A Shimmer of Angels Read online

  Chapter Two

  “A good day, huh?” Lee meticulously wrapped up his ear buds, wiped down his phone’s screen, and tucked them into a cloth-lined case. “I did just beat my high score in Die, Zombie, Die! So you could be on to something.”

  Dr. G always told me to celebrate the small victories, and Mom had taught me to dance like no one’s watching. My happy dance—a wiggle to the right, then two bounces left—caught him off guard. He snorted a laugh.

  I let Lee’s smile infect me and grinned back at him. It felt good, until I caught my warped reflection in the metal napkin holder. What a sorry excuse for a smile. My eyes showed a bit too much white, my lips a fraction too wide to pass as normal.

  Tightness crawled up my throat, and my smile died a quick death. I looked over my shoulder, surprised that no one was staring at the crazy girl. Just to be sure, I checked over the other. I took a deep breath, smoothing the end of my ponytail down, the way my mother had when I was little.

  Normal. Be normal and everything will be fine. Today will be a great day.

  Lee checked his watch. It was his father’s watch and hung so loose on his wrist I was constantly worried he’d lose it. His smile faded. “Oh, Tardis!” Despite the morning I’d had so far, my lips twitched into a smile—a genuine one, this time, and a side-effect of having a best friend whose curses consisted of Dr. Who references. “We’re gonna be late for school!”

  “Not today. Today is going to be a good day.” The zippers on my backpack clinked together as I yanked the heavy bag out of the booth and shrugged it over my shoulder. Dad would never agree to let me work if just the interview made me late for school. Then again, if Dad had his way, I’d be homeschooled and never allowed outside.

  Lee and I bolted from our booth and out the door, the diner doorbell chiming as we left. A fall wind whipped around me, lashing the ends of my hair across my cheeks. I pulled my jacket’s faux-fur hood over my rumpled tresses and glared enviously at Lee’s spiky, over-styled hair. It never so much as quivered as we dashed across the street in defiance of the yellow traffic light—a dangerous feat in this city thanks to the crazy drivers and bicyclists.

  We passed one of those Halloween superstores halfway down Powell Street, and I knew what Lee meant to say before he opened his mouth.

  “I almost forgot; the Halloween Dance posters went up yesterday. We’re still going, right?” He popped a piece of peppermint candy he’d swiped from the diner into his mouth.

  When Lee and I first met, I was so excited to have a friend—one I could make future plans with beyond stringing bead bracelets in Arts and Crafts hour before the meds wore off—that I had jumped at the idea of a school dance. Now that the dance was a few short weeks away, I was having second thoughts. And third and fourth ones.

  One look at how excited Lee was, and I knew I’d try. For him.

  “Are you sure you can keep up with this?” We stopped at a streetlight and I busted out another happy dance, just to hear him snort again.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but when you dance,” he threw up air quotes, “you disgrace dancers everywhere.” The light changed, and we maneuvered through the dense traffic still crowding the crosswalk.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Do my awesome dance moves embarrass you? Or maybe they secretly make you feel inadequate?”

  Truth is, that really was my only dance move. Spending time in a psychiatric hospital isn’t the best way to learn anything useful. Not when all music, TV, movies, books, magazines, and anything else remotely entertaining had to be pre-approved by the SS Crazy. I hadn’t been out long, but already I hated to think of what life would be like again if I had to give up the new music, horror flicks, and swoony summer beach reads. Even more so, I hated to think about what had landed me there in the first place. I couldn’t go back.

  I turned to Lee and found him staring at a girl in a miniskirt. I shook my head. “That’s two.”

  “What? Nuh-uh. That was only one.” The peppermint candy crackled as he chewed.

  “Nope. Cleavage Waitress at the diner was one. Miniskirt makes two. And it’s only … what time is it?”

  “8:03.”

  Crap. Two minutes until first bell, and we were still three blocks away. Without another word, we ran through Union Square’s busiest streets, dodging cars, dog walkers, and packed sidewalks. We skirted around the corner of Ellis Street just in time to hear the bell ring. We exchanged “Oh, shit!” looks, raced halfway down the block, flung open the fingerprint-smudged glass door, and trampled up the steps of Stratford Independence High School.

