While Tucker goes to the kitchen to get me a drink, Ava Peters grabs my arm.

“How long have you and Tucker been together?” she asks with a sly smile.

“We’re just friends,” I stammer.

“Oh.” She frowns slightly. “Sorry, I thought . . .”

“You thought what?” asks Tucker, suddenly standing beside me with a red plastic cup in each hand.

“I thought you two were an item,” says Ava.

“We’re just friends,” he says. He meets my eyes briefly, then hands me one of the cups.

“What is this?”

“Rum and Coke. I hope you like coconut rum.”

I’ve never had rum. Or tequila or vodka or whiskey or anything but the tiniest bit of wine at a fancy dinner now and then. My mom lived during Prohibition. But right now she’s a thousand miles away probably sound asleep in her hotel room in Mountain View, completely unaware that her daughter is at an unsupervised teen party about to guzzle down her first hard liquor.

What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Cheers.

I take a sip of the drink. I don’t detect even the slightest hint of coconut, or alcohol. It tastes exactly like regular old Coca-Cola.

“It’s good, thank you,” I say.

“Nice party, Ava,” Tucker says. “You really pulled out all the stops.”

“Thanks,” she says serenely. “I’m glad you made it. You too, Clara. Good to finally get to know you.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s good to be known.”

Tucker’s so different from Christian, I muse on the way home from the party. He’s popular in a completely different way, not because he’s rich (which he’s definitely not, in spite of his many jobs—he doesn’t even have a cell phone) or because he’s good-looking (which he definitely is, although his appeal is this kind of sexy-rugged whereas Christian’s is sexy-broody). Christian’s popular because, like Wendy always says, he’s kind of like a god. Beautiful and perfect and a little removed. Made to be worshipped. Tucker’s popular because he has this way of putting people at ease.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks because I haven’t said anything in a while.

“You’re different than I thought you were.”

He keeps his eyes on the road but the dimple appears in his lean cheek. “What did you think I was?”

“A rude hick.”

“Geez, blunt much?” he says, laughing.

“It’s not like you didn’t know. You wanted me to think that.”

He doesn’t reply. I wonder if I’ve said too much. I can never seem to hold my tongue around him.

“You’re different than I thought you were too,” he says.

“You thought I was this spoiled California chick.”

“I still think you’re a spoiled California chick.” I punch him hard on the shoulder. “Ow. See?”

“How am I different?” I ask, trying to mask my nervousness. It’s amazing how much I suddenly care about what he thinks of me. I look out the window, dangling my arm out as we drive through the trees toward my house. The summer night air is warm and silky on my face. The full moon overhead spills a dreamy silver light onto the forest. Crickets chirp. A cool, pine-scented breeze rustles the leaves. A perfect night.

“Come on, how am I different?” I ask Tucker again.

“It’s hard to explain.” He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s just so much to you that’s under the surface.”

“Hmm. How mysterious,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice light.

“Yep, you’re like an iceberg.”

“Gee, thanks. I think the problem is that you always underestimate me.”

We pull up to my house, which seems dark and empty, and I want to stay in the truck. I’m not ready for the night to be over.

“Nope,” he says. He puts the truck in park and turns to look at me with somber eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could fly to the moon.”

I suck in a breath.

“You want to pick huckleberries with me tomorrow?” he asks.

“Huckleberries?”

“They sell in town for fifty bucks a gallon. I know this spot where there are like a hundred bushes. I go out there a few times a summer. It’s early in the season, but there should be some berries because it’s been so hot lately. It’s good money.”

“Okay,” I say, surprising myself. “I’ll go.”

He jumps out and circles around to open the door for me. He holds out his hand and helps me climb down from the truck.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“Night, Carrots.”

“Night, Tuck.”

He leans against the truck and waits as I go inside. I flip on the porch light and observe him from a corner of the living room window until the back of the rusty truck disappears in the trees. Then I run upstairs to my bedroom and watch the taillights as they move smoothly down our long driveway to the main road.

I look at myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door. The girl who stares back was tossed around by a wild river and her tangerine-colored hair dried in loose waves all around her face. She’s starting to tan, even though angel-bloods don’t burn or tan easily. And tomorrow she’ll be on the side of some mountain, hunting for huckleberries with a real-live rodeo cowboy.

“What are you doing?” I ask the girl in the mirror. She doesn’t answer. She gazes at me with bright eyes like she knows something I don’t.

I’m not totally cut off from the world. Angela emails me every now and then, tells me about Rome and says, in her own version of code, that she’s finding out amazing stuff about angels. She’ll write things like, It’s dark outside right now. I’m turning on the light, which I take to mean she’s getting a lot of good info on Black Wings. When she writes, It’s so hot I have to change my clothes all the time, I think she’s telling me she’s practicing changing the form of her wings. She doesn’t say much more. Nothing about the mysterious Italian lover, but she sounds happy. Like she’s having a suspiciously good time.

I also hear from Wendy occasionally, whenever she can make it to a pay phone. She sounds tired but content, spending her days with horses, learning from the best. She doesn’t mention Tucker, or the time I’ve been spending with him lately, but I suspect that she knows all about it.

When I get a text from Christian I realize it’s been a while since I’ve thought about him. I’ve been so busy running around with Tucker. I haven’t even had the vision lately. This week I almost forgot I was an angel-blood and simply let myself be a regular girl having a perfectly normal summer. Which is nice. And makes me feel guilty, because I’m supposed to be focusing on my purpose.

His text says:

Have you ever been to a place you’re supposed to love, but all you can think about is home?

Cryptic. And as usual when it comes to Christian, I don’t know how to respond.

I hear a car pulling into the driveway, and then the sound of the garage door. Mom’s home. I do a quick sweep around the house to make sure everything is in order, dishes washed, laundry folded, Jeffrey still in a food coma upstairs. All is right in the Gardner house. When she comes in, towing her huge suitcase, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter with two tall glasses of iced tea.

“Welcome home,” I say brightly.

She puts her suitcase down and holds out her arms. I jump off my stool and step sheepishly into her hug. She squeezes me tight, and it makes me feel like a kid again. Safe. Right. Like nothing was normal when she was gone.

She pulls back and looks me up and down. “You look older,” she says. “Seventeen suits you.”

“I feel older. And stronger lately, for whatever reason.”

“I know. You should be feeling stronger every day now, the closer we get to your purpose. Your power is growing.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. What are my powers, exactly?

“I can fly now,” I blurt out suddenly. It’s been two weeks since Inspiration Point, a hundred crashes and scrapes, but I’ve finally gotten the hang of it. It feels like something she should know. I lift my pant leg to show her a scratch on my shin from the top of a pine tree I passed over too closely.