by Shel Delisle
And here’s something else: it is possible Aisha knows my Mission. It might be one of those girls she’s hanging with. Maybe she’s part of a divine plan to introduce me.
I’m about to walk over to her when I realize she—and all the other girls—are dressed in shorts, tank tops and flip flops, compared with my outfit of knees socks and plaid skirt.
Dear Dad! Who picked my clothes? Oh yeah—me. This isn’t the blend-in type outfit I’d imagined. Now, where’s my luggage? It didn’t come with me.
I suppose if I’d gone through the training they would have covered this, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need an additional three years to fix this snag. Let me see, is there a power I can use? Hmm… I haven’t learned that yet, either. No fear. I’m resourceful and have a cell.
Using the angelic composure walk, I glide to the side of the building and huddle near a hedge where the others can’t see me, then pull the phone from my briefcase. A few feet away, a large iguana is sunbathing.
“A little privacy would be nice,” I tell him.
He looks over what I think is his shoulder and grumbles, “They all think they own the place,” as he lumbers off to another sunny spot over near a playground.
After he’s gone, I pull up the Contacts menu, debating: Too soon to call for help? Him, or Michael? It doesn’t make sense to risk Michael scolding me for this oversight, so I fire off a quick text: fashion abomination! 911. I hesitate for one breath and wonder if this is what Michael meant by an emergency, then decide it is and press send.
Seconds later, the phone plays Handel’s Messiah. Gabriel must have picked my ring tone, because it’s all gigantic orchestra and choir. It’s as bad as the clothes and it’s gotta go.
“This is Grace.”
“Your luggage is on the way,” The Boss says and hangs up.
What? No convo? I guess He’s really busy.
But with my first problem successfully tackled, I head back to the front of the building and run smack into Milly so hard, it could have detached her fingernails.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m so clumsy.”
It doesn’t seem to faze her: the bump, or my apology. “Here she is!” Milly says brightly to the four people she has in tow. “Grace—meet the Murphys.”
A trim woman with short, curly red hair hugs me. “I’m Megan, and this is my husband, Mr. Murphy… I mean, Sean.”
A pale, tall man with black hair peeking out from under a floppy, outback-style hat waves from the back.
“Here’s Finn.” She gives a small boy with the same curly, carefree red hair as hers a little push from behind.
The corners of his mouth are covered in peanut butter. He rushes to me, wraps his arms around my thighs and smears the peanut butter on my plaid skirt.
All right! The uniform is history.
“Finn, careful. I’m sorry, Grace. I’ll wash that for you later.”
“It’s fine.”
Finn beams up at me with eyes as blue as the sky in Heaven. What a cutie!
Mrs. Murphy tugs at his T-shirt. “Finn, let go.” He pops his thumb into his mouth and Mrs. Murphy gently removes it. “Grace is going to be staying with us, so you’ll get to spend a lot of time together. Let me introduce your sister.”
Mrs. Murphy steps aside and tucked behind her is a girl about my age with long, straight red hair and her parents’ fair complexion. “Grace, this is Tara. You girls will go to school together.”
Tara slouches and shoots her mom a wicked look. Then she turns and gives me a feeble smile. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say, but she’s looking past me to the registration desk and there’s this gaping hole in the conversation.
“Well, we should get your things.” Mr. Murphy points to the mounds of luggage.
“Oh. I don’t have anything over there. It’ll be delivered to your house later.”
The Murphys give each other a look and it feels like I might have messed up again. I will be resourceful, I affirm.
“I didn’t come on the bus,” I explain. “I flew in.”
Mrs. Murphy says, “Oh, are you sure it’s not there? I’ll check with Milly.”
Okay, so what I said is not 100% accurate, since I don’t have my wings yet, but I know I didn’t come on the bus, even if I’m not sure exactly how I got here.
Chapter 4
I can’t count the number of times over the last three years that Michael has said to me, “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” It’s one of his absolutely bizarre clichés. I have no clue where I’m headed with the Murphys, but at least the ride is short.