  “See you at lunch,” I said, half out of breath. Lee saluted me at the second floor, and we parted ways. Maybe I’d make it to class on time. Maybe if I didn’t, Dad wouldn’t find out.

  Stillness settled over the third floor. I pressed forward, fear of getting caught mounting with each step. The buzz from inside my classroom slashed through the hallway the moment I opened the back door. All eyes turned in my direction. I stopped breathing. In an instant, being late to class became the least of my concerns.

  It was like stepping into quicksand. I felt myself sinking slowly down into something I knew would not be easy to climb out of. I dug the nails of my right hand into the palm of my left to steady me.

  Because there, standing in front of my Honors English classroom, was a boy with brilliantly shimmering wings.

  Chapter Three

  It’s happening. Again.

  “Rayna.” I barely heard Ms. Cleeson’s voice over the panic bubbling up inside me. “Can you please take your seat?” I pulled the door shut. It slammed, making me jump. Ms. Cleeson barely glanced in my direction. As if signaled by the door slam, she and the class collectively turned their attention back to the boy, all of them acting like I was the morning’s unwelcome interruption.

  “Cam … Cam-el, is it?” She leaned over her desk, rifling through the paperwork beneath her baby bump.

  “Cam is fine,” the winged boy corrected her politely.

  I couldn’t move my feet, which was a problem because I wanted to run as far away as I could. Sweat started at my temples, trickling down the sides of my face. If anyone had noticed his wings or my panic, I guessed they would have said something by now. I turned away, but I couldn’t escape the light emanating from those enormous wings.

  Ms. Cleeson thanked him. “Rayna, our new student was just introducing himself.”

  That was pretty obvious. What was not so obvious was what a boy with wings was doing in my classroom. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight until the colored spots dancing in the darkness faded. When I reopened them, I saw the residual imprint of wings. The wings shone, their feathery tips moving in a slow rhythm as they floated up and down.

  Unable to move, I muttered through clenched teeth, “I, uh, I … forgot my book.” Nice save. I spun around, envisioning a seamless escape, and slammed into the door instead. With sweaty fingers I fumbled for the doorknob, unable to perform the simple act of grasp and twist.

  Oh, God.

  My breath came short and sharp. I pressed my body into the door, willing it to open. The inevitable chuckles from my classmates rang in my ears.

  Just then, a hand swooped in and swallowed the doorknob—and my hand—whole. A high-pitched scream from deep within me drowned out the snickers in the room.

  I glanced over my shoulder to confirm what I already knew: the fingers belonged to the new kid. He twisted the knob, and the door groaned open. His hand released me. I bolted down the hall, into the one place I hoped he wouldn’t follow: the girls’ bathroom.

  The sharp sting of lemon cleaner and bleach invaded my nose. I flung my backpack against the wall. It hit with a satisfying thwack and crumpled to the floor. Frosted glass windows above the stalls suppressed the clamor of cars and pedestrians on the busy street below. I paced the short length of the bathroom, but it didn’t seem to help the constriction that tightened my chest until it hurt to breathe. My lungs burned. Breathe. I
forced in a sharp intake of air.

  Angels aren’t real. They are figments of an over-active imagination that craves assurance there is such a place as Heaven, so it can believe your mother is in a good place. Dr. G had explained the light anomalies as hallucinations, common to someone with Schizophrenia Spectrum Disorder.

  But those wings had been so bright. How could an imagined vision sear my eyes with that glowing intensity?

  Stop it, Ray!

  I stumbled to the nearest sink, curling my fingers around the basin rim. I fought the urge to rock, only to realize my body was already teetering, the thighs of my jeans damp as they met the basin, over and over again.

  Focus, Rayna. On something. Anything. Don’t slip back. You can’t go back.

  My gaze found the scratched mirror above the sink, and I concentrated on my reflection, willing myself to think of anything but the image I couldn’t purge from my mind. Brilliant, shimmery wings, the color of falling snow on a bright day …

  Stop. It.

  Reflection. Focus on that. It’s all you have.

