by L. J. Smith
“I guess—I’ll see you later,” David said as she reached for the door handle. His voice made it a question.
“Yeah. Later,” Gillian said. She didn’t have the energy for anything more. She glanced back—once—to see him staring at the steering wheel.
She could see people staring at her as she walked to the school building. It was a new sensation and it gave her a spasm of anxiety.
Were they laughing at her? Did she look silly, was she walking wrong somehow?
(Just breathe and walk.) Angel’s voice sounded amused. (Breathe—walk—head up—breathe….)
Gillian somehow got through halls and up stairs to her U.S. history class without meeting another student’s eyes once.
There, arriving just as the bell rang, she realized she had a problem. Her history textbook, along with all her notes, was floating somewhere down toward West Virginia.
With relief, she caught Amy’s eye and headed toward the back of the classroom.
“Can I share your book? My whole backpack went in the creek.” She was a little afraid Amy might be miffed or jealous at the way she’d run off with David, but Amy didn’t seem to be either. She seemed more—awed—as if Gillian were some force like a tornado that you might fear, but that you couldn’t get mad at.
“Sure.” Amy waited until Gillian had scooted her desk closer, then whispered, “How come it took you so long to get to school? What were you and David doing?”
Gillian rummaged for a pen. “How do you know we weren’t picking up Tanya?”
“Because Tanya was here at school looking for David.”
Gillian’s heart flip-flopped. She pretended to be very interested in history.
But she gradually noticed that some of the other students were looking at her. Especially the boys. It was the sort of look she’d never imagined getting from a boy.
But these were all juniors, and none of them was in the really popular clique. All that would change in Gillian’s next class, biology. Half a dozen of the most popular kids would be there. David would be there—and Tanya.
Gillian felt, with a sudden chill, that she might not really care anymore. What did it matter what other people thought of her if she couldn’t have David? But she had a fundamental faith in Angel. Somehow things had to work out—if she just stayed calm and played her part.
When the bell rang, she hurried away from Amy’s questioning eyes and into the bathroom. She needed a moment to herself.
(Do something to your lipstick. It seems to have gone away somehow.) Angel sounded as puzzled as any human boy.
Gillian fixed the lipstick. She ran a comb through her hair. She was somewhat reassured by the sight of herself in the mirror. The girl there wasn’t Gillian at all, but a slender, insubstantial femme fatale sheathed like a dagger in black. The girl’s hair was silky, the palest of all possible golds. Her violet eyes were subtly shadowed so they looked mysterious, haunting. Her mouth was soft, red, and full: perfect, like the mouth of a model in a lipstick commercial. Against the stark black of her clothing, her skin had the slightly translucent look of apple blossoms.
She’s beautiful, Gillian thought. And then to Angel: (I mean, I am. But I need… a Look, don’t you think? An expression for when people are staring at me. Like, am I Bored or Slightly Amused or Aloof or Completely Oblivious or what?)
(How about Thoughtful? As if you’ve got your own inner world to pay attention to. It’s true, you know. You do.)
Gillian was pleased. Thoughtful, absorbed in herself, listening to the music of the spheres—or the music of Angel’s voice. She could do that. She settled the canvas bag on her shoulder and started toward her locker.
(Uh, where are you going?)
(To get my biology book. I still have that.)
(No, you don’t.)
Gillian maintained her Thoughtful expression, while noting that heads turned as she walked down the hall. (Yes, I do.)
(No, you don’t. Due to circumstances entirely beyond your control, you lost your biology book and all your notes. You need to sit with somebody else and share his.)
Gillian blinked. (I—oh. Oh, yeah, you’re right. I lost my biology book.)
The door of the biology lab loomed like the gate to hell, and Gillian had trouble keeping Thoughtful pinned to her face. But she managed to walk through it and into the quiet buzz that was a class before a bell was about to ring.
(Okay, kid. Go up front and tell Mr. Wizard you need a new book. He’ll take care of the rest.)
