She puts her fork down with a sigh, then looks at me across the table and raises her eyebrows. It takes me a second to realize that I’m reading her emotions.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Didn’t feel like spaghetti?”

I glance down at my plate. I’ve hardly touched my food. “It’s good. I’m just—”

You’re dying, I think. How can I eat when I know you’re dying and there’s nothing we can do to stop it?

“Can I be excused?” I’m out of my chair before she has a chance to answer the question.

“Sure,” she says with a bemused smile. “I’m going to go to Jeffrey’s match in a bit. Do you want to come?”

I shake my head.

“We can talk later, if you want,” she says.

“Can I say no? I mean, maybe sometime, but right now, I don’t really want to talk. Is that okay?”

“Of course. This is going to take some time to get used to, for all of us.”

I retreat to the quiet of my bedroom and lock the door. Will I ever get used to the idea that I’m going to lose my mother? It seems so ridiculous, such an impossible thing to happen, my mother, who’s like Supermom, cheering at all Jeffrey’s games, videotaping my dance recitals, whipping up cupcakes for the wrestling team bake sale, not to mention fending off Black Wings, able to literally leap (okay fly, but what’s the diff?) over buildings in a single bound. And she’s going to die. I know exactly what it will be like. We’re going to put her body in a coffin. In the ground.

It’s like a bad dream, and I can’t wake up.

I reach for my phone. Dial Tucker’s number automatically. Wendy answers.

“I need to talk to Tucker.”

“Um, he’s kind of lost his phone privileges.”

“Wen, please,” I say, and my voice breaks. “I need to talk to Tucker. Right now.”

“Okay.” She runs to get him. I hear her telling him that she thinks something’s wrong with me.

“Hey, Carrots,” he says when he picks up, “what’s the matter?”

“It’s my mom,” I whisper. “It’s my mom.”

There’s movement outside my window. Christian. I can feel his worry radiating like a heat lamp. He wants to tell me that he understands. He lost his mother too. I’m not alone. But he’s making up his mind not to say those things to me, because he knows that ultimately words are meaningless at times like these. He just wants to sit with me, for hours, if that’s what I need. He would listen if I wanted to vent. He’d hug me.

It’s something I didn’t entirely expect from him. When I told Tucker he kept saying he was so sorry, over and over again, and I could tell he didn’t know what else to say, how to react to news like this, so I told him I had to go and let him off the hook.

I get up and go to the window and stand for a minute looking at Christian, at his back, since he’s turned away from me, perched in his usual spot on the eaves. He’s wearing the black fleece jacket. I know this angle of him so well. He’s here for me. It’s like he’s always been here, in some way or another.

A snowflake strikes the glass. Then another. Then it really starts to come down, big, heavy flakes, floating toward the house. Christian unzips the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a black knit hat and puts it on. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. And he waits.

I have the urge to call for him. In my mind I can see how it would play out. I’d open the window and say his name into the chilled air. I’d go to him. He’d turn. He’d try to say something but I’d stop him. I’d take his hand and lead him back through the window, back to my room, and then he’d take me in his arms. It’d be like my dream. He’d make it better. I could lean on him. It would be as easy, I think, as calling his name.

His back stiffens. Does he hear all these thoughts rattling around in my brain?

I back away from the window.

I tell myself that I don’t want to feel better. There should be no happiness or comfort in all of this. I want to be devastated. So I turn away from Christian and slip into the bathroom to change into my pajamas. I ignore Christian’s presence when I come out and he’s still here. He must be freezing out there, but I push the thought out of my head. I lie down on my bed, my back to the window, and the tears finally arrive, running down my face, into my ears, onto my pillow. I lie there for a long time, for hours maybe, and right as I’m about to finally drift to sleep I think I hear the flutter of Christian’s wings as he flies away.

Chapter 10

The Absence of Certainty

I close my physics book, where I’ve tried unsuccessfully to solve the same problem about the Heisenberg principle three times this morning. So much for good grades, I think. Who cares about grades, anyway? At least I’ve already applied to my colleges, even caved to Angela and applied to Stanford, which I still think is a long shot, regardless of what Mom says.

Maybe I shouldn’t even go to college. I mean, Jeffrey will turn sixteen about the time Mom dies, and even though he’s agreed to this whole Billy-the-legal-guardian thing, he’s going to need me here, too, right? I’m his only family.

I lie back on my bed and close my eyes. The days have started to blur together. Weeks have passed since Mom confirmed her death sentence. I go to school like nothing has changed. I come home. I do my homework. I keep showering and I brush my teeth and I carry on. We’ve had a few Angel Club meetings, but it doesn’t seem so important now. Jeffrey has stopped going altogether. I’ve stopped trying so hard to bring the glory, now that I understand that there’s not a lot I can do. I can’t save my mother. I can’t do anything but trudge through my semblance of a life like a zombie. Tucker and I have gone on double dates with Wendy and Jason, and I try to pretend everything’s fine, everything’s normal. But it’s like somebody has hit the pause button on my life.

My mom is dying. It’s hard to think about anything else. Some part of me still doesn’t believe it’s true.

Something smacks my window. I open my eyes, startled. A clump of snow slides down the glass. It takes me a second to compute: somebody threw a snowball at my window.

I hurry over and open the window as a second snowball comes sailing through the air. I have to duck at the last second so I don’t get beaned in the head.

“Hey!” I yell.

“Sorry.” It’s Christian, standing down in the yard. “I wasn’t aiming for you.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Trying to get your attention.”

I look past him toward the front of the house, where I see his shiny black truck parked in the driveway. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to get you out of the house.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been holed up here all week, brooding,” he says, squinting up at me. “You need to get out. You need to have some fun.”

“And you’ve appointed yourself as the bringer of fun.”

He smiles. “I have.”

“So where are you taking me? Assuming, that is, that I’m crazy enough to go.”

“The mountain, of course.” The mountain. Like there’s only one. But when he says that my heart automatically starts to beat faster.

Because I know exactly what he means.

“Dust off your gear,” he says. “We’re going skiing.”

Okay, so I can’t say no to skiing. It’s my drug of choice. So that’s how I find myself, about an hour later, perched on the chairlift next to Christian, sucking on a cherry Jolly Rancher, dangling over a snowy slope watching skiers weave lines down the hill. It’s a rush being so high up, the cold air on my face and hearing the scrape of skis on snow. It’s heavenly.