“Milayna? Are you okay?” my mom called.
I shook my head and leaned forward, bracing myself against the sink. “Just a dream.”
***
It’d been days since my last vision. I thought maybe by saying I wasn’t going to accept being a demi-angel, I’d somehow cured myself. With spirits lifted, I practically skipped out of school. The visions were gone, the sun was shining, and I didn’t have homework. I even had the day off work. Things were looking up.
Humming, I unlocked the door of my truck when a sharp, burning sensation sizzled through my stomach, like someone had impaled me on a white-hot poker. I doubled over. It radiated upward until it swelled and lodged itself in my throat. Gritting my teeth, I leaned against my truck for support as my vision started fading in and out.
A girl. The parking lot.
I shook my head. The vision cleared for a few beats before crashing into me stronger than before.
She drops something. She bends over. A car.
“No!” I said through clenched teeth, earning strange looks from the people around me.
I’m not getting involved. I refuse to get sucked into these demi-angel visions. I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want it. They aren’t going to control my life.
But the vision didn’t go away.
A car, driving through the parking lot. A girl.
I could hear the sounds and see what was going to happen. If someone didn’t step in, the car was going to plow right into the girl. She’d bend over to pick up what she’d dropped, the driver wouldn’t see her, and—nope, I wasn’t getting sucked into it. It. Wasn’t. My. Problem.
A teacher driving. My history teacher.
I figured I had three choices. Try to ignore the vision and hope everything worked out on its own, go to my history teacher and stall him the few seconds it would take to change the vision, or talk to the girl to keep her from walking out in the middle of the parking lot.
I decided on the first one—ignore the vision and hope everything worked out okay on its own. After all, if I weren’t a demi-angel, I wouldn’t have known about it anyway.
As it turned out, I had fewer choices than I thought. My feet took on a life of their own, and I started running toward my history teacher.
Ambulance. A girl lying on the pavement. Blood seeping around her.
I couldn’t do it. The vision was too strong, and my own sense of what was right propelled me forward. Dropping my books and purse next to the open door of my truck, I ran. I ran as fast as I could and then even faster. The vision flipped picture after picture in front of my eyes: The girl bending down, the car hitting her, Mr. Rodriguez with tears in his eyes, and blood. So much blood. I pushed myself to run faster, dodging cars and pushing by other people. Another picture scrolled across my vision. The girl’s limp body on a stretcher just before it was pushed into an ambulance.
I let all resistance crumble, opening myself to the vision completely. I gave it what I was so afraid of losing. What I’d been fighting to hold on to—total control.
The vision directed me to Mr. Rodriguez. A warm, tingling sensation started in my chest and radiated through my body. It felt like I’d stuck my tongue on a nine-volt battery. I pushed my body harder. I had to get to him.
Wait. Just wait. I’m almost there.
“Mr. Rodriguez!” I screamed.
He opened the car door, and I gasped, struggling to breath around the burning in my lungs. Don’t get in the car. Give me just a second longer.
“Mr. Rodriguez!” I screamed again. “Wait!”
He didn’t hear me, and dread filled me as I watched him slide into his car and shut the door. The effects of the visions intensified. I felt a stabbing behind my eyes, like someone was hammering nails into them.
Turning in a circle, I searched the crowd, frantic to find the girl. But there were too many people, and I could sense my time was running out. I pushed my way through the sea of students to the end of the sidewalk. I’d find her there. She’d have to pass me when she crossed into the parking lot. I’d grab her and say something stupid, like, ‘Don’t we know each other? Are you in Mr. Matelli’s English class?’ She’d stop to answer, and it’d delay her long enough to avoid the car. Right? Right. Unless she was rude and wouldn’t talk to me. Then I’d make something up on the fly. Maybe I’d tackle her. Not very angelic, but better than getting hit by a car. Yeah. Okay.
I jammed my way through the massive crowd, making my way toward the sidewalk. Sweat dripped down my back, and the muscles in my arms strained from pushing people out of my way. And my legs burned from running, but I was almost there. Just a little more. I just had to get past a group of guys—but they wouldn’t move.
“Excuse me,” I yelled, jamming into the guy closest to me. Tears were building behind my eyes, and my chest burned.
I’m running out of time. Move, move, move!