Unearthly (4 page)

“And,” Kay adds as her final touch, “Christian Prescott is my boyfriend.”

I dislike her already.

“Very good, Kay,” says 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,” says 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,” says 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, and 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.

This doesn't get a laugh, either, just a pity chuckle from Wendy. I'm apparently not cut out to be a stand-up comedian.

“Thank you, Clara,” says Mr. Phibbs.

The last student to name her three things is the black-haired girl who looked at me so attentively when I mentioned the weird thing with the birds. Her name, she says, is Angela Zerbino. She tucks her side-swept bangs behind her ear and lists her three unique things quickly.

“My mother owns the Pink Garter. I've never met my father. And I'm a poet.”

Another awkward silence. She looks around the circle like she's daring someone to challenge her. Nobody meets her eyes.

“Good,” says Mr. Phibbs, clearing his throat. He peruses his notes. “Now we know each other better. But how do people really get to know each other? Is it with facts, the specifics about ourselves that distinguish us from the other six and a half billion people on this planet? Is it our brains that make us different, the way each person is like a computer programmed with a different mix of software, memories, habits, and genetic makeup? Is it what we do, the actions we take? What would your three things have been, I wonder, if I'd told you to name the most defining actions you have taken in your life?”

I see a flash of the fire in my mind's eye.

“This spring we'll be spending a lot of time discussing what it is to be unique,” continues Mr. Phibbs. He stands and hobbles over to the small table at the back of the room, where he picks up a stack of books and begins to pass them out.

“Our first book of the semester,” he says.

Frankenstein
.

“It's alive!” yells the guy with the pink lady on his snowboard, holding up his book as if he expects it to be struck by lightning. Kay Patterson rolls her eyes.

“Ah, you're channeling Dr. Frankenstein already.” Mr. Phibbs turns to the whiteboard and writes the name
Mary Shelley
in black marker, along with the year
1817
. “This book was written by a woman not much older than you are now, who was reflecting on the battle between science and the natural world.”

He launches into a lecture about Jean-Jacques Rousseau and the impact his ideas had on art and literature at the time that Mary Shelley was writing. I try not to stare at Kay Patterson. I wonder what kind of girl she is, to snag a guy like Christian. And then, since I don't know anything about him other than what the back of his head looks like, and that he likes to rescue girls who pass out in the hall, I wonder what kind of guy Christian is.

I realize that I'm chewing on my pencil eraser. I put my pencil down.

“Mary Shelley wanted to explore what it is that makes us human,” Mr. Phibbs concludes. He glances over at me, meets my eyes like he knows I haven't been listening to a thing he's said for the past ten minutes, then looks away.

“I guess we'll find out,” he says as he holds up the book, and then the bell rings.

“You can sit at my table for lunch, if you want,” Wendy offers as we're leaving the classroom. “Did you pack your lunch? Or were you planning to go off campus?”

“No, I thought I'd get something here.”

“Well, I think today it's chicken-fried steak.” I make a face. “But you can always get pizza, or a peanut butter sandwich. Those are the JHHS staples.”

“Healthy.”

I shuffle through the line to get my food and follow Wendy over to her table, where a bunch of nearly identical-looking girls peer up at me expectantly. Wendy rattles off their names: Lindsey, Emma, and Audrey. They seem friendly enough. Definitely not pretty people, all wearing T-shirts and jeans, braids and ponytails, not a lot of makeup. But nice. Normal.

“So, you're like a group?” I ask as I sit down.

Wendy laughs.

“We call ourselves the Invisibles.”

“Oh . . . ,” I say, unsure of whether she's joking or how to respond.

“We're not freaks or geeks,” says Lindsey, Emma, or Audrey, I can't tell which. “We're just, well, you know,
invisible
.”

“Invisible to—”

“The popular people,” says Wendy. “They don't see us.”

Great. I fit right in with the Invisibles.

Across the cafeteria I catch a glimpse of Jeffrey sitting with a bunch of guys in letterman jackets. A little blond girl is gazing up at him adoringly. He says something. Everybody at his table laughs.

Unbelievable. In less than one day, he's Mr. Popular.

Someone pulls a chair up next to me. I turn. There is Christian, straddling the chair. For a moment all I can focus on is his green eyes. Maybe I'm not so invisible after all.

“So I hear you're from California,” he says.

