by Cynthia Hand
The class stares at me like I am the real Queen Elizabeth, transported through time.
I suddenly feel beautiful and powerful, like the blood of kings is truly pumping through my veins. I’m not Bozo anymore.
“Queen Mary is dead,” Angela says. “Long live Queen Elizabeth.”
Now it’s my turn. I close my eyes, take in as much air as I can given the corset, then lift my head and look out at the class like they are now my loyal subjects.
“My lords, the law of nature moves me to sorrow for my sister,” I say in my best British accent. “The burden that is fallen upon me makes me amazed, and yet, considering I am God’s creature, ordained to obey His appointment, I will thereto yield, desiring from the bottom of my heart that I may have assistance of His grace to be the minister of His heavenly will in this office now committed to me.”
The class is quiet. I glance at Christian, who’s looking right at me like he’s never seen me before. Our eyes meet. He smiles.
I suddenly catch a whiff of smoke in the air.
Not now, I think, as if the vision was a person I can command. The next line of my speech flies out of my head. I begin to see the outlines of trees.
Please, I think at the vision desperately. Go away.
No use. I’m with Christian in the forest. I look into his gold-flecked eyes. He’s so close this time, so close that I can smell his wonderful mix of soap and boy. I could reach out and touch him. I want to. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so much in my life. But I feel the sorrow building in me, that grief so powerful and painful that my eyes instantly flood with tears. I’d almost forgotten that grief. I lower my head, and that’s when I see that he’s holding my hand, Christian’s long fingers wrapped around mine. His thumb drags over my knuckles. I suck in a shocked breath.
What does it mean?
I look up. I’m in the classroom again, staring at Christian. Somebody snickers. Mr.
Erikson looks at me expectantly. I can feel Angela’s tension rising up off her in waves. She’s freaking out. She wanted to give me note cards. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Your Majesty?” prompts Mr. Erikson.
I suddenly remember my next line.
“Take heart,” I say quickly, unable to tear my gaze away from Christian’s. He smiles again, like we’re having our own private conversation.
“I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman,” I say. “But I have the heart and stomach of a king.”
“Here, here!” says Angela, her golden eyes wide behind her glasses. “Long live the queen!”
“Long live the queen,” repeats Mr. Erikson, and then the whole class is saying it.
I can’t help but smile. Angela, looking relieved that my part is done, starts going into the details of Elizabeth’s reign. Now I only have to stand there and look pretty, like she said. And try to calm my racing heart.
“Of course for a long time all anybody in England seemed to be interested in was finding the right husband for Elizabeth,” Angela says, glancing over at Mr. Erikson like she’s proving a point. “Everyone doubted that she’d be able to rule by herself.
But she turned out to be one of the best and most revered monarchs in history. She ushered in a golden age for England.”
“Yeah, but didn’t she die a virgin?” asks Tucker from the back of the class.
Angela doesn’t waver. She immediately launches into her stuff about the Virgin Queen, the way Elizabeth used the image of the virgin to make her unmarried status more attractive.
Tucker is standing against the back wall, smirking.
“Sir Tucker,” I say suddenly, interrupting Angela.
“Yeah?”
“I believe the correct response is, yes, Your Majesty,” I say in my haughtiest tone. I can’t just let him mock me in front of the entire class, can I?
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says sarcastically.
“Have a care, Sir Tucker, lest you find yourself in the stockades.”
He scoffs and looks at Mr. Erikson. “She can’t do that, can she? She’s not the ruler of this class. Brady is.”
“She’s queen today,” says Mr. Erikson, leaning back in his chair. “I’d shut up if I were you.”
“You could strip him of his title,” suggests Brady, apparently not minding at all that I have usurped his throne. “Make him a serf.”
“Yeah,” says Christian. “Make him a serf. Being a serf blows.”
As a serf, poor Christian has already been killed several times in our class. Aside from dying of the Black Plague on the first day, he’s starved to death, had his hands cut off for stealing a loaf of bread, and been run down by his master’s horse just for kicks. He’s like Christian the fifth now.
“Or you could get rid of him altogether. Throw him in the Tower of London. Have him drawn and quartered. Maybe the rack. Or a red-hot enema,” says Mr. Erikson, laughing. You have to admire a teacher who’d suggest death via red-hot enema.
“Perhaps we should put it to a vote,” I say, looking coolly at Tucker, remembering how he almost got me burned as a witch. Sweet revenge.
“All in favor of death to Sir Tucker the heretic, raise your hand,” says Angela quickly.
I look around the classroom at the raised hands. It’s unanimous. Except for Tucker, who stands in the back with his arms crossed.
“Red-hot enema it is,” I say.
