A Shimmer of Angels

by Lisa M Basso

  Two girls passed on either side of me, one muttering a semi-polite “excuse me.” I followed them into Honors English, head down, feet shuffling.

  The new kid was already in his seat. And he still had wings. The tiny specks of light that struggled through the early-October clouds headed straight for him. His wings didn’t disappoint, amplifying their radiance, shimmering across the faces of our classmates.

  It wasn’t until I took my own seat—more like fell into it when my knees gave out—that it dawned on me: we were neighbors. Of course he would have been assigned the only free seat in class, the one next to me. It was a pattern: any free seats in my classes were next to me, emphasizing just how much of a freak most of the school thought I was.

  He acknowledged me with an entrancing smile. His wings shifted slightly, the tips of his feathers curling under like a cat’s claws.

  I returned an uneven smile through dry lips.

  If I stretched my hand out, it would pass right through them. I wondered if I’d feel anything. Ghosts are said to give off cold spots when they touch or pass through people. If that’s true, would these wings give off warmth?

  No, I reminded myself, because they aren’t real.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  His voice pulled me from my unnatural daze. Had he noticed me staring at his glorious, non-existent wings? Stupid, stupid, stupid. “What? Yeah, fine.” My pulse thrummed in my ears. Suddenly, all I could think about was the way he’d stared at me while they took Allison’s body away.

  Ms. Cleeson arrived and closed the door behind her. She placed a hand on her third-trimester belly and announced Allison’s death. Most of the students already seemed to know.

  “Grief counselors will be available all week for those of you who would like to talk to someone.”

  I glanced out of the corner of my eye. The boy with the wings didn’t seem as upset as the rest of the class—probably because he didn’t know her—but he wasn’t stoic, either. His brows, which were a half shade deeper than his blond hair, wrinkled together and stiffness gripped his upper lip.

  The classroom door opened again. “Ms. Cleeson?” Ms. Morehouse peeked her head in. The new boy turned to look at her and caught me staring. I quickly looked toward the door, too. “Could I borrow Rayna?”

  Everyone’s eyes shot to me. Even the new boy’s. I stiffened, repressing a yelp while my cheeks burned red-hot.

  “Of course,” Ms. Cleeson nodded, taking a seat behind her desk.

  Back to the basement for more therapy. I wondered if my dad had called her. My teeth clamped down, biting back the pang of trepidation hammering against my chest. All eyes remained on me as I gathered my things. The new boy’s slate-gray stare pierced more intensely than everyone else’s combined. I headed to the door. I would deal with him later; right now, I had to lie to my therapist.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lee plunked a family-sized bag of pork rinds and a liter of Jolt Cola down on our lunch table. At least he would make the day worth fighting through. Talking with Ms. Morehouse and Jeremiah, the visiting grief counselor, had taken up the entire morning. I had no idea if I’d been convincing enough, but at least there were no questions about wings.

  “I forgot to tell you this morning, I met the new kid. He’s kinda cool. Really friendly, ya know?”

  “Where?” I cast a glance around the cafeteria, but didn’t see the winged boy in question.

  “Yesterday. We have fifth period Bio together. His name’s Cam.”

  So they’d met right after he’d tried to join us for lunch. “That guy gives me the creeps.” The words slipped out before I thought to censor myself.

  “What are you talking about? He’s super chill.” He chomped down on a pork rind. The smell of fried pig skin turned my stomach. “And he’s smart. I’m stoked I won’t be stuck doing all the lab work by myself anymore.”

  Throat suddenly dry, I pushed my veggie chips aside and sat up a little straighter. “Why would you work with him?”

  “Cam’s my new lab partner. At the beginning of the year the class was uneven. Natalie Cruz and that stuck-up Rose Kim can suck it now. We’ll see how far they get next lab without me.”

  “You can’t work with him.”

  His brows furrowed. “Why not?” He laid down his next rind. “What’s your problem with him?”

