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all staring at me, and I don’t know why. I glance back, and the heel on my nice shoe catches. I lose my balance on the stairs, almost falling, but Christian’s there again, his hand at my waist, steadying me. For a moment we stare at each other. His body radiates a kind of heat that makes me want to step closer to him.

    “Thanks,” I whisper, and I open my eyes to my bedroom ceiling, a strong cold wind still rattling the trees outside.

    “You’re freaking out,” Angela observes with a mouthful of green bean salad. We’re sitting at a booth in the Rendezvous Bistro in Jackson on a Saturday night, post–action movie, eating salad because that’s all we can afford at this place.

    “I’m fine,” I say.

    “You are so not fine. You should see yourself.”

    “Well, it sucks, okay? I just wish I knew if it’s a dream or another vision, or what.” Angela nods thoughtfully. “Your mom said that some angel-bloods have their visions as dreams, right, while they’re sleeping?”

    “Yeah, she said that, before I started having mine, way back when she was okay with telling me useful information. But I’ve always had my visions while I was awake.”

    “Me too,” Angela says.

    “So it makes me wonder, is this dream thing for real, or is it, you know, the result of bad chow mein at dinner? Is this a divine message, or my subconscious talking here? And either way, what’s it telling me?”

    “See, there you go freaking out,” she says. “It’s messed up, C. You won’t even look at Christian during Angel Club. It’s like you two take turns avoiding each other. I’d find it hilarious if I didn’t find it so totally sad.”

    “I know,” I say. “I’m working on it.”

    She cocks her head at me sympathetically. “I like Tucker, Clara. Really I do. He’s a stellar guy, no one would argue with that. But have you considered the possibility that you’re not supposed to be with him? That you’re supposed to be with Christian, that he’s your destiny, that you’re supposed to fly off into the sunset together?”

    “Of course I have.” I put my fork down, not hungry anymore. Destiny can really put a damper on the appetite. “I don’t know why he even cares,” I say.

    “Why who cares? Tucker? Or Christian?”

    “God.”

    She laughs. “Well, that’s the big mystery, isn’t it?”

    “I mean, I’m seventeen years old. Why does He care who I . . .”

    “Love,” she supplies when I don’t finish the sentence. “Who you love.” We’re quiet while the waiter refills our drinks.

    “Anyway, you should write this dream stuff down,” she says. “Because it could be important. Check for variations, like you did with your vision. You should ask Christian about it too, because who knows, maybe he’s having the same dream, and if he is, then you can figure it out together.”

    It’s not a terrible idea. Except that I’m not exactly crazy about spilling to Christian that I’ve been dreaming about him.

    “What does your mom say?” Angela asks, gnawing on a bread stick.

    “I haven’t told her about it.”

    She looks at me as if I just told her I’d been thinking of dabbling in heroin.

    “Why should I? She never tells me anything. Even if I did tell her, I’m sure she’d only bury me in platitudes about trusting my feelings and listening to my heart or some crap like that.
    Besides, we don’t know that it means anything,” I say. “It’s probably just a dream. People have recurring dreams all the time.”

    “If you say so,” she says.

    “Can we talk about something else now?”

    So we do. We talk about the rain, which Angela agrees is excessive. We talk about Spirit Week at school and whether or not it would be fair for us to use our special gifts to win the Powderpuff game on Wednesday. She tells me about this old book she found in Italy this summer that seems to be some kind of angel-blood roster during the seventeenth century.

    “It’s like a group of them,”