A Shimmer of Angels (4 page)

“Lee, did you have the new kid in any of your classes?” My words bled together, eyes trained on the winged intruder.

Lee twisted around, practically bouncing out of his seat. “Nope. Please tell me it’s a nice Korean girl. My mom’s been on me to start dating. If I don’t find a mom-approved girlfriend soon, I’m going to come home one day to find one of her co-workers from the consulate standing in my living room wearing an engagement ring!” He shuddered, oblivious to the fact my own nightmare was across the cafeteria, and closing in on us.

“Sorry, Lee. Not Korean. Not a girl.” I swept my uneaten sandwich into my bag and rocketed off the bench. The pounding in my chest vibrated through my voice. “Maybe we should eat outside today.”

“Out front, with the smokers?” Lee sounded dubious.

“I know, but it’s stuffy in here. And I can’t stand being stared at like this.” I grabbed Lee’s arm, pulling him up and toward the side exit.

As the door closed behind us, I looked through its small glass window. The golden-haired boy settled himself at our empty table.

If my subconscious was intent on giving the new kid wings, then that only left me one option. I’d avoid the hell out of him. It might be difficult, especially with him being in my English class, but in order to maintain my sanity—or as close to sane as I could get—then I didn’t have much other choice.

He glanced at me through the tiny window and held my gaze. This was going to be so much harder than I thought.

Chapter Five

I made it through the rest of lunch and fifth period Music class without incident, unless you count flinching at bright lights because they might be wings, checking over both shoulders every fifteen seconds or so, and generally falling back into my old habits. I should have known better than to get my hopes up.

I nodded politely at my sixth-period teacher, who liked to stand in the doorway and greet students as they entered the classroom. Posters of former presidents and handmade timelines of important dates in world history lined the faded yellow walls. My shoes squeaked as I slammed to a halt. Too-bright light danced through the classroom, like sun off of still waters.

The new boy was seated at my table, straight across from my chair. Once I sat down, nothing but the table would separate him from me. Other kids bumped into me, pushing me forward. I walked toward the table on lead feet, my backpack knocking into a chair. The resulting
thunk
made me jump out of my skin.

I took my chair and grasped onto my remaining composure, which was deflating like a life raft on choppy seas. To avoid another look at the mass of feathers sitting across the table, I lobbed my History book and spiral notebook onto the table, then buried my face in them.

Despite my heart’s pounding warning, I couldn’t resist a good, long look at the boy. I’d never seen wings on someone so young before. I noticed the curve of his mouth, the soft angles of his jaw and cheekbones, and the fair color of his eyelashes. He lifted pale eyebrows. A comfortable-looking smile pulled at his lips.
Damn.
His face was nothing less than angelic.
Figures.

“So, we meet again.”

His voice chimed like heavy bells. I’d talked to the men with wings—these hallucinations—before, but mostly just to say “excuse me” on a busy street corner. It’s hard to hold a conversation when all you can think is
wings, wings, holy crap, he has wings
.

Count to ten.
I wrung my hands beneath the table, jamming the nails of my left hand into the palm of my right, attempting to ground myself in the now.

After a slow breath, I replied, “Yeah. Small world.”

Small world? Ugh
.

“You seem … nervous.” He leaned one shoulder over the table, his right side pulling back slightly. His wings followed the lines of his body.

Ignore the wings. They’re not really there. He’s just a boy. Don’t look at the wings.

“Normally, people are very at ease with me, but I seem to have the opposite effect on you.”

I looked up, blinking to cut the glare bouncing off his wings, the feathered ends tucked tight to his body. “W—what makes you think that?”

His eyes narrowed, leaving only a small amount of gray. “You left English class this morning. …”

Something about the way his voice trailed off tugged at me, drawing me in. His lips parted, and the tiny muscles along his jaw tightened. I clenched my sweat-drenched hands into fists, hoping to gain some control over my body’s ticks and twitches.

“… Then again in the cafeteria.”

“Yeah, I forgot some stuff in my locker.”
Smooth
. “Both times.” I squeezed the words in before the second bell announced the start of class.

“Seats, class. We’re jumping in at chapter five.” Mr. Barnes slapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly.