Gillian did as Angel said. As she stood beside Mr. Leveret and told her story she sensed a new quietness in the classroom behind her. She didn’t look back and she didn’t raise her voice. By the time she was done, Mr. Leveret’s pouchy, pleasantly ugly face had gone from a startled “Who are you?” expression (he had to look in the class register to make sure of her name) to one of pained sympathy.
“I’ve got an extra textbook,” he said. “And some outlines of my lectures on transparencies. But as for notes—”
He turned to the class at large. “Okay, people. Jill—uh, Gillian—needs a little help. She needs somebody who’s willing to share their notes, maybe xerox them—”
Before he could finish his sentence, hands went up all over the room.
Somehow that brought everything into focus for Gillian. She was standing in front of a classroom with everyone staring at her—that in itself would have been enough to terrify her in the old days. And sitting there in front was David, wearing an unreadable expression, and Tanya, looking rigidly shocked. And other people who’d never looked directly at her before, and who were now waving their hands enthusiastically.
All boys.
She recognized Bruce Faber, who she’d always thought of as Bruce the Athlete, with his tawny hair and his blue-gray eyes and his tall football build. Normally he looked as if he were acknowledging the applause of a crowd. Just now he looked as if he were graciously extending an invitation to Gillian.
And Macon Kingsley, who she called Macon the Wallet because he was so rich. His hair was brown and styled, his eyes hooded, and there was something cruel to the sensual droop of his mouth. But he wore a Rolex and had a new sports car and right now he was looking at Gillian as if he’d pay a lot of money for her.
And Cory Zablinski—who was Cory the Party Guy because he constantly seemed to be arranging, going to, or just recovering from parties. Cory was wiry and hyper, with foxy brown hair and darting fox-colored eyes. He had more personality than looks, but he was always in the middle of things, and at this moment he was waving madly at Gillian.
Even Amy’s new boyfriend Eugene, who didn’t have looks or personality in Gillian’s opinion, was wiggling his fingers eagerly.
David had his hand up, too, despite Tanya’s cold expression. He looked polite and stubborn. Gillian wondered if he’d told Tanya he was just trying to help a poor junior out.
(Pick… Macon.) The ghostly voice in Gillian’s ear was thoughtful.
(Macon? I thought maybe Cory.) She couldn’t pick David, of course, not with Tanya looking daggers at her. And she felt uncomfortable about picking Bruce for the same reason—his girlfriend Amanda Spengler was sitting right beside him. Cory was friendly and, well, accessible. Macon, on the other hand, was vaguely creepy.
This time the voice in her head was patient. (Have I ever steered you wrong? Macon.)
(Cory’s the one who always knows about parties….) But Gillian was already moving toward Macon. The most important thing in life, she was discovering quickly, was to trust Angel absolutely.
“Thanks,” she said softly to Macon as she perched on an empty stool behind him. She repeated after Angel: “I’ll bet you take good notes. You seem like a good observer.”
Macon the Wallet barely inclined his head. She noticed that his hooded eyes were moss green, an unusual, almost disturbing color.
But he was nice to her all period. He promised to have his father’s secretary photocopy the thick sheaf of biology notes in his spiral-bo
und notebook. He lent her a highlighter. And he kept looking at her as if she were some interesting piece of art.
That wasn’t all. Cory the Party Guy dropped a ball of paper on the lab table as he walked past to get rid of his gum in the trash can. When Gillian unfolded it she found a Hershey’s kiss and a questionnaire: R U new? Do U like music? What’s yr phone #? And Bruce the Athlete tried to catch her eye whenever she glanced in his direction.
A warm and heady glow was starting somewhere inside Gillian.
But the most amazing part was yet to come. Mr. Leveret, pacing in the front, asked for somebody to review the five kingdoms used to categorize living things.
(Raise your hand, kid.)
(But I don’t remember—)
(Trust me.)
Gillian’s hand went up. The warm feeling had changed to a sense of dread. She never answered questions in class. She almost hoped Mr. Leveret wouldn’t see her, but he spotted her right away and nodded.
“Gillian?”
