by Cynthia Hand
I think, I’m here.
Chapter 3
I Survived the Black Plague
The first thing that catches my eye as I drive into the parking lot of Jackson Hole High School is a large silver truck parked in the back of the lot. I squint to see the license plate.
“Whoa!” yells Jeffrey as I nearly rear-end another, much-older, much-rustier blue truck in front of me. “Learn to drive already!”
“Sorry.” I try to wave apologetically to the guy driving the blue truck, but he yells something out his window that I’m pretty sure I don’t want to understand and screeches away across the parking lot. I park the Prius carefully in an empty space and sit for a minute, trying to get myself together.
Jackson Hole High doesn’t resemble a school so much as a resort, a large brick building framed by a series of huge log beams along the front, kind of like pillars but with a more rustic feel. Like everything else in our new hometown, it’s postcard perfect, all shining windows and perfectly spaced, white-trunked trees that are beautiful even without leaves, not to mention the gorgeous towering mountains in the background on three sides. Even the fluffy white clouds in the sky look deliberately placed.
“Later,” says Jeffrey, jumping out of the car. He grabs his backpack and swaggers toward the front door of the school like he owns the place. A few girls in the parking lot turn to check him out. He flashes them an easy smile, which immediately starts up the whisper/giggle thing that always trailed him at our old school.
“So much for not calling attention to ourselves,” I mutter. I apply another coat of lip gloss and inspect my reflection in the rearview mirror, cringing at my humiliating hair color. In spite of my mom’s and my best efforts over the past week, it’s still orange.
We’ve tried everything, re-dyed it like five times, even tried to dye it jet black, but the color always washes out to the same horrendous, eye-stabbing orange. It’s like some kind of cruel cosmic joke.
“You can’t always rely on your looks, Clara,” Mom said after failed-attempt number five. Like she’s one to talk. Like she’s ever looked less than gorgeous a day in her life.
“I’ve never relied on my looks, Mom.”
“Sure you have,” she said a bit too cheerfully. “You aren’t vain about it, but still. You knew that when the other students at Mountain View High looked at you, they saw this pretty strawberry blonde.”
“Yeah, so now I’m not strawberry blonde or pretty,” I said miserably. Yes, I was wallowing. But the hair is just so horrifically orange.
Mom put a finger under my chin and forced my head up to look at her.
“You could have neon green hair, and it wouldn’t take away how beautiful you are,”
she said.
“You’re my mother. You’re legally required to say that.”
“Let’s try to remember that you’re not here to win a beauty pageant. You’re here for your purpose. Maybe this hair problem means that things aren’t going to be as easy for you here as they were in California. And maybe there’s a reason for that.”
“Right. A very good reason, I’m sure.”
“At least the dye will cover the bright stuff. So you won’t have to worry about keeping your hair covered.”
“Yay for me.”
“You’ll have to make the best of it, Clara,” she said.
So here I am, making the best of it, like I really have a choice. I get out of the car and sneak to the back of the parking lot to inspect the silver truck. AVALANCHE, it reads in silver letters across the back fender. License plate 99CX.
He’s here. I force myself to breathe. He’s really here.
Now there’s nothing left to do but walk into the school with my crazy, unruly, insanely bright-orange hair. I watch the other students stream into the building in their little groups, laughing and talking and goofing around. All total strangers, every single one of them. Except one. Although I’m a stranger to him. My hands are simultaneously sweaty and clammy. A flock of butterflies flaps around in my stomach. I’ve never been more nervous in my life.
You’ve got this, Clara, I think. Next to your purpose, this school thing should be a snap.
So I straighten my shoulders, trying for Jeffrey’s confidence, and head for the door.
* * *
My first mistake, I realize almost immediately, was assuming that even with the designer exterior, this high school would be essentially like any other. Boy, was I ever wrong. The school is as high-end on the inside as it appears on the outside.
Almost all of the classrooms have tall ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows with mountain views. The cafeteria is a cross between the inside of a ski lodge and an art museum. There are paintings, murals, and collages in practically every nook and cranny of the place. It even smells better than regular schools: pine and chalk and a fragrant mix of expensive perfumes. My old cinder-block school in California seems like a prison in comparison.
I’ve stumbled into the land of pretty people. And here I thought I’d come from the land of pretty people. You know how sometimes on TV they’ll show you a picture of a celebrity from high school, and that person looks perfectly normal, not really any more attractive than anyone else? And you think, what happened? Why is Jennifer Garner so hot now? I’ll tell you: money happened. Facials, fancy haircuts, designer clothes, and personal trainers happened. And the kids at Jackson High had that celebrity polish, except for the few here and there who looked like genuine cowboys, complete with Stetsons, pearl buttons on their western-style plaid shirts, too-tight Wranglers, and scuffed cowboy boots.