  I couldn’t let Lee get involved with the new kid. If they became friends I’d have to stop hanging out with Lee, or I’d slip. There was no way I could be around those wings for too long without breaking. But I couldn’t lose Lee, either. He was my best friend and one of my few, precious links to the world of sanity. I’d do anything to keep that from happening. Including planting ideas in his head. “Don’t you think it’s weird he happens to show up,” I lowered my voice, “the same day Allison dies?”

  The ends of Lee’s lips turned down. “Wow. That’s … wow. That’s some conspiracy theorist stuff. What would make you even think that?”

  My shoulders slumped. I was a selfish, horrible person, and a terrible friend. I looked down through the small, circular holes in the blue cafeteria table at my sneakers. “Well, think about it,” I prodded, pinning my arms against my stomach. “It’s a pretty big coincidence. And he just happened to be in the crowd outside when they took her body away. Convenient, right?”

  “If there was a crowd then there must have been plenty of people outside the school then.”

  “Yeah, but … still.”

  The din in the cafeteria carried to our corner table, reminding me we weren’t alone. Yesterday he had tried to join us. What if he tried again today? I checked over my right shoulder, and when I didn’t see shining, I turned and looked over my left one. Nothing. He wasn’t in the cafeteria. Where could he be?

  Lee scoffed at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that when you do that, the looking over both shoulders thing, you prove my own conspiracy theory right.”

  “Which is?” I had to know what he believed, so I could make sure it was nothing close to the truth.

  “That in Arizona you were some cool teenage super spy and you and your family moved because things got too hot there for you. And not temperature wise. So since you’re hardwired with all this cool Kung Fu knowledge, you’re always looking over your shoulder, watching and waiting for the next attack.”

  I almost laughed, but I couldn’t afford to let him take me off track. I was determined to keep him away from the new kid. “You’re not even giving it any thought. There’s something … off about him.”

  “Have you even tried talking to him?”

  I pushed my sandwich away for the second day in a row, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. I’d never tried to get to know one of the winged hallucinations before. I’d spent most of my time trying to avoid them. Maybe that was the problem. I’d never seen wings on someone I knew personally. If Lee was going to make friends with the new kid—with Cam—I had two choices: quit being Lee’s friend, or find a way past the wings.

  Dr. G had told me the key to my sanity was knowledge. He was right. It was time for me to get to know the boy with the wings and face this thing head on. I was done running.

  Chapter Twelve

  After lunch and Music class, I sat across from Cam in History. He focused on note-taking. His wings dipped up and down with every breath he took.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” His gaze locked onto mine before I could pretend to be studying anything but him. His tone was inquisitive and curious, while his eyes invited the truth.

  My fingers tensed beneath the table. When I spoke, there was far too much inflection in my voice. “Uh, no.”

  I flung my gaze down to my notebook. Several tortured minutes later, when I finally managed to convince myself he was refocused on class, I glanced up.

  He was focused all right. On me.

  The hypnotic flow of those remarkable wings drew me in again. His eyes narrowed, a question tight
ening his forehead. “What are you looking at?” He whispered.

  “What do you mean?” I kept my voice low, covering almost flawlessly this time.

  He frowned at me, then turned his attention back to class. Mr. Barnes scribbled several dates on the chalkboard, linking them with names of famous Civil War … generals, I think.

  This was stuff I should probably know. I copied everything down, noticing I was two pages behind in the textbook. I flipped the pages and looked away. I’d always hated history. So boring. Mr. Barnes droned on and on.

  A shaft of sunlight drew my eyes toward the window. Actual freaking sun! I sat back in my seat so I wouldn’t rush off toward the window and get detention or something. Shimmering gold, like light off a sparkler, pulled me back to Cam’s wings. The sun made them glow.

  His wings jerked, their immeasurable wingspan opening so quickly I didn’t have time to look away. The breeze they created shifted my hair into my eyes. I looked up at him from beneath its cover. With trembling fingers, I reached up and pushed my dark hair aside.

