Hallowed: An Unearthly Novel Read Free Page B

one I want.

    I open my eyes, tighten my fingers around my pen, and write: “In ten years, I will be married. I will have a child. I will be happy.”

    I click the pen closed and stare at the words. They surprise me. I’ve never been one of those girls, either, who dreamed of getting married, never forced a boy to say vows with me on the playground or dressed up in bedsheets and pretended to walk down the aisle. When I was a kid I fashioned swords out of tree branches, and Jeffrey and I chased each other around the backyard yelling, “Surrender or die!” Not that I was a tomboy. I liked the color purple and nail polish and sleepovers and writing my crush’s name in the margins of my notebooks at school as much as any other girl. But I never honestly considered being married. Being Mrs. Somebody. I guess I assumed that I’d get married eventually. It just seemed like it was too far away to worry about.

    But maybe I am one of those girls.

    I look at the page again. I’ve got three sentences. Wendy is obviously writing an entire book on how awesome her life is going to turn out, and I’ve got three sentences. I have a feeling they’re not the kind of sentences that Mr. Phibbs is going to appreciate.

    “Okay, five more minutes,” says Mr. Phibbs. “Then we’ll share.” Panic sets in. I’m going to have to make something up. What should I want to be?
    Angela’s going to be a poet, Wendy’s a vet, Kay Patterson over there is head of a sorority house and marries a senator, Shawn is an Olympic-gold snowboarder, Jason’s one of those computer programmers who makes a gazillion dollars coming up with some new way to Google, and I’m—I’m—I’m a cruise ship director. I’m a famous ballerina for the New York City Ballet. I’m a heart surgeon.

    I go with heart surgeon. My pen flies across the page.

    “Time’s up,” says Mr. Phibbs. “Finish your sentence and then we’ll share.” I read back over what I’ve written. It’s good stuff. Completely bogus, but something.
    “There’s nothing more inspiring than the complexity and beauty of the human heart,” I write as my last sentence, and I can nearly make myself believe it. The daydream about Tucker has almost faded from my mind.

    “Heart surgeon, huh?” says Angela as we walk together up the boardwalk on Broadway in Jackson.

    I shrug. “You went with lawyer. You really think you’re going to be a lawyer?”

    “I’d make an excellent lawyer.”

    We step under the archway that says PINK GARTER, and Angela fishes out her keys to unlock the door. As usual for this time of day, the theater looks completely deserted.

    “Come on.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes me through the empty lobby.

    For a minute we stand there in the dark. Then Angela slips away, disappearing into the black, and a moment later a halo of light appears on the stage, which is still decked out with the set of Oklahoma! , a fake farmhouse and corn. I wander reluctantly down the aisle, past the rows of red velvet seats and up to the line of clean white tables in front of the orchestra pit, where all last year Angela and I sat with Angela’s notebooks and stacks of dusty old books and talked angels, angels, angels until sometimes I thought my brain would melt.

    Angela practically skips up to the front of the theater. She climbs the stairs at the edge of the stage and stands looking out, so she can get a clear view of anybody coming in. Under the lights her long black hair glows a shade of deep blue that isn’t entirely natural. She sweeps her bangs behind her ear and looks down at me with this super-pleased-with-herself expression. I swallow.

    “So what’s this all about?” I ask, trying to sound like I don’t care. “I’m dying to know.”

    “Patience is a virtue,” she quips.

    “I’m not that virtuous.”

    She smiles mysteriously. “You think I haven’t guessed that already?” A figure appears in the back of the theater, and I get that