Anyway, that was bad enough, but not being able to talk the way we used to was even worse. Alex had noticed how things were for me, though. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice when we’d been there for over a week. “I know you’re not very happy here.”
We were closeted away in his bedroom for a few minutes before dinner; distantly, I could hear the TV playing. “I’m fine,” I whispered back. “Don’t worry about me; this is what we have to be doing. And besides...you don’t exactly seem happy either.” I traced the dark curve of his eyebrow. Obviously
being happy
wasn’t the point, not when what we were doing was so crucial to the world. Neither of us would have chosen to be anywhere else, even if we could. But still, it made me sad when I realized that whole days had gone past since the last time I’d seen Alex really smile – that gorgeous, easy grin that melted my heart.
“I do worry about you,” he said, ignoring what I’d said about his own happiness. “Willow, listen, if we actually manage to do this – if we defeat them, somehow – it’ll be so different for you and me then, I promise...”
He broke off as we heard someone enter the dorm next door, moving around and getting changed. After that we fell silent, just letting the feel of our lips together do the talking for us.
Most of our conversations were like that now – snatched sentences; a quick touching of base with no time for details. I missed sleeping in the same bed as Alex. I missed it so acutely that I just lay awake aching for him sometimes, longing to slip through the dark house and go to him. I hadn’t really known before just how much we
talked
as we lay in bed together, or how precious those soft conversations in the dark were to me.
And I thought if I could only lie curled up in his arms again, and know that we were alone – really alone, the way we used to be – then maybe I’d be able to tell him how scared I was.
I hadn’t contacted my angel since that first night, but I could
feel
her there, all the time. As the days had passed, her restless shifting had intensified into what seemed like a longing to break free. I became so self-conscious, trying to get through my days without letting on this was happening; without really letting on to myself, even. But it felt like everyone knew anyway – because sometimes the nape of my neck would start prickling, as if they were all staring. Occasionally someone would be there when I checked; more often I’d find myself looking at an empty space. And meanwhile I could sense my angel, straining against me. What frightened me most was that it was starting to take an effort to hold her back, like struggling to hang on to a tugging kite.
My old life in Pawntucket was like something that had happened on another planet: Willow Fields, who, okay, was maybe sort of strange because of fixing cars and being psychic, but who had a pretty boring, ordinary life, actually. And who definitely didn’t feel like a stranger inside her own body. I could hardly believe now that such a time had really existed, when I’d just felt...normal.
Human.
T
HE PARADE TOOK
S
EB
by surprise.
It had been just over two weeks now since he’d hitch-hiked down to
el DF
, and he’d spent every moment of daylight looking for the girl in the photo; he only vaguely knew what day of the week it was any more. But now, as he walked back to his hostel near the
centro
, he saw that it must be Revolution Day. A
mariachi
band was playing, with its warbling singers and the jaunty sound of guitars and horns, and there was a parade passing by, full of schoolchildren dressed as soldiers: the boys in sombreros and bullet belts, sporting eyebrow-pencil moustaches; the girls in long, bright skirts and snowy-white blouses, their hair in braids. Behind them came a group of older girls in green T-shirts, dancing and waving Mexican flags.
With his knapsack over his shoulder – there was no way he’d leave it in the hostel during the day – Seb edged through the crowd lining the sidewalk. A few angel wings brushed him as he passed. Everywhere he went now, there were people wearing them. The mood of the crowd was exuberant, their auras practically bouncing against him; even those that were stunted with angel damage shimmered with excitement.
It was the same city he’d always known, and yet completely different. The angels were everywhere – he’d noticed it even though he was spending most of his time wandering around Bosque de Chapultepec, searching for the same configuration of trees that he’d seen in the girl’s dream. It was turning out to be a heartbreaking task; Chapultepec was one of the largest city parks in the world. And in the meantime, hardly an hour went by when Seb didn’t see a few angels cruising overhead, like white eagles on the hunt. Each time he passed the Zócalo there were several swooping over it as well; others fed right on the sidewalk. Curiosity had taken him briefly inside the converted cathedral – he couldn’t believe what had happened to the place – and there, too, the angels had been hunting. He was so used to keeping his aura dim and unappealing now that he did it almost without thinking.
“Hospitals for all!” shouted a voice. “We need more beds, more doctors!” Glancing over his shoulder as he crossed the street – darting between the girl dancers and a donkey pulling a flower-laden cart – Seb saw a large group approaching, carrying signs: El DF
is Dying for More Doctors
, and
Angels Don’t Need Money – The Sick Do!
Immediately, the mood of the crowd changed, the auras around him almost crackling with emotion. A woman sitting in a wheelchair yelled, “The angels would help you if you had faith!” Her cheeks looked sunken, her eyes fervent. Several voices called out in agreement, booing the group marching past.
Seb was glad to leave it all behind and reach the street that his hostel was on. Though even here, it looked like they were getting ready for some kind of dance later; there was a stage being set up, and green, white and red bunting hanging from the wrought-iron balconies above. The hostel’s outer walls were once tan, now smudged grey with pollution. Seb knew he’d been lucky to get a bed. Like every other hostel in the city, the place was packed with Church of Angels followers from around the world, here to see the newly converted cathedral. He passed a few of them now on the way to his dorm – a trio of pretty French girls in angel wings, who he’d encountered a few times in the lounge in the evenings.
“
Bonsoir
, Seb,” said one of them, Céline, with a flirtatious smile as they passed. “
Ça va toi?
” He summoned up a smile as he returned the greeting, trying not to notice how sick her aura looked. Being around people who’d been hurt by the angels depressed him; he preferred to avoid it.
