Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One

by Aimee Agresti

  The strangest thing of all though was the reaction back at school. Most of the kids in that photography class were in there either for easy As or were really tortured artist types who dressed all in black. Then there were people like me, who could appreciate the arts, even if we didn’t quite have the skills to participate, and figured we couldn’t be that bad at pointing and shooting. When I put together that project though, something clicked. You looked at the pictures and jumped into the eyes of those kids and felt like you knew everything there was to know about them. Each semester the class voted on someone’s work to be displayed in the glass case in the school’s front hallway, and somehow they chose me. Every time I walked by it, I would see a handful of people stopping to stare, kids who never seemed to notice anything. Even Jason Abington had looked—a few times in fact—and once when I happened to be walking by (because I walked by a lot) he saw me and elbowed me, nodding at the case, and said, “This is yours? It’s really cool.” That meant more to me than I’d like to admit. But it was true; the sweet faces of my subjects did all seem to glow in those pictures, like the camera cut down to their core.

  I addressed my little posse now. “I’m officially putting you guys in charge of the Wall of Fame.” I knocked a knuckle against the bulletin board. “Dr. Michelle has kindly promised to take the photos so you can keep rotating in the new ones. Don’t let her slack off. I’ll be back soon and it better be in good shape.” I smiled.

  “Ooooh, um, she’s not such a good photographer,” Jenny whispered. “Remember the one of me with just one eye open when you were out that one day? It took, like, an hour to get something even that good.”

  “Good point. We’ll just hope that she’s improved since then. Or else, you can be camerawoman.” I winked. “I’ll miss you guys. Okay, high-fives, everyone.” I raced around slapping each soft palm.

  Night had fallen by the time we left the hospital. The lights of Chicago were a dull glimmer in the distance as Joan drove through the windswept suburban streets of cozy, quiet Evanston. The city felt much farther away than it actually was from home and the comfortable routine of my life. The car heater blasted, and beneath my puffy parka I could feel cold bands of sweat trickling down my skin. I sighed.

  “You okay?” Joan asked, peeking at me from the corner of her eye.

  “Sorry, yeah.” I kept my gaze straight ahead into the ice- encrusted, velvety night. “That was a lot tougher than I expected.”

  “Of course, honey, they’re all like family. Besides, going-away parties are designed to make you sorry you’re leaving—they’re sneaky that way.” She smiled, and I did too. “But you know what? We’re all right here. We’re not that far away. It’ll be fine.”

  “I know, I’m just sort of, I don’t know, nervous.” A twinge of guilt nipped at me. I didn’t want Joan to worry, and I certainly didn’t want to remind her that just about twenty-four hours ago she was completely vetoing this whole plan. She had sounded all the expected alarms: Why do you need to stay there? How hard are they going to be working you that they need you on the premises 24-7 when you only live an hour away on the L? Don’t they know there are child labor laws? Sure, I had told her, the whole thing is organized by the state Department of Education so obviously they’re not shipping us off to some sweatshop. But, in the end, there was no denying the honor that seemed to come with this, and that stipend (Joan’s eyes had positively bulged). I had pulled out the packet from Principal Tollman, with all the particulars about the hotel, glossy photos of its grandeur, and a host of clippings from every newspaper and magazine in the city about the glamorous woman—Aurelia Brown, blond, stunning, unbelievably young, and powerful—who would be my new boss. Joan had to say yes.

  But now, as Friday night closed in on me, ushering in what I knew would be an intense weekend of preparation for this sudden new chapter, nerves were getting the best of me.

  “I just don’t know what this will be like,” I continued. “I don’t know if they’ll like me or if I’ll do a good job. And it’s just weird. I mean, I’ve never even been to camp and now I’m going to be living somewhere else. And I know I want to go away to school, but I would have a whole extra year to get ready for that, you know? I just feel really . . . off.” That was the only way to put it. I felt that I was playing the role of me—and doing it badly—in what would be a spinoff of my life. The glow cast by the streetlamps transformed the bare trees lining our path into spindly, tentacled beasts. I shivered and took a deep breath.