When we reach the house after the X-Change check-in, Mrs. Murphy gives me a tour and finally leads me down a hallway. With an open-handed gesture, she says, “This is your room.”
In Heaven, Mercy and I redecorate almost weekly because our personal styles are, well, worlds apart. Mercy likes girly. Ruffles and lilac. She wants to be a Virtue and keep the Heavenly bodies aligned. Peace, beauty, order and all that.
Guardians, like me, prefer bold contrasts. Last week I’d decorated our room in black and white geometric designs and had Escher hanging on the walls. Mercy said it gave her a headache.
And honestly, by Sunday, I was glad to have her change it.
Mine on Earth is all pastel floral comforters. Gag. But Mercy would love it… then, homesickness sets in. This room looks so much like ours in Quadrant Two with its two twin beds, dresser, desk and chair. I wish Mercy was sitting on the bed, reading one of her boring outer space books.
Against one wall there’s an open door, and I can see through a short passage to a neon-colored room. Orange, hot pink, lime green. Piles of clothes and shoes litter the floor. That’s more my style. Without the mess.
“That’s Tara’s room.” Mrs. Murphy guides me into the passage. “You girls will share this bath.” She calls out sing-songy, “Tara,” and then says louder, “Tara!”
“What?”
“I thought I told you to pick up in here.”
Tara slouches into the bathroom with a cord trailing from her ear to a box in her hand. That can’t be good.
Perhaps I can help. I pat her forearm. “Excuse me, but did you know you have something in your ear?”
“It’s called an iPod.” Her flat tone mocks me.
Oops. I’ve seen them before on HVEN TV. Time to muster some angelic poise. And an Archangel don’t mess with me face. “I know what it’s called, but did you want it in your ear right now? Your mom is talking to you.”
Mrs. Murphy gives me a strange smile and Tara shakes her head.
There. Crisis averted.
“I did pick up,” Tara says without pulling the cord out.
Mrs. Murphy eyes her daughter. “There’s no room for Grace’s things.” The counter had two sinks, and every inch of space was covered by makeup, facial cleanser, hair brushes, a flat iron, perfume and other stuff I can’t even begin to identify.
With one sweep, Tara slides everything into a big pile that still spills onto my side.
I paste on an expression of angelic sweetness. “Thanks.”
But before I can kill her with kindness, Mr. Murphy’s head pops into the doorway. “There you are. It’s Milly from the program.” He holds out a phone to his wife. “She needs to speak with you. They located Grace’s luggage.”
Thanks be to the Commander-in-Chief. I can finally change out of these clothes.
Mrs. Murphy takes the phone and wanders away, leaving Tara and I in a smothering silence. Her eyes never leave the counter as she straightens a few items and asks, “Are you a freshman?”
Fresh man? “I think so.”
“Ha! You mean, you don’t know?”
Her scorn irks me. “Of course I know,” I pretend. “Are you?”
She finally looks directly at me. “I’m a sophomore.”
Huh?
“Look—” Tara says, “no offense or anything, but I never wanted us to get an X-Change stud
ent. The program is stupid. But my parents want me to broaden my horizons—” she makes quote marks with her fingers, “—and go somewhere next year.”
“So, what’s wrong with that?”
“It’ll be my junior year. If I go away then, when I come back for senior year, I’ll be this total outsider. Who wants that? It’d be crazy, right?”
This question throws me, but when in doubt, be agreeable. I swallow. “Yep.”
Tara eyes me for a fraction of a second. “We’re probably not going to have any classes together, but I’ll introduce you to my best friend Lacey and—” She stops.
“And?”
“We’ll see,” she says.
}{
The Murphys want to eat out to celebrate my first night.
“What sounds good?” Mr. Murphy jangles the car keys.
I’m not sure what to say. In Heaven, we’re only allowed fruit, nuts and dairy because it doesn’t kill anything. Humans don’t realize how lucky they have it. The Man Upstairs doesn’t care what they eat as long as they’re thankful.
I shrug.
“How about Chinese food?” Mr. Murphy suggests.
I’m supposed to blend. “Sounds good,” I say.
