“The boy from the other night? The boy from Guatemala?” my mom asked.
“Yes.”
My parents exchanged a glance I couldn’t read.
“El speth Faneuil, you explicitly told us you would be at the library with Ruth. You know better than to leave the library with someone else and not inform us. Especial y since it was with a boy we haven’t laid eyes on for three years,” my mom said, scolding me for the first time I could recal .
“I’m real y sorry. I should have cal ed you.”
“Yes, you should have. You should have turned on your cel phone, at least,” she said.
“Why didn’t you, El ie?” My dad sounded so hurt that it brought tears to my eyes, for the second time that night.
“I just forgot, Dad.”
My dad sighed. “Oh, El ie, if you only knew how important you were, you wouldn’t scare us like this or place yourself in jeopardy. You are so special, not just to us, but—” What on earth was my dad saying? Cal ing me “special” went against everything they’d taught me.
My mom uncharacteristical y interrupted him. “What Dad means is that we love you and we want you to be safe. We thought that we had fostered a trust among us, but we can see that the teenage years are putting that to the test. You are going to have to be honest with us from now on, is that clear?”
“Yes, Mom.” At that moment, I real y meant it. I’d do anything to avoid seeing that wounded look on either of their perfect faces. They looked like they’d aged ten years in that one evening.
They stood up and gave me a hug. The squeeze reminded me that my body ached in exhaustion from al the evening’s tumult. I yearned for sleep.
“Do you mind if I head up to bed?” I asked.
“Of course not, El ie.” My dad gave me a kiss good night, and then smiled. “There’s just one more thing.”
“Sure, Dad.”
“We’re going to need to reacquaint ourselves with this Michael.”
Chapter Thirteen
I expected that rest would elude me even though my body desperately craved sleep. I guessed that thoughts of Michael and the cove and his cliff-dive would prevent my eyes from closing at al . But the moment I crawled under my quilt and laid down on my pil ow, I was out.
Wel , out to this world, anyway. Instead, I entered the familiar world of my recurring dream. I awoke in that world with a stronger urge to fly than ever. The impulse propel ed me out of my bedroom window and onto my usual route. I soared through Til inghast’s old cobblestone streets with new speed and reckless abandon. Although I made the customary stop at the vil age green with its whitewashed church gaping at me like some cyclopic eye, it was quicker than ever. I had the feeling that there was somewhere else I needed to be.
Before heading to the shore like I usual y did, I fol owed the blue light coming from a house near the beach. From my last dream, I knew this was Michael’s house. Although I remembered what had gone on between us earlier that day in the real world, the knowledge did not lessen my desire to see him in this dreamscape. I didn’t feel mad at him anymore, just peaceful and excited to be with him.
I went immediately to the second floor bedroom where the light came from—Michael’s bedroom. As before, he sat at his desk, staring out at the sea, his blond hair bright against the darkness. I flew close to his window, but unlike my last dream, the wind didn’t compete for my attention to Michael. I reached out my hand for him.
This time, Michael saw me. He stretched out his arm and clasped my hand with his. With that motion, he lifted out of his window and floated in the air by my side. It al seemed so natural and effortless that we didn’t even need to speak. We smiled at each other and set out.
At first, we just flew around the sleeping streets of Til inghast. Darting in between stores and homes and campus buildings, we reveled in the experience of flying together. He pushed me to climb higher, and I dared him to race me down the streets. We laughed at the sheer thril of it, and I wished that real life could be this easy.
But then Michael took my hand and led me away from Til inghast toward the coast. In my dreams, I’d often flown along the shore, but Michael guided me on a route unknown to me. I gaped in awe as we sped past huge razor-edged rocks and pebbly sand beaches and enormous white-capped ocean waves.
And then he stopped. As I peered down, I realized that I had been here before—by car earlier in the day. We had arrived at the cliff overlooking Ransom Beach.
Slowly, we lowered ourselves to the ground. I studied the setting. It was the darkest hour of the night and the moon was only a quarter ful , yet I could see every rock and every blade of grass as if it were midday. Better, in fact. I was real y starting to like this dream world.
Even though standing on that flat cliff top reminded me of my earlier anger and fear, it didn’t shake the sense of calm and delight that pervaded this idyl ic dream. I was curiously detached from my rage. Real life only crept in for a moment as I silently wished I could bottle the peace and use it whenever Piper and Missy real y got to me.
Michael strode to the very edge of the cliff. Strangely, I felt compel ed to join him. As I walked toward him, my feet felt heavy, almost leaden, after the ease and lightness of flying. Michael smiled at me, as if he understood that walking had become foreign to me after al the flying, and offered his arm. I grabbed on to it tightly and fol owed him back to the precipice. Somehow I knew what we were about to do, and I welcomed it.
We stretched out our arms and dove.
The wind whipped against my face as we plunged headlong down the sixty-foot cliff face. Jagged rocks and smooth-edged boulders whizzed right past me, but I wasn’t scared; I was exhilarated. Anyway, I knew that, if it got to be too much, I could always wake up.
Just before we hit the sand headfirst, we leveled off. We floated down the remaining few inches and landed feetfirst in the cove, our hands stil locked together. In the hazy moonlight, the white sand of the cove shimmered against the blackness of the sea. I was so happy Michael had brought me back to Ransom Beach. It occurred to me that perhaps that had been his intention earlier that day—to share this beautiful spot with me.
“It was my intention. In part.” He spoke as if answering my thoughts. Or had I said my thoughts aloud?
“I realize that now. I am so sorry that I got mad and cut our visit short.”
“Don’t be sorry, El ie. It’s my fault. I had another intention, one you weren’t ready for.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted to show you something. But it was too much, too soon.”
I didn’t respond. I knew what he was going to say next, but I didn’t want him to say it. I wanted to remain in this tranquil moment, happy with Michael and this place. But I knew he couldn’t let it go—wouldn’t let it go—once he started, and I knew his words would shatter the serenity.
“I wanted to show you what we are.”
I shook my hand free of his. “Michael, I told you already. There’s nothing to show.”
“El ie, think about it. The flying, the insights we have about others, and the power of blood. Especial y the blood.”
I felt myself getting mad at him again. “And exactly what does this bizarre equation equal?”
“I think—” He stopped as if the words were hard, even for him. “I think that we’re vampires.”
Even I hadn’t guessed his ludicrous theory, and I was torn between laughing and hitting him. I opted for laughing. “Come on, Michael, that’s ridiculous. And anyway, this is just a dream.”
“This isn’t a dream, El ie. Don’t you remember the apple tree leaf caught in your hair from your last ‘dream’?”
I didn’t want to hear any more, so I wil ed myself to wake up. The cove started to blur, and I could feel myself fade away.
Before I total y disappeared, I heard Michael cal out. His voice was muffled and faint as if from a far distance, but I swear he said, “When you leave your house tomorrow morning for school, I promise that I’l be waiting for you. That way you’l know that this is not a dream.”