“I’ll mark it down,” says Mr. Erikson gleefully.
“Now that that’s settled,” says Angela, looking at me sharply, “let me tell you about the defeat of the Spanish Armada.”
I cast a triumphant glance at Tucker. The corner of his mouth lifts in a half smile. He nods at me, as if to say, Touché.
Point: Clara.
Go me.
* * *
“What was that?” hisses Angela as we beeline it for the restroom after class.
“The thing with Tucker? I know! I can’t figure him out.”
“No, the thing where you spaced out in the middle of your speech and left me hanging in front of the entire class.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I had the vision. How long was I out?”
“Only like ten seconds. But it was the longest ten seconds ever. I thought I was going to have to slap you.”
“Sorry,” I say again. “It’s not something I can control.”
“I know. It’s fine.” We burst into the girls’ bathroom and stand in the handicap stall while Angela disassembles the dress and I step out of it. She unties the corset and I gasp in relief, finally able to take a full breath.
“You saw the forest fire?” she asks, peeking out to make sure we’re alone.
“No, not this time.”
She grins wickedly as she hands me my sweatshirt. “You saw Christian.”
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.
“Yes.” I carefully remove the headpiece and hand it to Angela, then pull the shirt over my head.
“So you were like, looking at Christian in class and then you were looking at him in the future. That’s wild, C.”
“Tell me about it.” I pull on my jeans and walk over to the mirror to survey the damage to my hair. “Ugh. I need a shower.”
“And in the future, what happened?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It was only ten seconds, remember? There wasn’t time for anything to happen.”
I turn on the sink and lower my head to splash my face, watching the white makeup dissolve into my hand and swirl down the drain. The cool water feels good against my flushed skin. Angela hands me a paper towel and I dry off, then wipe at the bright red lipstick. She gets a brush out of her backpack and starts to pull the pins out of my hair.
“Nothing new, huh?” she says, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “No new part of the vision?”
I sigh. I might as well tell her. Angela has a way of ferreting out the truth one way or another. She’s nothing if not perceptive and persistent.
“He was—” I begin softly. �
��We were. holding hands.”
“Shut up!” exclaims Angela. “So you two are like lovers!”
“No!” I protest. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know what we are. We’re holding hands, so what? It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Oh, right.” Angela looks at me incredulously as she tugs the brush through my hair-spray-saturated hair. “Save it. You know you’re totally in love with him.”
“I don’t even know him that well. Ouch! Take it easy!”
“Well, I’ve known him since kindergarten,” says Angela, ignoring my protests as she works the tangles out of my hair. “And trust me when I say that Christian Prescott is all that he’s cracked up to be. He’s smart, funny, nice, and oh yeah, hotter than hell in July.”
“Sounds like maybe you’re in love with him,” I point out.
“Eighth grade,” Angela says. “Ava Peters’s birthday party. We play spin the bottle.
My bottle points to Christian, so we sneak out to the back porch to kiss.”
“And?” I say.
“And it was fine. But no sparks. No chemistry. Nothing. It was like kissing my brother.
Don’t worry, he’s all yours, C.”
“Hey, this vision is a job, remember,” I say. “Not a date. And I believe he’s all Kay’s, so enough with the crazy talk.”
She scoffs. “Kay’s pretty. And she’s clever enough to keep his attention. But Kay’s a normal high school girl. You’re an angelic being. You’re smarter and more attractive than she is in every way. You’re genetically superior. Okay, so there’s the hair thing.
It’s a bad color, distracts people, whatever. But you’re totally hot. You’ve got a whole Scarlett Johansson thing going on, minus the boobs. Every guy at Jackson High knows who you are, trust me.” Then she adds, “Besides, Christian and Kay are almost over.”
“What do you mean? What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” she says flippantly. “It’s just the timeline, you know? This kind of relationship has a definite shelf life.”
“What kind of relationship is that, exactly?”
She looks at me levelly. “The physical kind. What, you think Christian’s attracted to Kay’s dazzling wit?
“Their expiration date is almost up. Trust me,” she says when I don’t answer, the corner of her mouth twisting up into her evil smile. It’s unbelievable that her wings are whiter than mine.
“You’re a weird one, you know that?” I say, shaking my head. “Weird.”
“Just wait,” she says. “You’ll see. Soon he’ll be all yours. He’s your destiny, after all.”
She flutters her eyelashes.
“Oh really, you think my purpose is about me getting a boyfriend? That would be awfully nice and all, because clearly I could use some help on the romantic front, but don’t you think the world is a little bigger than me and Christian and our love lives?”
“Maybe,” she says, and it’s impossible to tell whether or not she’s serious. “You never know.”