Thankfully, his dorm was empty. Seb stretched out on his bed, and lay staring upwards. His birthday had been the week before, making him eighteen now; he hadn’t even realized it until the next day. All he could think of was the half-angel girl – she was so close now he could almost feel her, yet in a way she seemed further away than ever. To know that she was probably right here, in this very city – only a few miles away from him at most – but to have no idea
where
exactly, was agony.
The framed photo was a small, solid rectangle in his jeans pocket. He didn’t need to take it out to bring back the girl’s image; he knew it by heart now. Her spirit was with him already, just as it had been for so many years – and since touching her shirt with its whispers of her energy, this sense felt even stronger: a line drawing brought richly to life with colour. Seb shoved his hair back as he regarded the dingy plaster ceiling. God, he was in love with a girl he’d never even spoken to. But he
knew
her, inside and out.
Could she sense him as strongly? Had she always been in love with a shadow too?
Outside, music had started up. With a restless sigh, Seb swung his feet off the bed and went to the ancient French windows; he swung them open with a creak and stepped out onto the small wrought-iron balcony. On the street below, couples were beginning to dance; paper lanterns cast a festive light. Seb stood against the railing, looking down.
During the day he was single-minded. Mostly he searched Bosque de Chapultepec, but he went to other parks too – always scanning non-stop, not letting himself believe for a second that he wouldn’t find her. It was these other, quieter times when doubt swamped him, leaving him cold. What if he’d gotten the girl’s dream wrong? What if the park they’d seemed to be in wasn’t in
el DF
at all, but somewhere else? She was American; it could be someplace in her own country – which spread across thousands of miles, and contained probably millions of parks. He’d most likely never find her at all, if that was the case. And to know that she really existed, that she wasn’t a dream, but to never be able to locate her... Seb swallowed. No. He wouldn’t believe that. He couldn’t.
The door opened behind him. “Oh, hey Seb,” said a voice.
Mike, one of the Americans staying in the dorm – and one of the few people at the hostel undamaged by the angels. “Hi,” said Seb from the balcony. Mike joined him; he was nineteen, with floppy brown hair and a friendly smile.
“So what’s this all about, anyway?” he asked, resting his forearms on the railing as he took in the dancing. “Is it like the Fourth of July back home?”
Shoving his thoughts away with an effort, Seb tried to remember what he’d heard about the American holiday. “What’s the Fourth of July? You have fireworks then, yes?”
In that way Americans sometimes had, Mike looked surprised that Seb didn’t know – even though
he
had no idea what Revolution Day was. “It’s when we got our independence from Britain,” he explained. “You know – the Boston Tea Party, Paul Revere. And yeah, lots of fireworks.”
Seb nodded, remembering now. “It’s sort of like that,” he said. “It celebrates the day we started fighting to get rid of the
dictador
Porfirio Díaz.”
“You got rid of a dictator? Cool,” said Mike cheerfully. “And anyway, any excuse for a party, right?”
This made Seb laugh in spite of himself. “Yes, if you’re Mexican. We like parties.”
“Man, you’re not the only ones. You should come to America sometime. Folks
love
to party there.”
Seb knew he might have to someday, if his search in
el DF
proved fruitless. Except how could he ever leave, when the rest of the girl’s dream had so obviously taken place here? Her light-blue shirt was still folded neatly in his knapsack, but he resisted the urge to bring it out again; its images were becoming fainter each time he touched the soft fabric, diluting the girl’s energy with his own.
The evening softened into darkness, the lanterns glowing brightly as the jubilant sound of guitars and trumpets soared around them. Mike had brought some cold beers into the room; he offered one to Seb and they stood drinking them, gazing down at the swirling dancers.
“So I’m planning on going to Tepito tomorrow,” said Mike, leaning against the wall and stretching his legs out. “Can’t find anything about it in the guidebook, but it’s north of here, isn’t it?”
Seb was smoking a cigarette as he thought about the park again – wondering if he should focus more on its woodsy third section, instead of the more popular first and second ones. At Mike’s words, he blew out a quick breath of smoke and glanced at him, startled. “What? Why?”
“To
see
it, man. I want to see all of this place.”
“No,” said Seb flatly. “Don’t go there.”
Mike blinked. “Why not? It’s just a market, right?”
“It’s the worst
barrio
in the city,” said Seb. “A
gringo
with a camera and cellphone, who barely speaks Spanish? They’d think Christmas had come early this year. You’d be robbed in minutes, or worse.” It was where he was from. The dark streets of Tepito, with the rustling, plastic roofs of vendors’ stalls, were as familiar to him as the various scars on his body – and living there had been just as enjoyable as getting them.
The American looked sceptical. “It can’t really be
that
bad, can it?”
“Yes,” said Seb. “Trust me – stay away. Go do all the tourist things in your guidebook. They don’t put Tepito in there for a reason.” He smiled, took another puff of his cigarette. “The paddle boats in Chapultepec Park are very nice.”
Mike pulled a face; he opened his mouth to say something else and then glanced at the scene below. “Hey, look at that,” he laughed, propping his forearms on the railing again as he looked down. “The little scamp.”
Crushing out his cigarette, Seb followed his gaze and saw a street child slipping through the crowd that stood watching the dancers – a girl of seven or so, with tousled dark hair. Seen from above, her hand motion was clear as she dipped it into a man’s jacket pocket and then out again, quickly tucking whatever she’d found under her shirt. Seb smiled slightly, remembering all too well the feel of it – the quick flex of the fingers, the grasp and pull, all the while making sure that you didn’t touch the sides of the pocket.