the words because, without warning, somebody else yells, “Look out!” and I’m back on the sidewalk at Stanford, where I’m about to crash my bicycle.
There’s no avoiding it. I swerve wildly but hit the half wall of a brick bicycle ramp. My bike stops. I keep going, soaring over the ramp, hitting the ground hard, bouncing off the pavement, then sliding on my back across the sidewalk and into a juniper bush.
Ouch.
I lie there for a minute with my eyes closed, sending a silent, sarcastic thank you so much for that in the skyward direction.
“Are you all right?”
I open my eyes, and there’s a guy kneeling over me. I recognize him from my happiness class, a tall guy with shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, glasses. My scrambled brain reaches for his name.
Thomas.
Excellent. I’ve biffed it big time in front of Doubting Thomas.
He helps me crawl out of the juniper bush.
“Whoa, you really bit it there. Do you need me to call an ambulance?” he asks.
“No, I think I’m okay.”
“You should really watch where you’re going,” he says.
He’s so nice, too.
“Yeah, I’ll try that next time.”
“You have a cut.” He points to my cheek. I touch the spot gingerly, come away with a smear of blood. I must have hit hard. I don’t typically bleed.
“I have to go,” I say quickly, getting to my feet. My jeans are a mess, split at the knee, a raw-looking scrape showing through on one side. I should get out of here now, before my wounds miraculously heal themselves right in front of this guy and I have some serious explaining to do.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I can take you to Vaden,” he offers.
“No, I’m fine. It probably looks worse than it is. I need to go home.” I grab my bike from where it’s fallen, the front wheel still spinning. When I set it upright, I discover that the frame is badly bent.
Crap.
“Here, let me help you,” Thomas says, and nothing I say works to get rid of him. I limp along, mostly because I know I should be limping, and he walks beside me, carrying my bicycle on one shoulder and my backpack on the other. It takes us forever to get to Roble, and by the time we arrive, I’m pretty sure both the cut on my face and the scrape on my knee have mended. I hope he’s not terribly observant.
“Well, this is me,” I say lamely. “Thanks.” I grab my backpack from him, stick the bike on the rack, not bothering to lock it, and turn to go into the building.
“Hey, wait,” Thomas calls after me. I stop. Turn back.
“Do you want to …” He hesitates.
“I don’t need to go to the health center, really,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I was going to say, do you want to go out with me tonight? There’s this party at the Kappa house. If you’re feeling up to it.”
Sheesh. There’s no discouraging this guy. I must look better right now than I think I do.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets but maintains eye contact. “I’ve been trying to ask you all semester. So here’s my opportunity, right? Now that I’ve officially rescued you.”
“Oh, wow. No,” I blurt out.
“Oh. You have a boyfriend, right?” he asks. “Of course you do.”
“No, not really … I mean I … My life is complicated right now … I can’t … I’m sure you’re great, but …,” I somehow manage to get out. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, can’t hurt to ask, right?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. He hands it to me. Thomas A. Lynch, it reads. Physics major at Stanford University. Tutor in math and sciences. Then it lists his cell number.
“If you change your mind about the party, call me, or just show up,” he says, and without another word he turns and walks away.
Wan Chen is playing Farmville on Facebook, her great weakness. She glances up from her laptop when I come in, her eyebrows drawing together in a little befuddled frown as she takes in the pieces of juniper bush in my hair, my dirt-and-blood-stained jacket, my torn jeans.
“It’s been that kind of day,” I say before she can get the question out. I go to the sink and start washing the blood and gunk off my face.
“Hey, did you hear that your friend Angela is hooking up with the PHE?” Wan Chen calls out to me.
Sigh. I so cannot wait until Tuesday.
As soon as I finish cleaning myself up, I call Angela. No answer.
“Angela Zerbino, don’t make me hunt you down, because I will,” I say into the phone. “Call. Me. Back.”
I’m busy, she texts a few minutes later. Chill. I’ll catch up with you later.
I wait an hour, then head down to second-floor A wing and knock on Angela’s door. Robin answers. “Oh, hey, Clara,” she says cheerfully. She’s wearing a blue-and-white zebra-print strapless polyester top over a short white mini; her hair is curled big and parted down the middle. She looks like she’s ready to hit the town, back in 1978 or so.
“I’m looking for Angela,” I tell her.
Robin shakes her head. “I haven’t seen her since this morning.” She looks around, then leans toward me and whispers conspiratorially. “She spent the night with Pierce.”
“Yeah, I heard,” I say, irritated. “You probably should stop with the rumor spreading, since you don’t know squat about Angela.”
Robin immediately flushes. “Sorry,” she says, and seems so genuinely ashamed of herself that I feel bad for putting the smackdown on her.
“You look like Farrah Fawcett,” I observe. She recovers somewhat and manages a smile.
“We’re all going over to a seventies party at the Kappa house tonight,” she explains. “Do you want to come?”
This is the party Thomas invited me to, and he’s going to be there, and if I show up he’ll probably think I’m interested. But then I think about my options: (a) staying in my room on a Saturday night slogging away on a paper about T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, which will be impossible because I will be distracted because I can’t stop thinking about Dad and Tucker and Jeffrey and Angela and Pierce and Christian and my vision, and (b) … who am I kidding? No way I’m going to do that. I need to get out.
“Sure,” I say to Robin. “Let me find my platform shoes.”