  “Don’t worry. They picked you, remember? They know you’re special,” she offered, in soothing tones. “And, besides, Dante will be there. You kids will have each other.”

  “I know. That’s the only reason I’m not totally freaking out. Imagine what a basket case I’d be if I had to go it alone.”

  “No kidding.”

  Dante Dennis had been my security blanket, and best friend, for about ten years now. That he was one of the other two kids going to the Lexington with me might have otherwise seemed pure, dumb luck, except that he and I were always neck and neck, vying for the top of the class (politely, of course). So it made sense when he hedged at lunch, sheepishly peeking out from behind his chin-length dreadlocks and grabbing a french fry from my tray.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any news, would you?” He had eased into it, then bulldozed on. “Because I do. And I will die if you don’t have news. Please tell me you’re ditching this town and breezing into the Windy City for a certain fabulous internship.” He raised his eyebrows at me—up/down, up/down—conspiratorially. Instantly a wave of relief washed over me.

  “You wouldn’t be checking into the Lexington Hotel, would you?” I answered.

  “Yesss!” He was practically jumping in his seat now. “Oh my god, we’re going to have so much fun. I mean, who lives in a hotel? Only, like, rock stars and celebrities and maybe those messed-up starlets who, like, divorce their parents. Get me out of this horrid high school and into Chicago society!”

  “Yes, please.” I smiled. We looked around at the tables full of people who would elect us president of things like French Honor Society, but yet not talk to us ever. “Are you a little . . .”

  “Nervous?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hello?! Yes. Totally nervous. I mean, the whole thing seems like kind of a big deal—Tollman was, like, weirdly excited, and I sure don’t want to mess up. We could get total kickass college recommendations out of this. And these people could probably get us into any school in Chicago without even trying: Northwestern, U. Chicago, they probably know everyone. We’d be idiots not to be nervous. But we’re smart and seriously, we work hard. It’s all good.” He swatted his hand at me, no sweat.

  And I exhaled. This was Dante’s rare talent—far more impressive than his tenure on the honor roll or his landslide reelection to student government, or the absurdly gourmet bake sale he organized for charity each year, full of the most precious confections you’ve ever seen (he was no less than an artist whose chosen medium just happened to be frosting). No, his greatest accomplishment, as far as I was concerned, was his ability to act as a human tranquilizer for me. He could keep me operating at a sane and steady level no matter how twisted up I felt inside. He had proven his aptitude for it from that very first day I met him at the hospital so many years ago.

  Back then, I was a five-year-old roaming the pediatric ward halls waiting to find out who I was and where I would be shipped off to. He had been rushed to the emergency room by his frantic mom after he had fallen climbing a tree. He had landed on a mess of sticks and rocks he had collected to build a fort and ended up scraping up his back something fierce and mangling his arm. Tendon damage forced him to stay overnight, and he wandered into my room with his broken arm plaster- casted in a sling. We were up till nearly daybreak telling ghost stories. He went home the next afternoon, but became a regular visitor for the month I was there. Every few days he would appear, running down the hall, pulling his mom Ruthie with him, his little
arms always full of coloring books or stuffed animals or pictures he’d drawn for me.

  Joan pulled into the driveway of our town house. Home never looked so good as when you knew you were going to leave it. Ours was tall and narrow, a faded royal blue out front, with brown shutters and a slim covered porch. The place was plenty big for just the two of us and mere blocks from Lake Michigan, which was still and icy now, but would be our favorite escape for afternoon sunbathing and picnicking when the weather was warm.

  “Go on in, I’ve gotta get some things out of the trunk.” Joan shooed me away.

  “Need help?”

  “Nah,” she insisted. “I’ll be just a sec.”

