“I got in,” I whisper in disbelief.

Wendy’s arm comes around my shoulders. “This is amazing,” she says. “And trust me.

Tucker’s going to be so happy for you.”

“So that’s it,” Angela says matter-of-factly later when I show up for Angel Club. “You’re going.”

“Not necessarily.” I’m back to my usual position on the stage at the Pink Garter, back to glory practice, because that’s all I can think to do in the dreamy sort of daze I’ve been in since this afternoon.

Angela puts down her pen and gives me her best you-absolute-moron stare. “Clara Gardner. You got accepted to Stanford. You got a scholarship, even. Don’t tell me you’re not going.”

The money thing is the new bone of contention with her. Here I am, Miss Moneybags, Mom’s been loaded since the Second World War, investing in things like, say computers back when one computer took up an entire room, and I get a scholarship. Not a huge one, granted, and one that’s alumni-related, because of my “grandmother,” but more than I need, all the same. And Angela (of course she was accepted) is going to have to scrimp and save and stretch and take loans to make tuition. She got scholarships too, because she’s like, Super Student, but not a full ride.

I should feel guilty about my indecision, but I don’t. I don’t have room for fresh guilt in the massive clutter of conflicting emotions in my head. What I’m turning over, what’s been on my mind ever since earlier in the post office when I saw the Stanford logo on the envelope, is that I don’t have to go. I’m formulating a different plan. A new and improved plan. A great one.

“Maybe I won’t go to college this year,” I say as casually as I can manage. “I might take a year or two off.”

“To do what?” she sputters.

“I’d stay here. Then I’d get to stick around while Jeffrey finishes high school. I’d get a job.”

“What, like working in a gift shop? Selling fudge on the boardwalk? Waitressing?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You’re an angel-blood, that’s why not. You’re supposed to be doing something special with your life.”

I shrug. There are other angel-bloods in Jackson, and they work regular jobs. Besides, I like this plan. It feels right. I can stay here in Jackson. I can make sure Jeffrey’s okay. It’s a good plan, one where I don’t have to leave my house or my family (or at least, what will be left of it, after Mom goes), and I can build myself a nice, normal life.

Angela shakes her head, gold eyes narrowing. “This is about Tucker.”

“No.” I glare at her. But I confess that part did cross my mind.

“Oh my God, you’re going to throw Stanford away so you can stay with Tucker,” Angela says in disgust.

“Lay off, Angela,” Christian says suddenly. He’s been in his usual spot at one of the far tables, doing his homework while this whole conversation was going on. “It’s Clara’s life. She can do what she wants.”

“Yeah, what he said.” I shoot Christian a grateful smile. “Anyway,” I say to Angela, “you only want me to go to Stanford so you won’t have to be out there by yourself and face your purpose alone.”

She looks down, smoothes the tablecloth like she’s taking a momentary rest before she’s going to jump up and punch me in the nose. I brace myself.

“Okay, so maybe that’s true,” she admits then, which surprises me. “You’re my best friend, Clara, and you’re right. I don’t want to go alone.”

“Ange, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re the most advanced, most knowledgeable, most capable angel-blood the world has seen in a thousand years. If anyone is going to totally kick butt at fulfilling her purpose, it’s you.”

“I know,” she says, with a pleased smile. “It’s not that. It’s . . .” She pauses, looks up at me with serious catlike eyes. “I know you go to Stanford, C. Because I’ve seen you there.”

“What?”

“In my vision. I’ve seen you.”

I spend the next fifteen minutes standing on the stage, trying to concentrate on bringing the glory, trying to ground myself, but all I can think about is how unfair it is that my future keeps getting plotted out for me. First by my own visions. Now by Angela’s.

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore,” Christian says (again suddenly, since he’s never much of a talker at Angel Club), slamming his textbook closed. I open my eyes.

“Huh?”

“I can’t stand to watch you, like, fake meditate like that.” He jogs up the steps onto the stage and crosses swiftly toward me. “Let me help you.”

My heartbeat picks up. “What, you know how to call the glory?”

“See, that’s exactly what you’ve got wrong. You think it’s like calling something, like glory is out here”—he gestures into the empty black space around us—“instead of in here.” He lays a hand on his chest, takes a deep breath. “It’s inside you, Clara. It’s part of you, and it will come out naturally if you stop standing in your own way.” I’m embarrassed but intrigued. “You can do it?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been learning.”

He holds out his hand. I stare at it, his fingers extended, beckoning, and I instantly flash back to my vision, the moment when we take hands under the trees as the fire roars down the mountain. Then I remember my dream, where holding his hand is what brings me back to myself when I think I’m going to float away on a cloud of misery. I put my hand in his.

Heat zings through me. He holds my hand carefully but casually, not squeezing or stroking his thumb over my knuckles the way he did in my forest-fire vision, that move that used to drive me crazy thinking about what it might mean.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Blood rushes to my face. “What?”

“When you try for glory, what do you think about?”

“Oh. Well . . .” Most of the time I try to think about Tucker, about how I love him, which only really worked for me that one time in the forest, but it worked then, when it really counted.

“I . . . I think about times when I was happy.”

“Okay, forget that.” He grabs my other hand, turns me so we’re standing facing each other in the middle of the stage, palm to palm. I see Angela lean forward to watch us, her head resting in one hand, the other poised to write in her notebook.