Free Fallen Angel by Heather Terrell Page B

the normal side of my relationship with him.
    Miss Taunton’s voice grew shrill as she subjected a poor junior named Jamie and his “inadequate” assessment of Jane Austen to her scrutiny. I reached for my bag to slip my cell phone back inside, when it dawned on me that I might have a few free minutes while Miss Taunton continued with her tirade. Yielding to temptation, I searched Wikipedia for “vampire.”
    I scrolled through the long entry, and other than some terrifying definitions of blood-sucking, death-dealing vampires, I didn’t find any descriptions that sounded like Michael or me. Relief coursed through me; maybe Michael was wrong.
    The name Professor Raymond McMaster was quoted extensively on the page. There was a link to the Harvard University webpage with his bio. He was an expert in the history of vampires and other supernatural beings. Some of his academic papers sounded interesting, and I was about to click onto “In search of the real Dracula” when I heard my name.
    “Miss Faneuil, am I boring you?”
    My head snapped up. Miss Taunton marched toward me. I scrambled to hide the phone under the mound of papers I’d scattered on my desktop. On top, I placed the paper due. She stopped within inches of me and waited for my answer while the class held its collective breath.
    “Of course not. I was just rereading the paper we’re turning in today.”
    Miss Taunton looked over my shoulder at the paper in my hand, smiled, and lunged for it. Her hand brushed against mine, and I received a very intense flash. I was in a fussy, formal-looking living room, complete with lace doilies on the end tables and cloyingly flowery wallpaper. For a second, I was disoriented, but then I caught a look in a mirror facing the couch on which I sat. Miss Taunton stared out at me. On her lap was a copy of Wuthering Heights . Tears streamed down her face. She was about to turn the page when I heard my name: “Ellie Faneuil.”
    The sad image faded, and I found myself staring right into Miss Taunton’s eyes. I nearly wanted to reach over and pat her hand—her life was that pitiful, that macabre—but then she gave me a sick grin. My stomach lurched, and she said, “Thank you for returning to us, Miss Faneuil. I can see how this paper would be far more interesting than what I have to say about Jane Austen. Why don’t you read your paper aloud to the class, since it appears to be so mesmerizing?”
    I rose from my chair, ready to be humiliated. My paper was titled “Sex in Pride and Prejudice .”
    One positive emerged from my mortification in English class. It wiped clean from Ruth’s mind the incident from Sunday night. Loyal friend that she was, she stepped forward to defend the teasing I took from my classmates right afterward. By lunchtime, the story had spread to Missy, Piper, and their lesser lights, and Ruth stood up for me with them, too. No one wanted to believe that I used the word “sex” in the title to denote “gender,” no matter how many times Ruth explained it or the fact that they actually heard me read the paper.
    I couldn’t wait for the school day to end, even though the afternoon presented its own challenges. Mercifully alone, I walked to the still-empty back lot where we’d parked. There stood Michael. He pulled a bunch of perfect red tulips from behind his back and handed them to me.
    “Thank you. They’re so pretty. Where did you get them?” I asked. They hardly sold flowers in the cafeteria.
    “I can fly, can’t I?”
    I was horrified, and my face must have shown it.
    He pulled me into his chest. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I was joking. I drove to the florist shop right down the road.”
    “Thank goodness.” I stayed buried in his chest.
    “I figured you needed them today.”
    I looked up into his face. “Oh, no, you heard about English.”
    Michael winced. “I think everyone heard.”
    I groaned and buried my head in my hands. “It really was nothing like everyone is saying,” I said,