Cassie, a girl with the same long, blue-black hair and blunt bangs as this week’s pop-princess, quickly took her seat next to the new kid. “Does he have to get so excited about history?” she mumbled. Like her pop-star idol, she too dressed in a style that Laylah’s favorite fashion show called “goth-glam.” Today, her shirt was ripped and pinned strategically. She even wore those weird fishnet, fingerless gloves.

“Right?” Jeremy, a musical prodigy and low man on the band-clique totem pole, peeked at Cassie from beneath his overgrown curls. I hadn’t noticed him when I first sat down.

“Rayna Evans.”

Startled, I glanced up. What had I done now?

Oh. Roll call. Right.

I started to answer. A simple “here” would have done it. But the weight of a classroom full of curious eyes stuffed the words back down my throat. Apparently, lunch period wasn’t quite enough time for people to forget the scene I’d made that morning. Funny, it seemed like forever ago to me.

“She’s here, Mr. Barnes,” Cassie said. I shot her a grateful look as heat rose to my cheeks and I sank down in my chair.

Mr. Barnes moved on, and eventually the curious stares drifted away. All except one.

“Cam-el Wright.”

Was his name really Camel? Like the animal?

Honestly, his name should be the last thing about him that bothered me.

“Cam,” the new kid corrected.

“Great.” Mr. Barnes closed his attendance book, then slid the coveted teacher’s copy of our History book over it. “The Civil War is also known as the War Between the States, or The War of Northern Aggression, as my southern-raised Grammy calls it.” A few snickers rang out in the classroom at the mention of Mr. Barnes’s Grammy, but no one from our table seemed to be paying enough attention to care. Mr. Barnes smoothed his shoulder-length ponytail, starting at the thinning top, working his way down. When the last of the giggles died down, he continued his lecture. I tried to listen, but was distracted by the soft, rhythmic breathing across the table. The sound resembled music: smooth, graceful, and free.

That no one else seemed to notice it pushed me that much closer to the edge.

I buried my head in my textbook and pretended not to notice how still he sat, how he didn’t take a single note, or even bother to pick up a pen. As time ticked by, I gripped my pencil tighter and tighter.

When his foot brushed against mine, I stabbed the pencil into my notebook, snapping off the tip. Jeremy tore his gaze from Cassie long enough to raise a thick eyebrow at me.

The new guy’s shoe tapped against mine again, definitely on purpose. No one is that clumsy.

Except maybe me.

I jerked back. Too hard. My chair tipped over, taking me with it. I smacked Jeremy in the mouth on my way down. My head bounced off the floor, and Jeremy let out a nasty curse, checking his lip for blood.

Gasps and smothered giggles erupted from all around. Stars fluttered across my vision. I tried to blink them away, but realized they were really the light from his wings. His
nonexistent
wings. He was standing, hands braced on the table, watching me.

Mr. Barnes rushed to help. “Are you all right? That was quite a spill.” His southern drawl spiked at
quite a spill
.

“I’m fine,” I brushed his hand away with shaky fingers and climbed to my feet. “Something’s wrong with that chair. The legs got stuck when I tried to push back and …” I didn’t bother to finish. Everyone knew I was a freak.

Just sit down and shut up.

I righted my chair. Cam tilted up a ridiculous looking half-smile. I pressed my lips into a line and angled my chair away from the table, away from Cam, and toward the front of class.

My head throbbed with the beginning of a lump and an unsettling awareness. He was still there. Watching me. What was I going to do? I went to work on my nails, biting them to nubs.

When the bell finally rang, Cassie and the new boy were the first ones up. I held my breath until his wings disappeared through the door. An air of freshness loomed in his wake, like the scent of earth and fresh cut grass. Strange that I hadn’t noticed it before. Odd that he smelled so earthy, but looked so heavenly.

I kicked my stupid chair. Three years of intensive treatment and I was still stark-raving mad.

Chapter Six

I swept a pale-blue stroke across my canvas. Sky. Blue sky. Loving the idea so much, I curved it around the entire painting. Mrs. Pheffer had asked for abstract. What was more abstract than fluffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky? I could hear her making her way around the room, asking questions to those of us already working and helping the others to choose a direction.

