Unearthly
Page 17
I didn’t know how to make the wings go away again, so I folded them against my back as tightly as I could and lay down on my bed, angling my arms so I could feel the wings underneath me. The house was quiet. It felt like everyone else on the Earth was asleep. Everyone else was the same, and I had changed. All I could do that night was lie there with this knowledge, amazed and frightened, stroking the feathers under me gently, until I fell asleep.
Chapter 5
Hot Bozo
Christian and I only have one class together, so catching his attention is no easy task. Every day I try to pick my seat in British History so there’s a chance that he’ll sit next to me. And so far in the span of two weeks, the stars align exactly three times and he ends up in the desk next to mine. I smile and say hello. He smiles back and says hi. For a moment, an undeniable force seems to draw us together like magnets. But then he opens his notebook or checks his cell phone under his desk, signifying that our Nice weather we’re having chitchat is over. It’s like, in those few crucial seconds, one of the magnets gets flipped around and pulls him away from me. He’s not rude or anything; he just isn’t all that interested in getting to know me. And why should he be? He has no idea the future that awaits us.
So for an hour each day I secretly watch him, trying to memorize everything I can, unsure of what might be useful to me someday. He likes to wear button-down dress shirts with the sleeves rolled casually to his elbow and the same version of Seven jeans in slightly different shades of black or blue. He uses notebooks made from recycled paper and writes with a green ballpoint pen. He almost always knows the right answer when Mr. Erikson calls on him, and if he doesn’t he makes a joke about it, which means that he’s smart plus humble plus funny. He likes Altoids. Every so often he reaches into his back pocket for the little silver tin and pops a mint into his mouth. To me that says he expects to be kissed.
On that note, Kay meets him right outside class every day. Like she saw the way the new girl looked at her man that first day in the cafeteria, and she never wants him vulnerable to that again. So all I have are the precious pre-class minutes, and so far nothing I’ve done or said has elicited a significant response from Christian.
But tomorrow is T-Shirt Day. I need a shirt that will start a conversation.
“Don’t stress about it,” says Wendy after school as I parade a line of T-shirts in front of her. She’s sitting on the floor of my room by the window, legs curled under her, the very picture of the BFF helping to make a huge fashion decision.
“Should it be a band?” I ask. I hold out a black tee from a Dixie Chicks tour.
“Not that one.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I pick up one of my favorites, forest green with a print of Elvis on it that I got on a trip to Graceland a few years before. Young Elvis, dreamy Elvis, bending over his guitar.
Wendy makes a noncommittal noise.
I hold up a hot-pink shirt that reads, EVERYONE LOVES A CALIFORNIA GIRL. This could be the winner, a chance to play up what Christian and I have in common. But it will also clash with my orange hair.
Wendy scoffs. “I think my brother is planning on wearing a shirt that says, ‘Go back to California.’”
“Shocker. What’s his deal with Californians, anyway?”
She shrugs. “It’s a long story. Basically my grandpa owned the Lazy Dog Ranch, and now some rich Californian owns it. My parents only manage it for him, and Tucker has rage issues. Plus, you insulted Bluebell.”
“Bluebell?”
“Around these parts, you can’t disrespect a man’s truck without dire consequences.”
I laugh. “Well, he should get over himself. He tried to get me burned at the stake in Brit History yesterday. Here I am minding my own business, taking notes like a good little girl, and out of the blue Tucker raises his hand and accuses me of being a witch.”
“Sounds like something Tucker would do,” admits Wendy.
“Everybody had to vote on it. I barely escaped with my nun’s life. Obviously I’ll have to return the favor.”
Christian, I remember happily, voted against burning me. Of course his vote doesn’t count much because he’s a serf. But still, he didn’t want to see me dead, even in theory. That has to count for something.
“You know that’ll just encourage him, right?” Wendy says.
“Eh, I can handle your brother. Besides, there’s some kind of prize for the students who can last the whole semester. And I’m a survivor.”
Now it’s Wendy’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, well, so is Tucker.”
“I can’t believe you shared a womb with him.”
She smiles. “There are definitely moments I can’t believe it either,” she says. “But he’s a good guy. He just hides it well sometimes.”
She gazes out the window, her cheeks pink. Have I offended her? For all her playful talk about how much of a pain Tucker is, is she sensitive about him? I guess I can understand why. I can make fun of Jeffrey all I want, but if somebody else messes with my little brother, they better watch out.
“So, Elvis then? I’m running out of options here.”
“Sure.” She leans back against the wall and stretches her arms over her head, as if the conversation has exhausted her. “Nobody really cares.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been here forever,” I remind her. “You’re accepted. I feel like if I make one wrong move, I might get chased off school property by an angry mob.”
“Oh please. You’ll be accepted. I accepted you, didn’t I?”
That she had. After two weeks I’m still eating lunch at the Invisibles lunch table.
So far I’ve identified two basic groups at Jackson Hole High School: the Haves—the pretty people, comprised of the wealthy Jackson Holers, whose parents own restaurants and art galleries and hotels; and the much smaller and less conspicuous Have-Nots—the kids whose parents work for the rich Jackson Holers. To see the great divide between these groups, you only have to look from Kay, in all her coiffed perfection and French-tipped manicured fingernails, to Wendy, who, though undeniably pretty, usually wears her sun-streaked hair in a simple braid down her back, and her fingernails are polish free and sports clipped.
So where do I fit in?
I’m quickly starting to figure out that our large house with a mountain view means that we have the big bucks, money Mom never mentioned back in California. Apparently we’re loaded. Still, Mom raised us without any idea of wealth. She lived through the Great Depression, after all, insists that Jeffrey and I save a portion of our allowance each week, makes us eat every morsel of food on our plates, darns our socks and mends our clothes, and sets the thermostat to low because we can always put on another sweater.