* * *
After school, I wait in the parking lot for Wendy. We’re going back to my house to study for a Jane Austen exam in Phibbs’s class. I can’t help but locate Christian’s Avalanche, parked in the back like always.
Wendy walks up and playfully punches me on the arm. “Tucker told me you were a queen today,” she says.
I drag my gaze away from Christian’s truck. “Yeah, I ruled. Literally.”
“I wish I’d seen you in your costume,” she says. “You should have come and gotten me at lunch. I could have helped you get ready.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to help me with the history class stuff,” I reply as if I hadn’t wanted to impose on her. But the truth is, I don’t know how to handle Angela and Wendy in the same space. How weird would it be to talk about normal things like school and boys now when I’m so used to talking about angel stuff with Angela? The last couple weeks I’ve mostly seen Wendy in class and at lunch, where I still sit at the Invisibles table. I’ve been busy with Angela working on our project most days after school.
“Ready for Jane Austen?” I ask.
“You know I’m crushing on Mr. Darcy, big-time,” she says.
“Oh, right,” I say distractedly, because I’ve spotted Christian and Kay.
They’re standing next to the silver truck, talking. Kay is smiling up at him. She leans into him as she talks, practically draping herself over him. He doesn’t seem to mind.
They kiss, not a little peck, but a long, lingering kiss where she twines her arms around his neck and he curls his arms around her waist and pulls her close and lifts her up. He pulls back and brushes his hand across her cheek, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. He says something. She nods. He opens the driver’s side door of the truck, and she climbs in. He hops in after her and closes the door. I don’t have a good view of what happens next, but the Avalanche doesn’t move. They aren’t driving anywhere.
They don’t look like a couple whose expiration date is almost up. They look happy.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?” says Wendy then, loudly.
I jump, startled, and look over at her. She has her head cocked slightly to one side, her blue eyes narrowed.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. I smile. “Did Tucker tell you that I had him executed today? It’s good to be queen.”
I expect her to lighten up, make some smart-aleck remark, but she just shakes her head.
“What?”
“Christian has a girlfriend, as you might have noticed,” she says. “I suggest you get over it.”
My mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“Hello, rude!” I finally sputter.
“It’s true.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” I shoot back.
“Well, maybe I would, if you ever bothered to talk to me anymore,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Oh, I see, you’re jealous now. Hence the rudeness.”
She looks away quickly in a way which confirms it — she’s jealous of Angela and all the time we’ve been spending together. “I’m sick of watching you drool over Christian Prescott like he’s a piece of meat, is all.”
It’s been a long day. And so I lose my temper.
“What’s it to you, Wen? It’s my life. Why don’t you stop being invisible for once and get your own?”
She stares at me for a long moment, her face slowly reddening, her eyes shining with the beginnings of tears that she’s too stubborn to let fall. She turns away. I can see her shoulders starting to shake.
“Wen—”
“Forget it,” she says. She picks up her backpack and slings it over her shoulder. “I thought I was your friend, for real, not just until you found somebody better. My mistake.”
“Whoa, Wendy, you are my friend,” I say, taking a step back. “I—”
“No offense, Clara, but sometimes it’s not all about you.”
I stare at her.
“I’m going to catch the bus home,” she says, pushing past me.
Chapter 10
Flying Lesson
I wish I could have had a fun spring break, some wild trip to Miami or even a simple road trip with my friends. But Wendy was still not talking to me (boy, could that girl ever hold a grudge!) and Angela was busy helping her mom with spring cleaning at The Pink Garter. So spring break consisted of seven fun-filled days cooped up in the house with Jeffrey, who was grounded because he’d won the Regional Wrestling Championships. Two weeks with no TV, no phone, no internet. I thought this was a bit excessive. Jeffrey was furious, Mom was cranky, and no amount of standing on the porch soaking in the sun could take away the chill inside the house.
It’s a relief to be back at school. At lunch I sit waiting for Angela to show up. I’m using a napkin to sop up the extra grease on a slice of pepperoni pizza when Wendy practically skips into the cafeteria. She gets in line for the fish and waves at the girls at the Invisibles table a little spastically. She’s w
earing her I-can’t-wait-to-tell-you face. I’m guessing it involves prom.
I take a bite of soggy pizza and remind myself that I don’t want to go to prom. I’d so much rather stay home with Ben and Jerry and watch chick flicks with Mom, who needs some major R & R.
Why does this plan depress me so much?
“You’ll never guess what happened,” I pick up from Wendy as she flops down into the chair at the Invisibles table a few feet away. For a moment she meets my eyes, and I know that we both wish that we could get over our stupid fight and make up and then she’d be telling me all her exciting news.