  With that, I ran up the front steps and to the porch as fast as I could, the icy air chilling me to my bones as the wind howled and whooped around me. My gloved fingers fumbled with the keys and finally the door opened and a blast of heat warmed my skin.

  I flipped on the light. Through the living room, back in the kitchen, a shimmering silver balloon shaped in the number 16 danced above the table. A homemade cake and a palm-size box, wrapped in glittering silver paper with a matching bow, waited for me.

  I dropped my backpack on the floor and beelined straight to my birthday shrine, unzipping my coat as I went and disposing of it on a living room chair on my way. Joan was already at the door by the time I dug my finger into the fluffy icing and licked it off.

  “Part two of the birthday extravaganza!”

  “Delicious. And amazing. But it’s not until Monday.” That, at least, was the date we had always celebrated since we didn’t really know for sure when I was born. It was the anniversary of the day when I had been found and taken to the hospital where Joan was the first to tend to me, patching up my gashes and scrapes, checking for broken bones, and slowly getting me to talk to her, though I had nothing to say, nothing that was helpful at least.

  “I thought since we were already in such a festive spirit, we would just continue the party. Let the good times roll!” She set down her purse and shimmied off her coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. I took the glittering box in my hands and shook it.

  “So can I open it?”

  “You’d better!” she said, joining me at the table and sampling a finger’s worth of icing herself. “Go on!”

  I tore at the paper and opened a white velvet box. Its contents sparkled.

  “I know you’re not into jewelry, my precious little tomboy,” she said. “But sixteen is a biggie and I thought you should have something pretty.”

  I pulled out a necklace, webbing its gold chain around my fingers. It’s true: I didn’t wear jewelry, and what few pieces I’d ever gotten had always sat in their boxes untouched. But this one already felt different. For one, it wasn’t a heart or a dangling birthstone or any of the typical kinds of things I was used to seeing on the girls at school. Instead, this pendant, almost harp-shaped and running the length of my fingertip, was something entirely new: a single gold wing, its texture softly rippled to give the illusion of feathers.

  “I found this at that antique shop I always drag you to with me,” Joan said.

  “Right, the one next to that bookstore that I always sneak into when you take too long.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled. “I just thought it looked special, like you, and unique.” She kissed the top of my head. “I liked the wing, because you’re really going places, you know that? You’re soaring, Haven. You have so much ahead of you.”

  “Thanks, Joan, I love it, I really do.” I gave her a hug and held her a few seconds longer than I normally might.

  “Maybe you’ll actually wear this one, you think?” she asked, smoothing my hair.

  “I’ll prove it.” I dangled the necklace from my finger and lifted up my hair. “Would you?”

  “I’d be honored.” She fastened it on, then turned me around by my shoulders and straightened it in place so it hit just at that little indented spot at my throat. “Perfect, go see.”

  I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes went directly to the pendant. Generally, everything about my appearance seemed either imperfect or, at best, plain Jane. My nose always looked to me like a blob of uncooked cookie dough. My hair, skin, and eyes were just one shade off from one another in the color spectrum: caramel skin, bone-straight honey brown hair, dark amber eyes. The pink scrubs hanging as they did on my boyish frame did nothing to improve upon all this.

  And I had worn entirely the wrong long-sleeved thermal shirt underneath the V-neck top today. My favorites were in the hamper and poor planning had left me with only this old one, with a V-neck just a touch too deep. I looked at the mirror now and wondered if that corner of my scar—the three nasty stripes angled like accent marks and pebbled in texture like burns, located in the space above my heart—had been peeking out like this all afternoon. It was only two inches long but, when coupled with the pair of scars on my shoulder blades, collectively signaled one big, marred canvas. The necklace clearly should have looked glaringly out of place having me as its unworthy mannequin. But somehow this new piece seemed at home. The intense shine of the gold caught the light and cast a soft glow upon my face. I did like it actually. Perhaps I was growing up at last. Maybe this was the first sign of the sophistication to come. Sixteen. It felt weighty, substantial, important.