  My eyes glazed over skin so pale even the flaking cream walls held more color. My brown hair was flat, except for the fly-aways that curled wildly around my face. My skin had once been bronze from the sun. My more-green-than-hazel eyes had been bright with happiness, not with fear. That single glance at my reflection confirmed it: I was crazy again.

  An eerie quiet settled over the room. The tiled wall snagged my hair as I slid down to the floor.

  After all this time, none of the winged men had ever touched me. The boy’s phantom touch still warmed my skin. His hand felt real; he felt human, with flesh and muscle and bone … and wings.

  I raced to the sink. Turning the hot water on full blast, I shoved my hand under the water, burning his touch off of me.

  Dr. G would be so disappointed. After three years, he still hadn’t managed to cure me. I’m not sure what was worse: the thought that I had failed him, or the realization that I was going back.

  My backpack lay in a heap in front of the farthest stall. Inside the smallest zippered pouch, three amber pill bottles peeked at me from under the tiny flap. My hands trembled as I palmed them, the pills rattling in their respective bottles. Antipsychotics. Antidepressants. Mood stabilizers. I swallowed one of each, never bothering to stop for water.

  It had been stupid of me to quit the meds cold turkey. I knew that now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Every part of me shook as I scooted back to the wall, dragging my backpack along. I closed my eyes and waited for the crazy to subside.

  The bathroom door squeaked open. I jerked, bumping the back of my head against the wall. Pain rattled my vision. Gina Garson darted in just in time for the door to miss her as it slammed closed.

  Busted.

  Her brown eyes pinned me to the floor. I stared back, with my backpack curled up in my lap and three pill bottles lying beside me.

  So very busted.

  It just had to be Gina Garson, volleyball championship MVP. She stopped short at the sight of me and cupped a hand over her mouth. One of her eyebrows popped up in such a judgmental stare that I shrank away from it.

  “It’s not what it looks like.” I began shoving the bottles into my backpack, but my hands shook so violently the stupid bottles dropped back to the floor. I scrambled to collect them.

  “Sick.” Gina’s muffled accusation was clear.

  Yeah, okay. Maybe it was what it looked like. “Not like you think. I swear. Please. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Her stomach gurgled, a loud rumble, and she ran for the farthest stall. The door banged closed a second before the world’s most horrible sounds came from inside.

  Without thinking, I dropped my backpack on the pill bottles and stood up. “Are you okay?”

  Another round of loud, gross noises. “Peachy.” She spit. “Stomach flu.”

  I braced myself against the wall, my own stomach turning end over end. Somehow, I had to talk Gina into forgetting she’d seen me.

  Or I could just run. I was good at that. The second floor girls’ room had to be less … populated.

  I grabbed my backpack to leave and sent one of the pill bottles rolling into the center stall.

  Shit. Oh Shit.

  Gina’s stall quieted into short, shallow breaths.

  I dumped my backpack on the floor and lunged into the stall beside hers. The tip of my middle finger teased the smooth plastic. I breathed a sigh of relief. Safe. I flicked my finger to reel it in, but it slipped, sending my anti-psych meds spinning smack-dab into Gina Garson’s jeggings.

  I’m sure somewhere outside this bathroom the normal world continued, but not here. Here, Gina and I had both stopped. Stopped living. Stopped breathing.

  The pills rattled as she picked up the bottle.

  The stall door opened, and Gina walked right by me without so much as a glance. I spotted the bulge of a pill bottle in her cardigan pocket. She rinsed her mouth three times and then peered at me through the mirror while the faucet ran. She reached into her pocket. “You look like you might need these more than I do.” She tossed the bottle to me.

  I shoved it and the other two bottles into my backpack and let go of the breath I’d been holding. “Uh, thanks.”

  I should have left then.

  Gina wiped her face and turned around, leaning against the sink. “So what’s your deal?”

  My muscles seized. “What? What do you mean?”

  “You ran out of class like a freak on fire. Now you’re in here, popping pills. Need I say more?” She tossed her paper towel in the overflowing trash bin.