  Surprise jolted him. His eyes grew wide and round, spoiling his angelic face with absolute awareness. His jaw slackened and his fist clamped down onto his pen, snapping it in half. Black ink splashed over his hand, white t-shirt, and well-fitted, green plaid over-shirt.

  Oh, God.

  I scrambled for my books, sweeping them into my bag. My chair skittered into the kid sitting at the table behind me. I didn’t even get out a “sorry” before fleeing the classroom.

  “Rayna,” Mr. Barnes yelled after me, followed by something else I couldn’t quite hear before the bell rang, ending sixth period.

  I didn’t look back as people piled into the halls, simply dodged them, ran up a flight of stairs to the third floor, and took solace in the girls’ bathroom.

  What the hell just happened? They couldn’t be real.

  They were real, I felt the air rushing pass me. But, no. No, no, no, no, no, no. How else do I explain that? God, could he be a real angel? Could they all have been real?!

  A hysterical bubble of laughter burbled up my throat. I swallowed it down.

  Angels—real ones—don’t exist. Maybe. Or not.

  My back pressed up against the same tile wall I’d used for comfort yesterday when he’d first arrived, and I slid to the ground.

  I couldn’t crumble now. There was too much to do, too much still to figure out.

  The toilet in the second stall flushed, startling me to my feet. I pulled it together enough to splash water on my face and run into the hallway. The last thing I needed was another episode of “tweaker girl’s hiding in the bathroom.”

  Twenty-six quick, but measured, steps brought me to the Art room for my last class of the day.

  Just make it through the day; hold it together.

  A streak of gold skimmed the thinning group of students in the hallway, catching my eye. I stopped just outside the classroom. Turned very slowly toward the odd light.

  Cam watched me, half in the hallway, half in the stairwell. The very stairway where Allison had taken her last steps. Confusion and anger marred his face. His lips parted, as if to speak.

  No.

  I turned and ran into the classroom, my heart throbbing in the back of my throat. But he didn’t show up in the doorway.

  Good. That was good.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest—difficult to do on a tall stool—hoping no one would notice how much I was shaking. Real. Those wings were as real as the sweat coating my forehead, neck, and palms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An eternity later, the bell rang, signaling the start of Art class. My odd posture attracted a few stares. But I couldn’t look crazy. If I got sent to answer Ms. Morehouse’s probing questions, I didn’t think I’d be able to think straight enough to lie my way around them. Slowly, I lowered my legs to the floor and reached for my backpack. Sun glinted off something. I tensed, dropping my bag. Nothing. It was nothing. Just sun.

  How can those wings be real? For so many years they told me they weren’t! I’ve been fooled. Or lied to.

  Real. They were real. But they couldn’t be.

  Someone was speaking, distracting me from thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking. At the front of the classroom, a woman in a long floral dress unveiled an abstract painting. A sub. Mrs. Pheffer probably couldn’t handle what had happened to Allison, either.

  The sub wrote several words on the chalkboard. Colors. Blocking. Surrealism. Like I needed anyone to explain surreal to me. Her words faded, lost again to my own internal shouts.

  I saw Cam. He saw me. Maybe we saw each other for what we really were.

  I swallowed, hearing the swish of saliva slide down my throat.

  Slow down, I told myself, reaching for an anchor.

  Dr. G’s “knowledge is power” speech soothed me somewhat. Start with what you know as fact, then discover and uncover the rest. The more you’re sure about, the less confused you’ll be.

  So you felt something, I began, trying to break it down rationally. You saw the wings. You felt them blow wind into your face, but there was no physical touch. That meant there were still three other senses that haven’t been tested. Yet. I thought I could pull off a sniff test, but I didn’t much feel like trying to taste his wings. What would I even say? Oh, don’t mind me, Cam. I’m just going to be back here, licking the air behind you back. No biggie. I barked out a hysterical laugh.

  Every head in the classroom turned in my direction. I slapped a hand over my mouth and forced my eyes down. The rhythm pounding in my pulse belonged at a rave. I was losing it.