  “I love it,” I called out, still admiring it in the mirror. “Thank you so much.”

  2. Good Things Come in Threes

  Monday came entirely too fast, as it always does. But this time the new week landed with a greater thud in the pit of my stomach. The weekend was a blur of packing. I felt as though I were going as far as the South Pole, not as near as the South Side of Chicago’s Loop. Finally, with two large, overstuffed duffel bags in tow, I found myself outside the imposing fortress of the Lexington Hotel.

  My new abode was set on the block’s corner plot where South Michigan Avenue and Twenty-second Street crossed. The brick behemoth reached ten stories into the sky and was belted a third of the way up and again near the top by bands of ornate terra cotta in a pattern of curlicue designs. The bloated vertical seam along the corner of the building bulged where half-moons of bay windows jutted out on each floor. Those were probably some of the best rooms. I had always wanted a bay window—it seemed that girls in old movies were endlessly curling up by them to read or daydream. At the very top, where the sides of the building came to a point, a triangular flag stood proudly, like a college pennant, but rigid, not waving an inch and likely made of steel. It was strung with lights that glowed to read LEXINGTON.

  “Not a bad second home, honey,” Joan said.

  “Yeah.” The awe in my voice was evident as I peeked up through the car window. “Wow. It’ll do.”

  Joan had pulled the car up to the grand entranceway, which glittered with the promise of romance and style within. Lined by a pair of pillars on each side, the doorway was shaded by a crimson awning and framed in a stone border dotted with golden disks bearing the hotel emblem: the letters L and H entwined nearly one on top of the other. The revolving door, set above a handful of red-carpeted steps with a ramp beside them, beckoned me now. The ground-level exterior, unlike the rest of the hotel, was modern, with swaths of opaque black glass in place of picture windows set in the brick, making it impossible to see in but leaving you to wonder what might be looking out at you.

  “Let’s get you moved in, shall we?” Joan said, climbing out to unpack the trunk. I nodded and pushed open the car door to follow.

  Overnight, that aggressive winter chill had mellowed into a curious, unseasonable balminess. I pulled off my parka, rolled up my sleeves. I had done my best to look as professional as possible, in a button-down shirt, black pants, and flats, but I still felt too plain for this place. I had spent enough time Googling my new employer and the goings-on of the hotel itself to know that there would be a level of style here that reached far beyond what I was capable of. This Aurelia Brown, from the pictures I’d seen, was perfect—brilliant and b
eautiful, all things every girl wants to be—and yet somehow looked like she wasn’t even old enough to have graduated from college. I suspected I would have much to learn here.

  I lifted the body bag–size duffel onto my shoulder, stumbling under its weight.

  “Oh dear, give me that,” Joan said, lifting the other bag onto her shoulder and taking mine from me so she was equally weighted. “Do you want me to go in with you? What time is Dante coming?”

  “Five minutes ago.” I studied the building’s entrance. My heartbeat sped up.

  “That’s our Dante,” she said.

  I shook my head and smiled. He was always late, but it was part of his charm. You couldn’t be mad at him, because when he finally did arrive, it was always with such fanfare, you got swept up by it. I checked my watch: 8:52 a.m. Our start time had been called for 9:00.

  “I think I’ll wait another minute. At least it’s weirdly warm out,” I said. “But you go, I’ll be fine. Really.” I stuffed my parka under my arm and took the straps of the bags from her hands.

  “You sure?”

  No. I nodded anyway.

  “Isn’t there at least a bellhop or something?”

  “The place hasn’t opened yet. And besides, I’m not a guest. I’m probably going to end up being the bellhop.”

  “I hope not. How would you lift all those heavy things all day?”

  “I don’t know, but it would be fun if I got to wear one of those jaunty little caps, you know the ones?”

  Joan wasn’t listening.

  “Don’t let them have you doing anything dangerous.” She pointed her finger at me, in that way of hers.