Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 35

 

  Then they saw me and clammed up. Liz scowled, lifting her chin; as always, Trish looked alarmed and slightly tense to have me around. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. Neither answered, and I held back a sigh as I got my shampoo and towel and left the dorm again. The ironic thing is I think Trish and I could have been friends – she was so nice; there was no other word for her. But it was obvious how wary she was of me, and how much she hated the strain I’d brought to the group.

  Wesley was the only quiet one; always hunched over his laptop, more given to sullen grunts than talking. At first I thought he hated everyone, then I realized he was just excruciatingly shy. Though there was something else there too – once, I got a sense of sorrow from him so strong I almost said something. The keep away expression on his face told me to forget it. Mostly he avoided me, the same as everyone else, while I tried to ignore the fact I was being avoided. As if there wasn’t this huge unspoken thing about me that made everyone stiffen if I accidentally stood too close.

  I mentally gave myself a shake whenever I caught myself thinking like that. I hated feeling this way; it was totally unlike me to be self-pitying. But I was just. . . really lonely. I missed Alex, even though we were in the same house together. There wasn’t anyplace we could truly be alone here. The dorms and the kitchen always had people going in and out; the range and the exercise room were pretty unideal. The TV room always had someone in it – such as Brendan, who had insomnia and was usually surfing the net on his laptop at three in the morning.

  Though Alex’s tiny bedroom should have been a haven, it wasn’t much of one, because it was right off the boys’ dorm. As in, you had to pass directly through the dorm to get to it. When any of the guys were out there we could hear their murmurs of conversation – so obviously we could be heard as well. And somehow Alex being the lead meant we couldn’t just tell them to get out; it would have felt like he was getting special privileges or something.

  So we could kiss, we could touch. . . but we couldn’t let ourselves get too carried away. I was so aware of the box Alex had bought on our way down to Mexico City, still sitting in his bag unopened. He was too – understatement – but neither of us mentioned it. Like me, I knew how much Alex wanted it to be perfect for us when it happened – not feeling self-conscious because someone might hear, or sneaking down to the sweaty-smelling exercise room.

  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.

  THE PARADE TOOK SEB 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.