Unearthly (Unearthly 1)

We hear a blast of music as Jeffrey comes out of his room and tromps his huge feet down the hall and into the bathroom. When I look at Mom again she’s her usual sunny self.

“Some of it you have to take on faith,” she says.

“Yeah, I know,” I say resignedly. A lump rises in my throat. I want to ask so many questions. But she never wants to answer them. She never lets me into her secret angel world, and I don’t understand why.

“I should sleep,” I say. “Big British History presentation tomorrow.”

“All right,” she says.

She looks exhausted. Purple shadows under her eyes. I even notice a few fine lines in the corners I’ve never seen before. She might pass for mid-forties now, which is still good considering that she’s a hundred and eighteen years old. But I’ve never seen her look so worn out.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I put my hand over hers. Her skin is cool and damp, which startles me.

“I’m fine.” She pulls her hand out from under mine. “It’s been a long week.”

She gets up and goes to the door.

“You ready?” She reaches for the light switch.

“Yeah.”

“Good night,” she says, and turns off the light.

For a moment she stands in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from the hall.

“I love you, Clara,” she says. “Don’t forget that, okay?”

I want to cry. How did we get so much space between us in such a short time?

“I love you too, Mom.”

Then she goes out and closes the door, and I’m alone in the dark.

“One more coat,” says Angela. “Your hair is so . . . aggravating!”

“I told you,” I say.

She sprays another toxic cloud of hair spray at my head. I cough. When my eyes stop watering I look into the mirror. Queen Elizabeth stares back. She does not look amused.

“I think we might actually land an A.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” says Angela, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “I’m doing most of the talking, remember? You just have to stand there and look pretty.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I grumble. “This getup must weigh a hundred pounds.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Wait a sec,” I say. “When did you get glasses? You have perfect vision.”

“It’s my costume. You play the queen. I play the studious straight-A student who knows everything there is to know about the Elizabethan age.”

“Wow. You’re sick, you know that?”

“Come on,” she says. “The bell’s about to ring.”

The other students part to let me pass as I follow Angela down the hall. I try to smile as they point and whisper. We stop right outside the door to British History. Angela turns and starts to fiddle with my dress.

“Nice ruffs,” she teases.

“You so owe me.”

“Wait here.” She looks the tiniest bit nervous. “I’ll announce you.”

After she slips into the classroom, I stand in the hall listening, waiting, my heart suddenly beating fast. I hear Angela speaking, and Mr. Erikson answering. The class laughs at something he says. I peer through the tiny rectangular window in the classroom door. Angela is standing at the front of the class, pointing to the poster we whipped up with a timeline of the life of Queen Elizabeth. She’s going to announce me after the death of Queen Mary. Any minute now. I take a deep breath and stand up as straight as I can under the crushing weight of the gown.

Christian is in there. I can see him through the window, sitting in the front row, resting his head on his hand.

Christian has the nicest profile.

“So without further ado,” says Angela at last, loudly, “I give you Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth the first of the house of Tudor, Queen of England and Ireland . . . Tucker, get the door.”

The door swings open, and I step inside the classroom with as much poise as I can manage. Careful not to trip on the massive dress, I sweep to the front of the room to stand beside Angela. The class seems to take a collective breath.

Of course we weren’t able to completely replicate any of the actual gowns from the portraits of Elizabeth we printed off Wikipedia, the ones encrusted with emeralds and rubies and made from yards and yards of expensive fabrics, but Angela’s mom did a bang-up imitation. The gown is a deep gold color with a silver brocade pattern and a white silk undershirt that pokes through at the sleeves. We hot-glued fake pearls and glass jewels all around the edges. The corset cinches me into a little triangle in front; then the skirt flares out and down to the floor. The ruffs at my neck and wrists are made of stiff white lace, also decorated with faux pearls. To top it off, my face is painted nearly white, something that’s supposed to represent Elizabeth’s purity, with red lips. Angela parted my hair down the middle and rolled it into an elaborate braided bun in the back, then pinned on a small crownlike headpiece made out of wire and pearls, with a tiny pearl that dangles right in the middle of my forehead. A long piece of white velvet hangs off the back like a bride’s veil.

The class stares at me like I am the real Queen Elizabeth, transported through time. I suddenly feel beautiful and powerful, like the blood of kings is truly pumping through my veins. I’m not Bozo anymore.

“Queen Mary is dead,” Angela says. “Long live Queen Elizabeth.”

Now it’s my turn. I close my eyes, take in as much air as I can, given the corset, then lift my head and look out at the class like they are now my loyal subjects.

“My lords, the law of nature moves me to sorrow for my sister,” I say in my best British accent. “The burden that is fallen upon me makes me amazed, and yet, considering I am God’s creature, ordained to obey His appointment, I will thereto yield, desiring from the bottom of my heart that I may have assistance of His grace to be the minister of His heavenly will in this office now committed to me.”

The class is quiet. I glance at Christian, who’s looking right at me like he’s never seen me before. Our eyes meet. He smiles.

I suddenly catch a whiff of smoke in the air.

Not now, I think, as if the vision is a person I can command. The next line of my speech flies out of my head. I begin to see the outlines of trees.

Please, I think at the vision desperately. Go away.

No use. I’m with Christian in the forest. I look into his gold-flecked eyes. He’s so close this time, so close that I can smell his wonderful mix of soap and boy. I could reach out and touch him. I want to. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so much in my life. But I feel the sorrow building in me, that grief so powerful and painful that my eyes instantly flood with tears. I’d almost forgotten that grief. I lower my head, and that’s when I see that he’s holding my hand, Christian’s long fingers wrapped around mine. His thumb drags over my knuckles. I suck in a shocked breath.