Plus, the curriculum is fancy. Sure, you can take an art class, if you feel like learning to draw, but you can also take AP Studio Art, which prepares you to enter Jackson Hole’s lively art scene. There’s a class called Power Sports, which teaches you how to tune up your motorcycle, ATV, or snowmobile. You can learn how to start your own business, draft your dream house, develop your passion for French cuisine, or take your first steps toward becoming an engineer. Just in case you want to get your pilot’s license, the school offers a couple courses in aerodynamics. The world is your oyster at Jackson Hole High.
It’s definitely going to take some getting used to.
I thought the other students would be excited to see me, or curious at the very least.
I’m fresh meat, after all, and from California, and maybe I have some big-city wisdom to offer the natives. Wrong again. For the most part, they completely ignore me. After I make it through three periods (trigonometry, French III, College Prep Chemistry) where nobody even bothers with a simple howdy, I’m ready to dash for my car and drive straight back to California, where I’ve known everybody for forever and they’ve known me, where right this minute my friends and I would be dishing about our holidays and comparing schedules, and I’d be pretty and popular. Where life is ordinary.
But then I see him.
He’s standing with his back to me near my locker. A surge of electricity zings through me as I recognize his shoulders, his hair, the shape of his head. In a flash I’m in the vision, seeing him both in the black fleece jacket among the trees and for real, just down the hall simultaneously, like the vision is a thin veil laid on top of reality.
I take a step toward him, my mouth opening to call his name. Then I remember that I don’t know it. Like always, it’s as if he hears me anyway and starts to turn, and my heart skips a beat when I don’t wake up but see his face now, his mouth curling up in a half smile as he jokes with the guy next to him.
He glances up and his eyes meet mine. The hallway melts away. It’s only him and me now, in the forest. The vision comes from behind him, the fire on the hillside roaring toward us, faster than it could ever possibly happen.
I have to save him, I think.
That’s when I faint.
I wake to a girl with long, golden brown hair sitting on the floor next to me, her hand on my forehead, talking in a low voice like she’s trying to calm an animal.
“W
hat happened?” I look around for the boy, but he’s gone. Something hard pokes into my back, and I realize I’m lying on my chemistry book.
“You fell,” says the girl, as if that isn’t obvious. “Do you have epilepsy or something?
It looked like you were having some kind of seizure.”
People are staring. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
“I’m okay,” I say, sitting up.
“Easy.” The girl jumps up and reaches down to help me. I take her hand and let her haul me to my feet.
“I’m kind of a klutz,” I say, like that explains it.
“She’s okay. Go to class,” the girl says to the kids who are still gawking. “Did you eat this morning?” she asks me.
“What?”
“Could be a blood sugar thing.” She puts her arm around me and steers me down the hallway. “What’s your name?”
“Clara.”
“Wendy,” she says in response.
“Where are we going?”
“The nurse.”
“No,” I object, breaking free of her arm. I straighten and attempt to smile. “I’m fine, really.”
The bell rings. Suddenly the hallway’s deserted. Then from around the corner bustles a plump, yellow-haired woman wearing blue nursing scrubs, walking fast.
Behind her is the boy. My boy.
“There she goes again,” Wendy says as I wobble into her.
“Christian,” orders the nurse quickly as they rush toward me.
Christian. His name.
His arm comes under my knees, and he lifts me. My arm is around his shoulder, my fingers inches away from the spot where his neck meets his hair. His smell, a mixture of Ivory soap and some wonderful, spicy cologne, washes over me. I look up into his green eyes, so close that I can see flecks of gold in them.
“Hi,” he says.
Heaven help me, I think as he smiles. It’s just too much.
“Hi,” I murmur, looking away, flushing to the roots of my loose, very-orange hair.
“Hold on to me,” he says, and then he’s carrying me down the hall. Over his shoulder I see Wendy watching me, before she turns and walks the other way.
* * *
When we reach the nurse’s office he puts me down gently onto a cot. I do my best not to gape at him.
“Thank you,” I stammer.
“No problem.” He smiles again in a way that makes me glad I’m sitting down. “You’re pretty light.”
My jumbled brain tries to make sense of these three words and put them in order, with little success.
“Thank you,” I say again, lamely.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Prescott,” says the nurse. “Now get to class.”
Christian Prescott. His name is Christian Prescott.
“See ya,” he says, and just like that, he’s walking away.
I wave as he rounds the corner, then feel like an idiot.
“Now,” says the nurse, turning to me.
“Really,” I say. “I’m fine.”
She looks unconvinced.
