Free Fallen Angel by Heather Terrell Page A

girl’ that your parents have hammered into your head.”
    “My blood told you all that?”
    “Well, I was really listening. But blood can tell you almost anything about a person. Didn’t you see that from my blood?”
    I blushed, thinking about the image of myself I’d seen when I tasted Michael’s blood. I didn’t know if I was ready for all this—especially not the “v” word he mentioned last night, which neither of us had referenced this morning—but I couldn’t pretend that it was just a dream any longer.
    Michael leaned in to kiss me. My apprehension forced me to hesitate for a second. But then he caressed my hand. His touch sent shivers through me, reminding me of how his lips and tongue and blood made me feel. Unable to resist, I moved toward him.
    A tap sounded on his window. We jumped apart, and stared out. It was Mr. Morgans, the phys ed teacher, motioning that the bell was about to ring.

Chapter Fifteen
    Michael and I raced to our respective classes, but not before I agreed to meet him back at his car at the end of the day. The bell finished ringing before I made it to Miss Taunton’s classroom, and she wasn’t about to let me get away with sneaking in the door.
    “Miss Faneuil, you know my rules about tardiness. You owe me a ten-page biography of Jane Austen.”
    My jaw dropped; she must have been in a really bad mood because her punishments were usually in the five-page range. My astonished expression didn’t escape Miss Taunton.
    “You don’t like that assignment, Miss Faneuil? You are welcome to detention instead.”
    I rushed to accept the lighter sentence. I could just imagine the look in my parents’ eyes if they learned that Michael delivered me late to school to the tune of detention. “No, no, Miss Taunton. I’m happy to learn more about Jane Austen.”
    “Good, Miss Faneuil, so am I. I’m sure you’ll dazzle me with some esoteric piece of information about one of my favorite writers. Now class, let’s hear from . . .”
    As I walked to my seat in the back of the classroom, I caught Ruth’s sympathetic eye. I couldn’t imagine how I’d dredge up fresh biographical details about one of the world’s most written-about authors, but I had more pressing concerns. Michael and our “gifts,” to name a couple.
    After I slid into my chair and unzipped my bag, my cell phone quietly vibrated with a text message. The rare occurrence intrigued me; maybe it was Michael. I created a barrier with my bag so I could glance at it. Nothing made Miss Taunton more furious than students checking their cell phones.
    I scrolled to the text: sorry with a sad face. It was from Ruth.
    I was confused. Looking to make sure that Miss Taunton was safely engrossed in grilling another student, I answered. Why? The Austen bio?
    The cell vibrated back. No. Your parents.
    Oh, no. Between the confusion of the dream and Michael’s unexpected visit this morning, I’d completely forgotten about Ruth’s call to my parents last night. I felt terrible. Why should she feel bad about calling my house when I was the one who didn’t give her the heads-up about meeting Michael? I wrote back: My fault. I’m sorry.
    Risking Miss Taunton’s wrath, Ruth turned around in her seat and smiled to show that all was well. It made me feel even worse, like I’d betrayed my own family. For years, Ruth and I had shared everything with each other. In the absence of other siblings, we’d become like sisters, with my mom even playing the role of mother to Ruth when she needed it. I should be begging forgiveness for keeping secrets and using Ruth as a cover for my date with Michael. Not vice versa.
    Worse, I’d have to continue keeping secrets from her. How could I tell her about the flying and the flashes I got about people? Or the way blood affected me? With good reason, she’d run off to my parents, and they’d have me committed. No, I’d have to explore this with Michael alone, while I spun a fairy tale for Ruth about