And the hits just keep on coming.

“She’s got big eyes, doesn’t she? Like an owl,” the other guy says. “Hey, maybe she’s stalking you, Prescott. I mean, she’s hot, but she kind of gives off that crazy chick vibe, don’t you think?”

Shawn laughs. “Dude. Hot Bozo. Best nickname ever.”

I know he’s not trying to be mean to my face; he reasonably assumes that I can’t hear him from the other side of the noisy restaurant. But I hear his words like he’s speaking into a microphone. A flash of intense heat darts from my head to my toes. My stomach churns. I have to get out of there fast, because the longer I stand there, the more certain I become that one of two things is going to happen: I’m going to puke or I’m going to cry. And I’d rather die than do either in front of Christian Prescott.

“Cut it out, guys,” mutters Christian. “I’m sure she’s just here getting lunch.”

Yes, yes I am. And now I’m leaving. Right now.

British History, thirty minutes later. I’ve parked myself at the desk farthest away from the door. I try not to think the word Bozo. I wish I had a hoodie to pull up over my clown hair.

Mr. Erikson sits on the edge of the table, wearing an oversize black tee that reads, CHICKS DIG HISTORIANS.

“Before we start today, I want to assign you to your partners for the special projects you’ll be doing,” he announces, opening his grade book. “Together you’ll need to choose a topic—anything goes as long as it’s related in some way to the history of England, Wales, Ireland, or Scotland—research it thoroughly over the next few months, then you’ll present what you’ve learned to the class.”

Someone kicks the back of my chair.

I dare a glance over my shoulder. Tucker. How does this guy always end up behind me?

I ignore him.

He kicks my chair again. Hard.

“What is your problem?” I whisper over my shoulder.

“You.”

“Could you please be more specific?”

He grins. I resist the urge to turn around and bash my hefty Oxford Illustrated History of Britain textbook across his skull. Instead I go with a classic: “Stop it.”

“Is there a problem, Sister Clara?” asks Mr. Erikson.

I contemplate telling him that Tucker’s having a hard time keeping his feet to himself. I can feel all the eyes turning toward me, which is the last thing I want to happen. Not today.

“No, just excited about the project,” I say.

“Good to be excited about history,” says Mr. Erikson. “But try to contain yourself until I’ve assigned you a partner, okay?”

Just don’t pair me with Tucker, I pray, as serious a prayer as I’ve ever had. I wonder if the prayers of angel-bloods count more than regular people’s. Maybe if I close my eyes and wish with all my heart to get paired with Christian, it will miraculously happen. Then we’ll have to spend time together after school working on our project, time when Kay can’t interfere, time when I can prove to him that I’m no owl-eyed crazy Bozo chick, and I will finally get something right.

Christian, I request to the heavens. Please, I add, just to be polite.

Christian gets paired with King Brady.

“Don’t forget that you’re a serf,” says Brady.

“No, sire,” replies Christian humbly.

“And last, but certainly not least, I thought Sister Clara and Lady Angela might make a dynamic duo,” says Mr. Erikson. “Now please take a few minutes with your partner to plan some time to work on your project.”

I try to smile to mask my disappointment.

As usual, Angela is sitting at the front of the class. I drop into the seat next to hers and pull my desk closer.

“Elvis,” she says, looking at my tee. “Nice.”

“Oh. Thanks. I like yours, too.”

Her shirt’s a copy of that famous Bouguereau painting of the two little naked angels, the boy angel leaning in to kiss the girl angel on the cheek.

“That’s like, Il Primo Bacio, right? The First Kiss?”

“Yes. My mom drags me off to see her family in Italy every summer. I got this shirt in Rome for two Euros.”

“Cool.” I don’t know what else to say. I examine her shirt more closely. In the painting, the boy angel’s wings are tiny and white. Highly unlikely that they’d be able to lift his chubby body off the ground. The girl angel is looking down, like she’s not even into the whole kissing thing. She’s taller than the boy, leaner, more mature. Her wings are dark gray.

“So, I thought we could meet Monday at my mom’s theater, the Pink Garter. There’s no show being rehearsed right now so we have a lot of space to work,” says Angela.

“Sounds terrific,” I say with about a teaspoonful of enthusiasm. “So, after school on Monday?”

“I have orchestra. It gets out around seven. Maybe I could meet you at the Garter at seven thirty?”

“Great,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

She’s staring at me. I wonder if she calls me Bozo, too, with her friends, whoever they are.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, sorry.” My face feels hot and tight as a sunburn. I manage another wooden smile. “It’s just been one of those days.”

That night I dream of the forest fire. It’s the same as always: the pines and aspens, the heat, the approaching flames, Christian standing with his back turned watching it. Smoke curls through the air. I walk to him.

“Christian,” I call out.

He turns toward me. His eyes capture mine. He opens his mouth to say something. I know what he says will be important, another clue, something crucial to understanding my purpose.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

“We go to school together,” I say to remind him.

Nothing.

“I’m in your British History class.”

Still not ringing any bells.

“You carried me to the nurse’s office on my first day of school. I passed out in the hall, remember?”

“Oh, right, I remember you,” he says. “What was your name again?”

“Clara.” I don’t have time to remind him of my existence. The fire’s coming. “I have to get you out of here,” I say, grabbing his arm. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I just know we have to go.

“What?”

“I’m here to save you.”

“Save me?” he says incredulously.