A few minutes later we pass through the intricately carved, dark wood doors of Wan’s Mandarin House. Spicy smells linger in the air. The dimly lit restaurant is decorated in shades of red and gold. In a huge tank, colorful fish glide to a cling-cling-ping melody.
Mercy would love this. I should pick this décor when it’s my turn.
As the hostess seats us, I notice a statue on an ornately carved chest. “Hey cool! Buddha!” I point. “He’s very popular where I come from.”
Mr. Murphy’s expression is quizzical. “Really? I never realized there were a lot of Buddhists in Montana.”
“Well, yes, but—” I’m completely at a loss, having never been to Montana. “He’s still… I mean, what’s not to like about Buddha?”
Mr. Murphy laughs and Mrs. Murphy says, “That’s exactly right. I agree.”
There. That was a good job of covering. And Michael thought I couldn’t handle this.
Quickly, I quickly bury my nose in the menu to avoid any further slips, but there’s no help there. I mean, wow. Look at all the choices. It’s all in teeny tiny print. Column A and Column B? Maybe if I use my angelic composure face, they won’t realize how confused I am. I wonder if every Guardian has to cope with figuring this stuff out, or if skipping school hurt me.
“What are you having?” Mrs. Murphy asks me.
“I’m having the sweet and sour chicken,” Finn answers. “Red sauce on the side.” He dips pretend chicken in pretend sauce.
Mrs. Murphy rubs Finn’s shoulder. “I know that’s your favorite, but I was asking Grace what she wanted.”
Angelic composure, angelic composure, shrug. I look to Finn for a little help, but he pops his thumb into his mouth.
Tara stares at him. “Grow up,” and then says to her mom, “Would you stop him, please? He can’t do that when he goes to school. The kids will pick on him.”
“Tara, I can handle this without your help. Finn, you need to stop. You could hurt your teeth when your grown-up ones start coming in.” Mrs. Murphy says. When Finn obeys, she turns to me, acting like nothing happened. “Most of the time we order a few things and share. That way you can try a bit of this and that.”
This and that sounds good to me because I can’t decide what to have. After the waitress takes our order, Mrs. Murphy folds her hands and says to Tara, “I spoke to that voice coach today. He said he could fit you in on Saturdays. He’s mailing us some more information.” Then to me she says, “Tara has a beautiful voice. She’s been accepted to train with a well-known instructor.”
Tara sinks in her seat. “I told you already. I don’t want to do this.”
I’m actually sympathetic. Gabriel always wanted me to be a singer too, and sometimes you’re just not feeling it.
“Honey, I don’t understand. We’ve talked about this for years.”
Tara won’t even look at her mom. “So, I’m not allowed to change my mind?”
“I don’t understand. You’ve wanted this since you were a little girl and now that some friend doesn’t think it’s cool, you don’t want it anymore?”
“Lacey is not some friend, Ma. She’s my best friend.”
“Well, if she’s your best friend, she’ll want you to pursue what you love.”
Wait, what? Tara loves to sing? Now that’s a different story than me. But I can hardly believe she’d be a good singer. I mean, look at that posture. Gabriel would have a fit. There’s absolutely no confidence in her walk.
Tara won’t take her eyes off her plate. “Yeah. Right. Like you were sixteen, oh—thirty years ago. You’re clueless about how high school works.”
“Tara, that’s enough,” Mr. Murphy says.
Should I step in? It seems like they could definitely use my help, even if they aren’t my Mission. “If you ask me—which I know you didn’t, but I feel compelled to tell you anyway…” I stare at Tara. “You should listen to your mom. She’s trying to help you.”
“You’re right.” Tara pauses. “No one asked you.”
Doesn’t she know angelic advice when she hears it?
“Tara! You need to apologize.” Mrs. Murphy’s expression says what am I going to do with this girl?
“Seriously? She shows up, like, five minutes ago and starts telling me how to act. You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Tara—”
“It’s all right,” I say breezily. And it is. Because I don’t plan on spending any more time with Tara than absolutely necessary. She’s not even relevant to my Mission, which involves one Human—who will most definitely appreciate my angelic input.