Chapter 5
Hot Bozo
Christian and I only have one class together, so catching his attention is no easy task. Every day I try to pick my seat in British History so there’s a chance that he’ll sit next to me. And so far in the span of two weeks, the stars align exactly three times and he ends up in the desk next to mine. I smile and say hello. He smiles back and says hi. For a moment, an undeniable force seems to draw us together like magnets. But then he opens his notebook or checks his cell phone under his desk, signifying that our Nice weather we’re having chitchat is over. It’s like, in those few crucial seconds, one of the magnets gets flipped around and pulls him away from me. He’s not rude or anything; he just isn’t all that interested in getting to know me. And why should he be? He has no idea the future that awaits us.
So for an hour each day I secretly watch him, trying to memorize everything I can, unsure of what might be useful to me someday. He likes to wear button-down dress shirts with the sleeves rolled casually to his elbow and the same version of Seven jeans in slightly different shades of black or blue. He uses notebooks made from recycled paper and writes with a green ballpoint pen. He almost always knows the right answer when Mr. Erikson calls on him, and if he doesn’t he makes a joke about it, which means that he’s smart plus humble plus funny. He likes Altoids. Every so often he reaches into his back pocket for the little silver tin and pops a mint into his mouth. To me that says he expects to be kissed.
On that note, Kay meets him right outside class every day. Like she saw the way the new girl looked at her man that first day in the cafeteria, and she never wants him vulnerable to that again. So all I have are the precious pre-class minutes, and so far nothing I’ve done or said has elicited a significant response from Christian.
But tomorrow is T-Shirt Day. I need a shirt that will start a conversation.
“Don’t stress about it,” says Wendy after school as I parade a line of T-shirts in front of her. She’s sitting on the floor of my room by the window, legs curled under her, the very picture of the BFF helping to make a huge fashion decision.
“Should it be a band?” I ask. I hold out a black tee from a Dixie Chicks tour.
“Not that one.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I pick up one of my favorites, forest green with a print of Elvis on it that I got on a trip to Graceland a few years before. Young Elvis, dreamy Elvis, bending over his guitar.
Wendy makes a noncommittal noise.
I hold up a hot-pink shirt that reads, EVERYONE LOVES A CALIFORNIA GIRL. This could be the winner, a chance to play up what Christian and I have in common. But it will also clash with my orange hair.
Wendy scoffs. “I think my brother is planning on wearing a shirt that says, ‘Go back to California.’”
“Shocker. What’s his deal with Californians, anyway?”
She shrugs. “It’s a long story. Basically my grandpa owned the Lazy Dog Ranch, and now some rich Californian owns it. My parents only manage it for him, and Tucker has rage issues. Plus, you insulted Bluebell.”
“Bluebell?”
“Around these parts, you can’t disrespect a man’s truck without dire consequences.”
I laugh. “Well, he should get over himself. He tried to get me burned at the stake in Brit History yesterday. Here I am minding my own business, taking notes like a good little girl, and out of the blue Tucker raises his hand and accuses me of being a witch.”
“Sounds like something Tucker would do,” admits Wendy.
“Everybody had to vote on it. I barely escaped with my nun’s life. Obviously I’ll have to return the favor.”
Christian, I remember happily, voted against burning me. Of course his vote doesn’t count much because he’s a serf. But still, he didn’t want to see me dead, even in theory. That has to count for something.
“You know that’ll just encourage him, right?” Wendy says.
“Eh, I can handle your brother. Besides, there’s some kind of prize for the students who can last the whole semester. And I’m a survivor.”
Now it’s Wendy’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, well, so is Tucker.”
“I can’t believe you shared a womb with him.”
She smiles. “There are definitely moments I can’t believe it either,” she says. “But he’s a good guy. He just hides it well sometimes.”
She gazes out the window, her cheeks pink. Have I offended her? For all her playful talk about how much of a pain Tucker is, is she sensitive about him? I guess I can understand why. I can make fun of Jeffrey all I want, but if somebody else messes with my little brother, they better watch out.
“So, Elvis then? I’m running out of options here.”
“Sure.” She leans back against the wall and stretches her arms over her head, as if the conversation has exhausted her. “Nobody really cares.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been here forever,” I remind her. “You’re accepted. I feel like if I make one wrong move, I might get chased off school property by an angry mob.”
“Oh please. You’ll be accepted. I accepted you, didn’t I?”
That she had. After two weeks I’m still eating lunch at the Invisibles lunch table.
So far I’ve identified two basic groups at Jackson Hole High School: the Haves—the pretty people, comprised of the wealthy Jackson Holers, whose parents own restaurants and art galleries and hotels; and the much smaller and less conspicuous Have-Nots—the kids whose parents work for the rich Jackson Holers. To see the great divide between these groups, you only have to look from Kay, in all her coiffed perfection and French-tipped manicured fingernails, to Wendy, who, though undeniably pretty, usually wears her sun-streaked hair in a simple braid down her back, and her fingernails are polish free and sports clipped.
So where do I fit in?
I’m quickly starting to figure out that our large house with a mountain view means that we have the big bucks, money Mom never mentioned back in California. Apparently we’re loaded. Still, Mom raised us without any idea of wealth. She lived through the Great Depression, after all, insists that Jeffrey and I save a portion of our allowance each week, makes us eat every morsel of food on our plates, darns our socks and mends our clothes, and sets the thermostat to low because we can always put on another sweater.
