One minute you’re a happy fourteen-yearold—good at everything you try, popular, fun—the next you’re a freak with wings
Cynthia HandMots clés clara-gardner
The odds of surviving are not good for serfs, or clerics, since they tended the sick, but miraculously I survive. Mr. Erikson rewards me with a laminated badge that reads, I SURVIVED THE BLACK PLAGUE.
Mom will be so proud.
Mots clés clara black-plague
That wasn’t Christian,” she says.
“Brilliant observation, Mother.”
“What happened?”
“He’s in love with another girl,” I say, and pull the silver laurel out of my hair.
I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, which keeps the business part of my brain temporarily disabled.
Cynthia HandGo with polar bears, I say to myself. Polar bears at the North Pole. Baby polar bears scooting along after their mothers in the snow. Polar bears drinking Coca-Cola.
Cynthia HandYes. But mostly I’m a normal girl.” I know he won’t believe that. I wonder if he’ll ever treat me like a normal girl again. That’s part of what I love about being with Tucker.
He makes me feel normal, not in a plain Jane, nondescript way, but like I’m enough, just being me, without all the angel stuff. I almost start to cry thinking I’m going to lose that.
…sitting on the sidewalk outside of his workplace like some creepy stalker ex-girlfriend, waiting for him to come out so I can ambush him with love.
Cynthia HandI see something like fear on his face. What if I’m an alien invader trying to lure him to a secluded place so I can suck his brains out? Or a vampire, ravenous for his blood?
Cynthia HandI’m not an angel. I don’t live in heaven or play a golden harp or have heart-to-heart conversations with the Almighty.
Cynthia HandI love that he says heck.
I've totally had enough of hell.
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