“Yes,” I murmur, hurrying to chew and swallow a bite of peanut butter sandwich. The room is quieter now. The girls at the Invisibles table are gazing at him with wide eyes, as if he's never crossed into their territory before. As a matter of fact, pretty much everyone in the cafeteria is looking at us, a curious and almost predatory stare.

I take a quick sip of milk and give him what I hope is a food-free smile.

“We moved here from Mountain View. That's south of San Francisco,” I manage.

“I was born in L.A. We lived there until I was five, although I don't really remember much.”

“Nice.” My mind races for the right response to this information, some way to acknowledge this amazing thing we have in common. But I've got nothing. The most I can come up with is a nervous giggle. A
giggle
, for crying out loud.

“I'm Christian,” he says suavely. “I didn't get the chance to introduce myself before.”

“Clara.” I put my hand out to shake, a gesture he seems to find charming. He takes my hand, and it's like my vision and the real world clap together at this moment. He smiles this stunning, lopsided smile. He's real. His hand around mine is warm and confident, just the right amount of pressure. I'm instantly dizzy.

“Nice to meet you, Clara,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Totally.”

He smiles again.
Hot
is really not an adequate enough word for this guy. He is crazy beautiful. And it's more than his looks—the intentionally messy waves of his dark hair; the strong eyebrows that make his expression a bit serious, even when he smiles; his eyes, which I notice can look emerald in one light and hazel in another; the sweetly sculpted angles of his face; the curve of his full lips. I've been seeing him from the front for all of ten minutes total and already I'm obsessing about his lips.

“Thank you for before,” I say.

“You're very welcome.”

“Hey, ready to go?” Kay walks up and puts her hand on the back of his neck in a decidedly possessive gesture, spearing her fingers through his hair. Her expression is so carefully neutral it could have been sprayed on, like she couldn't care less who her boyfriend's talking to. Christian turns to look up at her, his face practically even with her breasts. Around her neck dangles a shiny silver half heart with the initials
C.P.
stamped into it. He smiles.

Spell effectively broken.

“Yeah, just a sec,” he says. “Kay, this is—”

“Clara Gardner,” she says, nodding. “She's in my English class. Moved here from California. Doesn't like birds. No good at math.”

“Yeah, that's me in a nutshell,” I say.

“What? Did I miss something?” asks Christian, confused.

“Nothing. Just a stupid exercise we did in Phibbs's class. We better go if we want to get back before next period,” she says, then turns to me and smiles, a flash of perfect white teeth. I'd bet money that she wore braces at some point. “There's this great Chinese place we like to hit for lunch about a mile from here. You'll have to try it sometime with your friends.” Translation:
You and I will never be friends
.

“I like Chinese,” I say.

Christian hops up from the chair. Kay tucks her arm in his and smiles at him from under her lashes and starts to lead him out of the cafeteria.

“Nice to meet you,” he calls back to me. “Again.”

And then he's gone.

“Wow,” remarks Wendy, who's been sitting right next to me the entire time without making a sound. “Impressive attempt at flirtation.”

“I guess I was inspired,” I say a bit dazedly.

“Well, I don't think there are many girls here who aren't inspired by Christian Prescott,” she says, which makes the other girls titter.

“Freshman year I had this fantasy that he'd ask me to the prom and I'd be crowned queen,” sighs the one I think is Emma, who then flushes bright red. “I'm over it now.”

“I'd put money on Christian being prom king this year.” Wendy scrunches up her nose. “But Kay's the queen. You'd better watch your back.”

“Is she that bad?”

Wendy laughs, then shrugs.

“She and I were good friends in grade school, had sleepovers and tea parties with our dolls and all of that, but when we hit junior high, it was like . . .” Wendy shakes her head sadly. “She's spoiled. But she's nice enough when you get to know her, I guess. She can be really sweet. But don't get on her bad side.”

I'm pretty sure I'm already on Kay Patterson's bad side. I could tell by the way she'd kept her voice light, friendly, but beneath it was an undercurrent of contempt.

I glance around the cafeteria. I notice the black-haired girl from English, Angela Zerbino. She's sitting by herself, her lunch untouched in front of her, reading a thick black book. She looks up. She nods, just the tiniest bob of her head, like she wants to acknowledge me. I hold her gaze for a moment, then look away. She goes back to reading her book.