“What do you mean, what do I mean?” I cry. “You’ve been dodgy. The whole dorm is talking about how you’re involved, in a horizontal-type way, with Pierce. He’s the PHE, you know, the dorm doctor. He lives on the first floor. Blondish, shortish, scruffyish—”
She gives me an amused look and closes the door behind me, locks it. “I know who he is,” she says with her back to me. “And yes, we’re together. Involved, if that works better for you, in a horizontal-type way.”
My mouth drops open.
I owe Christian ten bucks.
Angela puts a hand on her hip. I notice that she’s got a wet washcloth slung over one shoulder. She’s wearing sweats, an oversize Yellowstone National Park T-shirt with a trout on the front, her hair braided in a long, single plait down her back, no shoes or socks, and no polish on her fingers or toes. Under the fluorescent lights of our room, her skin has a blue cast to it, lavender shadows under her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. Tired, is all. I was up all night working on my Eliot paper.”
“But you weren’t in class—”
“I got an extension,” she explains. “Things have been crazy lately, and I’ve been so swamped that I’ve fallen way behind. I spent all weekend trying to catch up with everything.”
I squint at her. She’s lying, I sense vaguely. But why?
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look a little wild-eyed.”
“Oh, well, let’s see: My dad showed up saying that he wants to train me to use a glory sword. Because I’m apparently going to have to fight for my life at some point. And oh yes, I’m having a vision where someone is trying to kill me, which works well with Dad’s theory that I should sharpen up my glory sword. And if that’s not enough, Christian’s having the same vision, except in his vision he doesn’t see me holding a glory sword. He sees me all weak and covered with blood. So maybe I’m going to die.”
She stares at me in horror.
“This is what happens when you don’t return my phone calls,” I say, flopping down on her bed. “All the proverbial crap hits the proverbial fan. Oh, and I just saw the bird again, and I felt his sorrow this time, and it’s definitely Samjeeza. So yay, right?”
She leans against the door frame like all that bad news has knocked the air out of her. “Samjeeza? Are you sure?”
“Yep. Pretty sure.”
There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, a greenish tinge to her skin.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, sitting up. “I mean, it’s not good, but—”
“Clara—” She stops and presses the washcloth to her mouth, inhales deeply, closes her eyes for a minute. And she goes even greener.
All thoughts of Samjeeza fly out of my head.
“Are you … sick?”
I’ve never been sick, truly sick, a day in my life. Never had a cold, the flu, never got food poisoning, never had a fever or an ear infection or a sore throat. And neither has Angela.
Angel-bloods don’t get sick.
She shakes her head, closes her eyes.
“Ange, what is going on? Stop saying everything’s fine and spill.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but suddenly she groans and rushes out into the hall and two doors down to the bathroom, where I hear the unmistakable sounds of her throwing up.
I creep to the bathroom door. She’s in a stall crouched in front of the toilet, clutching the sides with white-knuckled hands, shivering.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
She laughs, then spits into the bowl, gets a wad of toilet paper, and blows her nose. “No. I am definitely not okay. Oh, Clara, isn’t it obvious?” She pushes her hair out of her face and glares at me with fierce, shining eyes. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’re—”
“Pregnant,” she says again, the word echoing off the tile. She stands up and brushes herself off, pushes past me and back to her room.
“You’re—” I try again, following her.