(Now just say after me….) The soft voice in her head went on.
“Okay, the five classes would be, from most advanced to most primitive, Animalia, Plantae, Fungi, Protista… and Eugene.” Gillian ticked them off on her fingers and glanced sideways at Eugene as she finished.
(But that’s not nice. I mean—)
She never got to what she meant. The entire class was roaring with laughter. Even Mr. Leveret rolled his eyes at the ceiling and shook his head tolerantly.
They thought she was hysterical. Witty. One of those types who could break up a whole classroom.
(But Eugene—)
(Look at him.)
Eugene was blushing pink, ducking his head. Grinning. He didn’t look embarrassed or hurt; he actually looked pleased at the attention.
It’s still wrong, a tiny voice that wasn’t Angel’s seemed to whisper. But it was drowned out by the laughter and the rising warmth inside Gillian. She’d never felt so accepted, so included. She had the feeling that now people would laugh whenever she said something even marginally funny. Because they wanted to laugh; they wanted to be pleased by her—and to please her.
(Rule One, dragonfly. A beautiful girl can tease any guy and make him like it. No matter what the joke is. Am I right or am I right?)
(Angel, you’re always right.) She meant it with all her heart. She had never imagined that guardian angels could be like this, but she was glad beyond words that they were and that she had one on her side.
At break the miracles continued. Instead of hurrying out the door as she normally did, she found herself walking slowly and lingering in the hall. She couldn’t help it, both Macon and Cory were in front of her, talking to her.
“I can have the notes ready for you this weekend,” Macon the Wallet was saying. “Maybe I should drop them by your house.” His heavy-lidded eyes seemed to bore into her and the sensual droop to his mouth became more pronounced.
“No, I’ve got a better idea,” Cory was saying, almost dancing around the two of them. “Mac, m’man, don’t you think it’s about time you had another party? I mean, it’s been weeks, and you’ve got that big house…. How about Satur day, and I’ll round up a keg and we can all get to know Jill better.” He gestured expansively.
“Good idea,” Bruce the Athlete said cheerfully from behind Gillian. “I’m free Saturday. What about you—Jill?” He draped a casual arm around her shoulder.
“Ask me Friday,” Gillian said with a smile, repeating the whispered words in her mind. She shrugged off the arm on her own volition. Bruce belonged to Amanda.
A party for me, Gillian thought dazedly. All she’d wanted was to get invited to a party given by these kids—she’d never imagined being the focus of one. She felt a stinging in her nose and eyes and a sort of desperation in her stomach. Things were happening almost too fast.
Other people were gathering around curiously. Incredibly, she was at the center of a crowd and everyone seemed to be either talking to her or about her.
“Hey, are you new?”
“That’s Gillian Lennox. She’s been here for years.”
“I never saw her before.”
“You just never noticed her before.”
“Hey, Jill, how come you lost your biology book?”
“Didn’t you hear? She fell in a creek trying to save some kid. Almost drowned.”
“I heard David Blackburn pulled her out and had to give her artificial respiration.”
“I heard they were parked on Hillcrest Road this morning.”
It was intoxicating, exhilarating. And it wasn’t just guys who were gathered around her. She would have thought that the girls would be jealous, spiteful, that they’d glare at her or even all walk away from her in one mass snub.
But there was Kimberlee Cherry, Kim the Gymnast, the bubbly, sparkly little dynamo with her sun-blond curls and her baby-blue eyes. She was laughing and chattering. And there was Steffi Lockhart the Singer, with her café au lait skin and her soulful amber eyes, waving an expressive hand and beaming.
Even Amanda the Cheerleader, Bruce Faber’s girlfriend, was in the group. She was flashing her healthy, wide smile and tossing her shiny brown hair, her fresh face glowing.
Gillian understood suddenly. The girls couldn’t hate her, or couldn’t show it if they did. Because Gillian had status, the instant and unassailable status that came from being beautiful and having guys fall all over themselves for her. She was a rising star, a force, a power to be reckoned with. And any girl who snubbed her was risking a nick in her own popularity if Gillian should decide to retaliate. They were afraid not to be nice to her.