  The difference between Gina and me was not only that she was popular and I wasn’t, or that she was great at volleyball, while I was great at nothing. The biggest difference was that no one would know about Gina’s sickness because I wouldn’t tell them; I’d bet good money, however, that everyone would hear about my crazy, pill-popping freak-out before lunch.

  I picked at a loose thread on my jacket sleeve. “Just forgot something, is all.”

  “Okay. Whatever. But, when I asked to go to the bathroom, Ms. Cleeson said to bring you back if you were in here.” I watched her pull a tiny compact and lipstick from her pocket and begin working her lips like a super model.

  I couldn’t go back to class. Not after what I’d done. What Gina had seen.

  The bell rang. Gina snapped her compact shut and turned to me. “I didn’t see anything if you didn’t.”

  This was too good to be true. Not that I could trust her to keep her word. Not that I had much choice. “Deal,” I said past a dry throat.

  Gina nodded and left the bathroom without so much as a backward glance.

  I, on the other hand, waited for the tardy bell to ring and the hallway to quiet before I left. Not a single shimmer tormented me on my way to Science class.

  Bald-headed Mr. Ratchor greeted me with a terse, “You’re late.” He marked it on the role sheet to show he meant it, and I took my seat.

  I pulled out my book and spent the next fifteen minutes burying myself in the finer points of photosynthesis. I had almost managed to push thoughts of first period away when there was a knock on the classroom door.

  “Miss Evans, can you come with me please?”

  I looked up from my textbook.

  Ms. Morehouse, the school’s counselor-slash-therapist, stood at the door. “Rayna?” She called again.

  No, no, no.

  I’m not sure why I was surprised that Gina had lied about keeping my secret. I gathered my things, mindful of the curious stares following me to the front of the class.

  Today was definitely not a good day.

  Chapter Four

  The second I set foot in the cafeteria, I knew everyone had heard about my first period freak-out. The cheerleaders arched their brows and whispered as I passed their tables. The jocks eyed me while steamrolling me to be first in the lunch line. The back-row clique from Honors English class nudged each other and laughed when I jerked to a stop.
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  Stratford Independence was overflowing with kids who were good at something. Some excelled at sports, others were more into academics, after-school clubs, social climbing. The list was endless. My particular brand of talent was blending. Apparently, I’d lost my touch.

  Right before I turned to run, Lee came from behind and dragged me to our usual spot. He straddled the bench next to me and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, “Wanna tell me why you’re the talk of the school this morning? What the hell did you do?”

  Great.

  “It was nothing. People love to exaggerate.” I picked up my sandwich, but didn’t take a bite.

  Lee popped one of my veggie chips into his mouth, then immediately spit it out. He took a long swig of his soda and regrouped. “From what I hear, you slammed into the classroom door, fell on your jellybaby, had to be picked up by some new kid, and disappeared. That doesn’t sound like ‘nothing.’”

  “Jellybaby?”

  He tilted his head to the side, as if to say, you should know this Dr. Who reference, Ray.

  I rolled my eyes, ignoring the look that normally spins me into a fit of giggles. “I didn’t fall!”

  “And then Ms. Morehouse came for you in second period.”

  Not only had Ms. Morehouse pored over my thick file while I sat there, but then she’d insisted Ms. Cleeson’s call to her was concerning. So concerning, in fact, that we had a nearly three-hour impromptu session right there in her basement office. Gina had kept her promise, at least.

  “So if you know everything, why bother asking? I should just ask you what happened, Mr. Know-it-all.”

  He tore into his bag of “real” chips—Lee was always teasing me for eating “that fake stuff”—but stopped just short of crunching down on one to glance at me. “Just tell me if I should be worried about you. That’s all.”

  I might have been able to fool Ms. Morehouse into thinking nothing was wrong, but Lee wouldn’t be so easy. I didn’t want him to worry. I didn’t deserve a friend who got me the way he did. Maybe I’d overshot when I found Lee. I should have picked someone who didn’t care so much, someone who would have been easier to lie to. “I didn’t feel well, so I spent first period in the bathroom. And yes, I saw Ms. Morehouse. But I’m fine. I swear.”