She closes her eyes for a minute, takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“When?”

She looks at me. “In the fifties. Now back to Margot Whitfield, please.” I nod. “So you’re a Stanford alum. How many times have you been to college, anyway?”

“Let’s see,” she says, obviously relieved to be off the fifties and back to a time she’s comfortable with. “Four. I studied nursing, history, international relations, and computer programming.”

I let that sink in for a minute. “International relations?”

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Don’t tell me you were a spy?”

She smiles blandly.

“So that’s why you keep telling me to relax about the college thing. I don’t have to pick a single career. When you’re going to live hundreds of years, you have time to be everything that interests you.”

“When you live a long life,” she says, “you can do a lot of things. You have time. But if you want to go to Stanford with Angela, I think that might be great fun.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say. But if I go with Angela, Tucker and I are going to be separated.

We’re going to have to do the long-distance thing, and that does not sound like great fun to me.

I crawl back to bed around four, completely exhausted by this point, hoping to grab a couple hours of sleep before tomorrow begins. But I’m instantly sucked into the cemetery dream, which is not at all restful. For a few seconds I fight it, completely disoriented, stumbling as I make my way up the hill. I try to slow my breathing, remind myself that I actually want to be here, try to calm the immediate desperation and panic I feel to figure out who is going to die.

Look around, I tell myself. See who’s not here. Who should be here, and isn’t.

I spot Jeffrey, same as usual. I say his name. He doesn’t look at me, says, Let’s get this over with, like he does every time. I want to ask him, Who is it? But my lips won’t form the words. I am locked into what future-Clara is doing at this moment, which is walking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, and wishing she could cry. If I could just flipping cry, she thinks—I think —then maybe the ache wouldn’t be so bad.

All I can do is stay along for the ride and observe. Now that I know this is a cemetery, that this is a funeral procession, it seems so obvious. Everybody’s wearing dark clothes. I notice gravestones scattered around under the trees. I try to pay attention to more than the grief raging in my head.

It’s spring, I quickly figure out. The leaves on the trees, the grass, are new green. The air has that fresh-washed smell that comes after a spring rain, where you can still detect a hint of snow. There are the beginnings of wildflowers on the hillside.

It’s going to happen in the spring.

I can clearly make out Angela walking way off to the side, wearing a long violet dress.

There’s Mr. Phibbs, my English teacher. Come to think of it, I recognize several people from school, maybe because school is the only place in Jackson where I know anybody. I see Mrs.

Lowell, the school secretary, and her redheaded daughter, Allison. Kimber Lane, Jeffrey’s girlfriend. Ava Peters. Wendy, walking next to her parents, clutching a white rose to her chest. I see a flash of her face, which is paler than usual, her blue eyes all red and puffy. She doesn’t have a problem crying.

Who’s missing?

Warm fingers enclose mine. I look up at Christian. He squeezes my hand. I shouldn’t be letting him hold my hand, I think. I belong to Tucker.

You can do this, Christian says in my head. There’s no doubt in him. No hesitation. He’s not worried that Tucker’s going to show up and have a problem with him holding my hand.

The bottom of my stomach drops out.

Tucker.

Chapter 6

Sooner or Later

“Five more minutes, people.”

Government class. I’m watching Tucker take a test on the U.S. Constitution. I finished it fifteen minutes ago, so I’m sitting watching him as he leans over his paper, frowning, pausing to tap his pencil in a crazy rhythm on his desk like that might jog his memory. Things are clearly not going well.

At any other time I’d find him adorable like this, all frustrated and pursed in concentration.

But all I can think is, Who cares about a stupid government test? You’re going to die. And it’s my fault, somehow.

Stop it. Stop thinking that. You don’t know for sure.

But it feels like I do know. The conclusion I’ve come to is that Tucker was supposed to die in the fire. If I hadn’t abandoned my purpose, if I hadn’t flown off to save him, he would have died up there in the woods above Palisades. That was his destiny. I was supposed to choose Christian. Tucker was supposed to die. Now, with this new dream, it feels like the same thing playing out again. Christian and me, walking in the woods again. Tucker dead.

Only this time, it’s not some split decision that I have to make. This time I’ll have months to agonize over it.

And here’s the other realization I’ve come to: it doesn’t matter how much time I’m given to think it over. I’ll still choose Tucker. I don’t care if it screws up my purpose.

I’m not going to let him die.

The problem is, I don’t know how it’s going to happen, so I don’t know how to stop it.

It’s like that movie Final Destination, where these people were supposed to die in a plane crash, but they got off the plane and so Death comes hunting them down, one by one, because they were supposed to die. I’ve been over the craziest scenarios, like: a) Tucker gets in a car wreck, b) he chokes on a piece of meat at dinner, c) he gets struck by lightning because it never ever stops raining, d) he slips and falls in the shower and drowns, or e) his house gets hit by a meteor. But what can I do about that? It’s not like I can be with him all the time. I did get so wigged out that I sneaked out to his house a couple times in the middle of the night to watch over him while he slept, just in case, I don’t know, his comic book collection decided to spontaneously combust.

This was dumb and admittedly creepy in an Edward Cullen kind of way, but it was the only thing I could think to do. Thank God he’s not in rodeo anymore, since I don’t think I could bear to watch him try to ride a bull right now.

So I’ve appointed myself his guardian. I’ve also picked him up for school every day this week and driven us there so slowly that he’s started teasing me about driving like a granny. He’s noticed, of course, that something’s wrong. Nothing ever slips by Tucker. Plus I am not being very subtle in my spazzing out about this boyfriend-destined-to-die thing.