“I could do jumping jacks — that’s how fine I am,” I say, and I can’t wipe the stupid smile off my face.
* * *
Thus I arrive at Honors English late. The students have pulled their chairs into a circle. The teacher, an older man with a short, white beard, motions for me to come in.
“Pull up a chair. Miss Gardner, I presume?”
“Yes.” I feel the whole class staring directly at me as I grab a desk from the back of the room and drag it toward the circle. I recognize Wendy, the girl who helped me in the hall. She scoots her desk over to make room for me.
“I’m Mr. Phibbs,” says the teacher. “We’re in the middle of an exercise that’s largely for your benefit, so I’m glad you could join us. Everyone must give three unique facts about themselves. If anyone else in the circle has one in common, they raise their hand, and the person whose turn it is has to choose something else. We’re currently on Shawn, who was finishing up by claiming that he has the most. rocking snowboard in Teton County. ” Mr. Phibbs raises his bushy eyebrows. “Which Jason here contested.”
“I ride the beautiful pink lady,” brags the boy who I assume is Shawn.
“No one can argue that’s unique,” says Mr. Phibbs with a cough. “So now we’re on to Kay. And say your name, please, for the new girl.”
Everyone looks to a petite brunette with large brown eyes. She smiles as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to be the center of attention.
“I’m Kay Patterson,” she says. “My parents own the oldest fudge shop in Jackson.”
“I’ve met Harrison Ford lots of times,” she adds as her second thing, “because our fudge is his favorite. He said that I look like Carrie Fisher from Star Wars.”
So she’s vain, I think. Although if you dressed her up in a white gown and put the cinnamon-roll buns on either side of her head, she really could pass for Princess Leia. She’s very attractive, definitely one of the pretty people, with a peaches-and-cream complexion and brown hair that falls past her shoulders in perfect curls, so shiny that it almost doesn’t look like hair.
“And,” Kay adds as her final touch, “Christian Prescott is my boyfriend.”
I dislike her already.
“Very good, Kay,” said Mr. Phibbs.
Next is Wendy. She’s blushing, obviously mortified to be speaking in front of the entire class about herself.
“I’m Wendy Avery,” she says with a shrug. “My family manages a ranch outside Wilson. I don’t know what else is that unique about me. I want to be a veterinarian, not a big surprise because I love horses. And I’ve made my own clothes since I was six years old.”
“Thank you, Wendy,” said Mr. Phibbs. She rocks back with a small sigh of relief.
From the desk next to hers, Kay stifles a yawn. It’s a small, ladylike gesture, but it makes me dislike her even more.
Silence.
Oh crap, I realize, they’re waiting for me.
All the things I’ve been considering fly out of my brain. Instead I think of all the things I can’t tell them, like I can speak any language on Earth fluently. I have wings that appear when I ask them to, and I’m supposed to be able to fly, but I suck at it. I’m a natural blonde. I have an impeccable sense of direction, which I think is supposed to help with the flying thing, but it doesn’t. Oh, and I’m here on a mission to save Kay’s boyfriend.
I clear my throat. “So I’m Clara Gardner, and I moved here from California.”
The other students snicker as a guy across the circle raises his hand.
“That’s one of Mr. Lovett’s unique facts,” said Mr. Phibbs, “only you weren’t here when he said it. You’ll find that there are quite a few students here who have migrated from the Golden State.”
“Okay, well, let me try again.” Specificity is obviously the key here. “I moved here from California about a week ago, because I heard such great things about the fudge.”
The class laughs, even Kay, who seems pleased. I suddenly feel like a stand-up comedian who’s just told the opening bit. But anything’s better than being known as the redheaded dorkina who passed out in the middle of the hall after third period. So jokes it will be.
“Birds are weirdly attracted to me,” I continue. “They kind of stalk me wherever I go.”
This is true. My current theory about this is because they smell my feathers, although it’s impossible to know for sure.
“Are you raising your hand, Angela?” asks Mr. Phibbs.
Startled, I glance to my right, where a raven-haired girl in a violet-colored tunic dress over black leggings is quickly lowering her hand.
“No, just stretching,” she says casually, looking at me with grave amber eyes. “I like the bird thing, though. That’s funny.”
But nobody’s laughing this time. They’re staring at me. I swallow.
“Okay, one more, right?” I say a little desperately. “My mom is a computer programmer, a
nd my dad is a physics professor at NYU, which probably means that I should be good at math.” I make a pained face. The idea that I can’t do math is bogus of course. I’m good at math. It’s a language after all, which is why Mom understands the way computers talk to one another without having to work at it. And probably why she was attracted to Dad to begin with, who’s like a human calculator even without a drop of angel blood running through his veins. Jeffrey and I both find it ridiculously easy.