It was dizzying, all right. Gillian felt as beautiful as an angel and as dangerous as a serpent. She was riding on waves of energy and adulation.
But then she saw something that made her feel as if she had suddenly stepped off a cliff.
Tanya had David by the arm and they were walking away down the hall.
CHAPTER 8
Gillian stood perfectly still and watched David disappear around a corner.
(It’s not time for the plan yet, kid. Now buck up. A cheery face is worth diamonds.)
Gillian tried to put on a cheery face.
The strange day continued. In each class, Gillian appealed to the teacher for a new book. In each class, she was bombarded with offers of notes and other help. And through it all Angel whispered in her ear, always suggesting just the right thing to say to each person. He was witty, irreverent, occasionally cutting—and so was Gillian.
She had an advantage, she realized. Since nobody had ever noticed her before, it was almost like being a new girl. She could be anything she wanted to be, present herself as anyone, and be believed.
(Like Cinderella at the ball. The mystery princess.) Angel’s voice was amused but tender.
In journalism class, Gillian found herself beside Daryl Novak, a languid girl with sloe eyes and drooping contemptuous lashes. Daryl the Rich Girl, Daryl the World-weary World Traveler. She talked to Gillian as if Gillian knew all about Paris and Rome and California.
At lunch, Gillian hesitated as she walked into the cafeteria. Usually she sat with Amy in an obscure corner at the back. But recently Eugene had been sitting with Amy, and up front she could see a group that included Amanda the Cheerleader, Kim the Gymnast, and others from The Clique. David and Tanya were at the edge.
(Do I sit with them? Nobody asked me.)
(Not with them, my little rutabaga. But near them. Sit at the end of that table just beside them. Don’t look at them as you walk by. Look at your lunch. Start eating it.)
Gillian had never eaten her lunch alone before—or at least not in a public place. On days Amy was absent, if she couldn’t find one of the few other juniors she felt comfortable with, she snuck into the library and ate there.
In the old days she would have felt horribly exposed, but now she wasn’t really alone; she had Angel cracking jokes in her ear. And she had a new confidence. She could almost see herself eating, calm a
nd indifferent to stares, thoughtful to the point of being dreamy. She tried to make her movements a little languid, like Daryl the Rich Girl’s.
(And I hope Amy doesn’t think I’m snubbing her. I mean, it’s not as if she’s back there alone. She’s got Eugene.)
(Yeah. We’re gonna have to talk about Amy sometime, kid. But right now you’re being paged. Smile and be gracious.)
“Jill! Earth to Jill!”
“Hey, Jill, c’mon over.”
They wanted her. She was moving her lunch over to their table, and she wasn’t spilling anything and she wasn’t falling as she slid in. She was little and graceful, thistledown light in her movements, and they were surging around her to form a warm and friendly bulwark.
And she wasn’t afraid of them. That was the most wonderful thing of all. These kids who’d seemed to her like stars in some TV show about teenagers, were real people who got crumbs on themselves and made jokes she could understand.
Gillian had always wondered what they found so funny when they were laughing together. But now she knew it was just the heady atmosphere, the knowledge that they were special. It made it easy to laugh at everything. She knew David, sitting quietly there with Tanya, could see her laughing.
She could hear other voices occasionally, from people on the fringes of her group, people on the outside looking in. Mostly bright chatter and murmurs of admiration. She thought she heard her name mentioned….
And then she focused on the words.
“I heard her mom’s a drunk.”
They sounded horribly loud and clear to Gillian, standing out against the background noise. She could feel her whole skin tingling with shock and she lost track of the story Kim the Gymnast was telling.
(Angel—who said that? Was it about me—my mom?) She didn’t dare look behind her.
“—started drinking a few years ago and having these hallucinations—”
This time the voice was so loud that it cut through the banter of Gillian’s group. Kim stopped in midsentence. Bruce the Athlete’s smile faltered. An awkward silence fell.