  I forced my thoughts back on track. Had I really felt anything? That breeze could have come from anywhere—an overzealous air duct, a window some rebellious student had cracked open—and here I was convinced that it had come from Cam’s wings. Wings. It was just wind, Rayna.

  So, if taste was out, touch and smell were left. The boy smelled like a damn lawnmower—which I loved—but was that his wings or just him? No way would I get close enough to touch them—not now, and probably not ever, if I wanted people to believe I was still sane.

  There had to be another way.

  When I looked up again, determined to keep up with the normal kids, I noticed my classmates had gathered their materials and were already hard at work. I fought myself out of my stool and to the supply room. Where it was dark—no sun to glint off anything, no people around. I wedged myself into the corner and sank to the floor. I needed a minute. Just one. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them, but wouldn’t let myself rock. The beginning of tears stung my eyes. I couldn’t let myself unravel. Not here. Not now.

  I shot up to my feet and bumped into the shelf beside me. Tubes of white, green, and blue paint smashed to the ground. I wiped my eyes and scurried to pick them up before someone came in. Scrambling, I picked up a palette and squirted a few colors on it, grabbed my set of brushes from my cubby hole, and raced back to my stool.

  The sub was safely making rounds. Everyone was engulfed in their work like nothing had happened yesterday. Like Allison hadn’t been in pain and run out of here, never to be seen alive again.

  I gripped the largest brush in my hand and let my eyes drift closed. The image of Allison’s painting kept springing to mind. Even though the glance I got yesterday was brief, I was sure there were wings. Allison had drawn … an angel.

  The image faded in my mind. I opened my eyes. The sub loomed over me.

  She knelt. “Is everything all right here?” Her hair was wild and, up this close, her stout features were prominent. In her dress, the short woman resembled a tree stump.

  I swallowed, pretending my mind hadn’t just been on the verge of breaking completely.

  Get a grip, Rayna. Allison’s painting couldn’t have had wings. Everything these past two days had to be stress manifesting in unexpected—or, for me at least, very much expected—ways. It had to be. My craziness had taken over, devoured every rational thought.

  Even if th
ey weren’t real, I’d been seeing wings again for almost thirty-six hours. The relapse had already begun. This was the worst, feeling real life slip through my fingers while everyone watched. My schizophrenia was intensifying, getting worse. Nothing could be worse than that. Nothing.

  The sub simply stood there, looking up at me. I made my shaking lips move. “Fine, just … imagining what to paint.”

  Get a hold of yourself!

  The wide-eyed sub nodded, but didn’t move along to the next sorry soul. What did she want from me? My pulse hammered. Maybe subs got the same general warning about me the regular teachers did: keep an eye on that one. If I didn’t do something soon, she’d call Ms. Morehouse.

  I smeared my brush in the green paint. Before I could think, I streaked a thick, diagonal line across the canvas. Good one. Now I’d have to struggle with how to finish this assignment.

  The sub tapped the tips of her fingers on her lips. “Bold choice,” she said, then moved to my left.

  My head whirled like a centrifuge, spinning out of control. I needed an anchor, a way to put these thoughts away before they exploded out of me. With shaking fingers, I dropped the paintbrush and smoothed my hair back, then dug into my backpack for my secret notebook. I roughly sketched the image I remembered from Allison’s canvas with the edge of a dull pencil.

  Around me, each brush stroke, footstep, and whisper set me on edge. Every few seconds I peered over my shoulders. No one could know how much I was slipping. No one could see the thoughts in this notebook.

  My original idea of throwing out the notebook before I got home, erasing any trace of these thoughts, was beginning to unravel. It had already become a part of me, as important to my sanity as any of the lessons I’d learned from Dr. G. Detaching from it now would be like using Miracle-Gro to get rid of weeds; stupid and so not logical.

  The final bell rang while I was still in deep thought with my notebook. I washed my brush, packed up my notebook, and ran to the main stairway, hoping to disappear in the faceless crowd.