We’re rescued by the waitress and platters of food. I bow my head. Habit, y’know?
“Maybe we should say grace,” Mrs. Murphy whispers to her husband.
“You don’t have to say my name,” I offer. “You can just say thanks.” They both look at me open-mouthed as I say, “Amen.”
With that taken care of, everybody passes the dishes around. Tara’s doing a nice job of sharing, so I smile at her. It’s not returned.
It’s so tempting to say, Hey I’m an Angel, so maybe it’d be a good idea if you were a little nicer to me. I gotta cell phone and could put in a good word for you.
Unfortunately, that would break one of Michael’s messed up rules, so I do my best to ignore her as I heap chicken cashew, shrimp lo mein, beef with snow peas and fried rice onto my plate.
Leaning over, my face inches from the food, I inhale garlic, ginger, soy sauce, onions. Finn imitates me and when he sits back, his nose is dotted with sticky sweet and sour sauce. Mrs. Murphy wipes it off.
I chow down. “Delicious,” I say with my mouth full. While shoveling in more, I close my eyes. “Mmm, mmm. Mmm.” Plate empty, I resist the temptation to pick it up and lick it. All eyes are on me when I raise my head; Mrs. Murphy’s fork is suspended mid-air. Her mouth hangs open.
“Grace likes Chinese food,” Finn says and pops a piece of chicken in his mouth.
“Grace eats like a pig,” Tara says under her breath.
“Tara!” Mrs. Murphy says, and Tara sulks.
Maybe I should eat slower in the future? I smile at everyone, rub my stomach and think about another helping.
It’s quiet at the table. Tara’s sulk is as dark as midnight and the only noise from Mr. and Mrs. is the clink of their forks punctuated by the background music.
Everybody stares at the table except Finn, who smiles up at me. His sweet and sour chicken has hardly been touched, so I help him out and snatch a piece, which makes him giggle.
Mrs. Murphy turns to me. “It must be hard to be away from home. Do you miss your parents?”
Like I already explained: no official parents, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. From what I’ve seen on HVEN TV, there are times I’d think it
might be nice. Other times, um, not so much. Either way, I need to fake it for the Murphys.
“They’re always with me.” I steal another piece of chicken from Finn.
“What a nice way to look at it,” she says. “What does your dad do?”
“Everything,” I say.
Mr. Murphy laughs. “I feel like that some days, too. What line of work is he in?”
C’mon, give me a break! Wasn’t that the right answer? “Sometimes He makes stuff. Sometimes He takes care of stuff. Sometimes He tears it down.” I shrug. “Whatever’s needed, you know?”
The two adults give each other a weird look. “And your mom?” Mrs. Murphy asks.
Hmm. Supposedly there’s nothing close to Mom, but I—along with a lot of others—rely on Mary. “Well, mostly she helps me when I screw up, which I don’t do very often, but I still do it sometimes, y’know? She just makes sure Dad cuts me a little slack.”
Mrs. Murphy says, “Yeah that sounds like our family, too,” but that weird look is still flashing between her and Mr. Murphy and he waves at the waitress, calling her over to the table.
Did I just make a mistake I can’t recover from? Could we end this conversation, like, now? Please.
Dear Daddy—I should have read that Identity file. “So, that’s my family,” I say brightly.
Mrs. Murphy rubs her cheek. “We’d love to hear more about them another time.”
Mr. Murphy just glances at a piece of paper and gives the waitress a card. Was I being paranoid?
She returns with a tray heaped with little plastic packets, and Mrs. Murphy doles them out, handing me one. “Fortune cookie?”
This seems to be an important Earthly ritual, so I study Tara and Finn to mimic them.
Mr. Murphy takes his own cookie, signs a paper and asks me, “How was your dinner?”
“Omigod, it was good!” I unwrap the cookie and take a bite. Sweet and crunchy… and then, there’s something strange in my mouth. Huh, what’s that? I pull out a tiny slip of paper. Weird. Unfurled, it reads: Watch your language!