Art was the one class I could truly embrace. Even in the SS Crazy, Arts and Crafts hour was one of the only happy times I’d had, second only to gardening. It also helped that Art was the last class of the day.

I filled in the rest of the canvas with blue, switching brushes to drop in a few white, puffy clouds, completely losing myself in the expression it allowed.

A shout scattered my thoughts, and something slammed down on the floor. I jerked at the noise, my concentration—and serenity—shattered. My brush cut a harsh, white line through my painting.

I looked across a room crackling with tension.

Allison Woodward—a mousy-looking girl I’d teamed up with once for a group art project—jumped from her stool and stomped her foot over her fallen easel, ripping part of her painted canvas right off its frame. “There! Now you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong with it.” Her chin and bottom lip quivered, competing with her stern brows and tight eyes.

Mrs. Pheffer pressed her hands down in the air. “Allison, please calm down. I only asked what your painting depicted.”

Allison didn’t move. Mrs. Pheffer looked toward her inspirational painting of the week, propped up beside her desk. It was an abstract mess, if you asked me. She placed her hand over her chest, as if the boldly colored shapes would give her the strength she needed to resolve the escalating conflict.

Tears welled in Allison’s brown eyes. “It’s stupid. This whole thing is stupid! Screw it. Screw everything.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t even care anymore!” Her hands sprang up to cover her face, and she ran out the door.

What was wrong with everyone today? Maybe my lunacy was contagious.

Mrs. Pheffer gasped. “Oh, no.” She jogged toward the door, but Alison was already gone. With trembling fingers, she knelt to gather the pieces of Allison’s work. The concern never left her face, but she feigned a small laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be right back. We’ll just give her a few minutes.”

Two of the Soccer Insiders beside me whispered and giggled; gossiping was their other sport. Across the room, four girls I recognized from Ms. Cleeson’s Honors English class chatted in high, bubbly voices. Two emotionally charged students fleeing a classroom in one day, they probably couldn’t believe their luck. The boys—there were only five of them—either lifted their eyebrows and returned to their paintings or whipped out their cell phones. A major no-no in Mrs. Pheffer’s class.

It was surreal to see a freak-out from the other side of things.

My gaze fell on Allison’s smudged painting. At first, all I saw was a mess of dusty blues and harsh blacks. I narrowed my eyes at it, and slowly, the painting began to make sense. Clouds of gray and blue surrounded a blurry figure etched in black. There was something else too. Something extending out from behind the torso, blocking the light. Something long and so dark, almost black. Feathery. Coming toward me.

I brought my hand to my mouth and gasped, nearly tipping off my stool.

Allison had painted an angel.

***

By the time the final bell echoed twenty minutes later, Allison hadn’t returned for her things. If I was her, I’d wait until the halls fell quiet.

With my thoughts jumbled, I tried desperately to fix the painting I’d wrecked, making me the last student to leave. Mrs. Pheffer was still there, staring at the inspirational painting she’d brought in for today’s assignment.

On my way out, I spotted a faint mark on the floor. I almost mistook it for a scuff mark, until I caught the faintest hint of blue. The paint from Allison’s canvas must have transferred to her shoe when she stomped on it.

I followed the smudges out of the art room, through the nearly empty hall, and down the back staircase. The prints began to fade by the second floor. The paint had to be wearing off. At the first floor landing I caught sight of another faint smudge of blue, stamped into the floor in front of the basement steps.

I hesitated, remembering the dark colors of the wings in Allison’s drawing. It wasn’t my place to check on her. Allison and I weren’t even friends. I had no idea what was going on in her head, or if she’d be pissed at me for following her.

The front door was only a few feet away. I could leave now. I
should
leave now. The painting’s dark lines and misty figure waited for me when I closed my eyes. The empty hallway was eerily silent, adding to the apprehension churning in my stomach. I sank down onto the step and tucked my head between my knees.

My left shoelace stared back at me, its loose bow mocking me. I took it for as long as I could stand, then frantically untied and retied it two, three, four times, until it was right. After that it didn’t match up with the right one. I tied the right one again and again. Three times. Now it was right. But three and four didn’t match, so I had to do it one more time, slowly pulling the bunny over, around …
through
, just enough. It had to match up. It had to be perfect.