I laugh. “You bribed somebody last year?”

“Not officially,” Tucker admits. “I asked Mrs. Lowell, the lady in the office in charge of scheduling, real nice if she could get me into Brit. History. At the last minute, too, I mean like ten minutes before class started. I’m friends with her daughter, which helped.”

“But why . . . ?”

He laughs. “You’re cute when you’re slow.”

“Because of me? No way. You hated me. I was that yuppie California chick who insulted your truck.”

He grins. I shake my head in bewilderment.

“You’re crazy, you know that.”

“Aw, and here I thought I was being sweet and romantic and stuff.”

“Right. So, you’re friends with Mrs. Lowell’s daughter? What’s her name?” I ask with mock jealousy.

“Allison. She’s a nice girl. She was one of the girls I took to prom last year.”

“Pretty?”

“Well, she’s got red hair. I kind of have a thing for red hair,” he says. I punch him lightly on the arm. “Hey. I kind of have a thing for tough girls, too.” I laugh again. That’s when I feel the surge of frustration, so strong it wipes the smile right off my face.

Christian.

This kind of thing’s been happening lately. Sometimes, usually when I least expect it, it’s as if I’m allowed access into other people’s heads. Like now, for instance, I can perceive Christian’s presence on the other side of me so keenly that it’s like he’s boring holes into me with his eyes. I don’t get what he’s thinking in words so much as what he feels—he notices how natural it is for me to fall into this easy conversation with Tucker. He wishes that I would joke around with him that way, that we could finally speak to each other, finally connect. He wants to make me laugh like that.

Knowing this, by the way, totally sucks. Mom calls it empathy, says that it’s a rare gift among angel-bloods. Rare gift, ha. I wonder if there’s a return policy.

Tucker looks over my shoulder and seems to notice Christian for the first time.

“How you doing, Chris? Have a nice summer?” he asks.

“Yeah, fantastic,” answers Christian, and his mind suddenly retreats from mine into a wave of forced indifference. “How about you?”

They stare at each other, one of those high-testosterone stares. “Amazing,” Tucker says.

There’s a challenge in his voice. “Best summer of my life.” I wonder if it’s too late to get out of this class.

“Well, that’s the thing about summers, isn’t it?” says Christian after a minute. “They have to end sometime.”

It’s a relief when class is over. But then I have to stand at the doorway of the cafeteria and decide what to do about lunch.

Option A: My usual. Invisibles table. Wendy. Chitchat. Maybe some awkward talk about how I’m dating her twin brother now, and maybe her asking about what exactly happened out there in the woods the day of the fire, which I don’t know how to answer. Still, she’s one of my best friends, and I don’t want to keep avoiding her.

Option B: Angela. Angela likes to eat alone, and people usually give her a lot of space.

Maybe, if I sat with her, they would give me a lot of space. But then I’d have to answer Angela’s questions and listen to her theories, which she’s pretty much been bombarding me with for the past few days.

Option C (not really an option): Christian. Standing casually in the corner, deliberately not looking at me. Not expecting anything, not pressuring me, but there. Wanting me to know he’s there. Hopeful.

No way I’m going in that direction.

Then the decision kind of gets made for me. Angela looks up. She tilts her head to indicate the empty seat next to her. When I don’t hop to it, she mouths, “Get over here.” Bossy.

I go over to her corner and sink into a seat. She’s reading a small, dusty book. She closes it and slides it across the table to me.

“Check this out,” she says.

I read the title. “The Book of Enoch?”

“Yep. A really, really, ridiculously old copy, so watch the pages. They’re delicate. We’re going to need to talk about this ASAP. But first—” She looks up, then calls loudly, “Hey, Christian.”

Oh. My. God. What is she doing?

“Angela, wait a second, don’t—”

She waves him over. This could be bad.

“What’s up?” he says, cool and composed as ever.

“You’re going out to lunch, right?” Angela asks. “You always go out.” His eyes flicker over to mine. “I was considering it.”

“Right, well, I don’t want to mess up your plans or anything, but I think you and me and Clara should have a meeting after school. At my mom’s theater, the Pink Garter, in town.” Christian looks confused. “Um, sure. Why?”

“Let’s just call it a new club I’m starting,” says Angela. “The Angel Club.” He glances at me again, and yep, there’s betrayal in his green eyes, because obviously I’ve gone and blabbed his biggest secret to Angela. I want to explain to him that Angela is like a bloodhound when it comes to secrets, virtually impossible to get anything by her, but it doesn’t matter. She knows. He knows she knows. Damage is done. I glare at Angela.

“She’s one too,” I say simply, mostly because I know Angela wanted to spring it on him herself, and it makes me feel better to ruin her plans. “And she’s crazy, obviously.” Christian nods, like this revelation comes as no surprise.

“But you’re going to be there, at the Pink Garter,” he says to me.

“I guess so.”

“Okay. I’m in,” he tells Angela, but he’s still looking at me. “We need to talk, anyway.” Awesome.

“Awesome,” says Angela cheerfully. “See you after school.”

“See you,” he says, then wanders out of the cafeteria.

I turn to Angela. “I hate you.”

“I know. But you need me, too. Otherwise nothing would ever get done.”

“I still hate you,” I say, even though she’s right. Kind of. This whole Angel Club thing actually sounds like a great idea, if it can help me figure out what it means that Christian and I didn’t fulfill our purpose, since my mom still isn’t exactly forthcoming on the subject. Angela’s stellar with research. If anyone could uncover the consequences for angel-blood purpose-failure, it’s her.