Angel

Page 18

 

  Then, later that morning, Beth’s parents must have called the school, because someone overheard Mrs. Bexton talking about it in the office. By lunchtime Pawtucket High was buzzing with the news: Beth had dropped out of school to join the Church of Angels.

  All that day, I walked around in a daze, hoping it was a mistake, that Beth just had a cold or something, that she’d turn up later, smiling and perfect, just the same as always. But of course it didn’t happen. Finally, between fifth and sixth periods, Nina showed up at my locker. “You know something about this, don’t you?” she demanded.

  I stared into the messy depths of my locker, suddenly close to tears. Around us, the hallway jostled with people. “Yeah, sort of,” I said softly.

  “Come on. ” Nina grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the school. As we left the building by a side door near the art room, we passed a couple of seniors, and I stiffened as I heard what they were saying.

  “Well, I think Beth’s really brave. ”

  “Yeah, my cousin joined, and so did one of my mom’s friends. They all say that angels really exist and that —”

  I hunched my shoulders in my jean jacket and hurried out the door after Nina.

  In the parking lot, we sat in her car and talked. I told her everything that had happened . . . except for the part about Beth’s angel turning up on my doorstep. She wouldn’t believe me, for one thing, but more than that I didn’t really want to think about it myself. Anyway, she was stunned enough. She sat silently for ages, shaking her head. “Willow, this is just . . . I mean, my God. ”

  “Yeah,” I said, and tried to smile. “That sort of sums it up. ”

  “Well — what are you going to do?”

  “Do?” I was sitting curled in her Corvette’s bucket seat with my head against the window. I looked up and stared at her. “What can I do? She’s already joined; she’s not going to un-join. ”

  Nina’s hazel eyes were accusing. “And you know this how, exactly?”

  I scraped my hair back, frustrated. “Because I saw it! She just stays there, getting sicker and sicker, until . . . something happens. ” I trailed off, seeing again the cold gray cloud that had drifted over everything.

  “Something happens,” repeated Nina, drumming her fingers on the dash. “Willow, listen to yourself! It’s not like you know. ”

  “I do know!”

  “You do not. All either of us know is that Beth has joined the Church of Angels and that it’s because of your reading somehow and that you’ve got to help her before she ruins her life. Did you know that she was going to try for early admission at Stanford?”

  I blew out a breath, wondering why I’d even told Nina. “Look, I have to go,” I said, uncurling myself and grabbing my bag.

  “Willow, wait! You can’t just —”

  I was already out of her car by then, heading for my own. But I should have known that Nina wouldn’t let it go.

  The next morning, Saturday, she turned up at my house early. “OK, here’s the plan,” she said briskly, flipping her bangs out of her eyes. “I checked the Church of Angels’ website, and the nearest church is in Schenectady. That must be where Beth has gone. There’s an afternoon service today at two o’clock — you’ve got to go there and talk to her. ”

  We were sitting on the ancient glider on my front porch, drinking coffee. With a sigh, I tucked a knee under myself and dropped back against the faded striped cushions. “Nina, I’ve already told you . . . it’s pointless. ”

  She shoved my leg sharply. “Willow, you have to. Come on, do you think your psychic powers are so infallible that it’s impossible for you to be wrong?”

  Put like that, I didn’t really have an answer. I stared out at our street. A few doors down, a car engine started up, breaking the hushed early-morning silence. I sat cradling my coffee, listening to it fade away.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  Resting her coffee on her knee, Nina leaned forward to look me in the eyes. “Please go,” she said softly. “You seriously might be the only person she’ll listen to. ”

  I could feel myself caving in. I gazed down at the glider’s rusting metal arm, picking at a flake of white paint. “I don’t know if she’ll want to see me or not, though. She was pretty angry after her reading. ”

  “You still have to try,” insisted Nina. “If you’re right and she won’t leave, then fine. But you have to try. ”

  I let out a breath. I couldn’t argue; she was right. Even though I knew I wasn’t mistaken about what I’d seen, she was still right. I started to tell her so but stopped as a thought chilled my hands, even as I cradled the warm coffee mug. Of course I was going to go to the church. There had never been any doubt. I can’t psychically read myself — whenever I’ve tried, I’ve only seen a sort of grayness. The same sort of grayness that I’d seen in Beth’s reading, though without that terrible graveside coldness.

  That was why I couldn’t see more of Beth’s future at the Church of Angels. Because I was going to play a part in it.

  “What is it?” asked Nina, peering into my face.

  I shook my head, draining the last gulp of my coffee and trying to ignore the dread that was suddenly pulsing through me. The last thing I wanted was to even go near the church now, but it didn’t feel like I had a choice. Grayness or not, Nina was right: I had to at least try.

  “Nothing,” I said. I tried to smile. “OK, I’ll go. ”

  The dread had faded a little by that afternoon, though the worry hadn’t. I stood in front of the oval mirror that sat over my dresser, studying my reflection. I was wearing a tight white top and a long purple skirt with lots of sparklysilver threads running through it. I touched the skirt worriedly. Was it OK? People dressed up for church, didn’t they? Not that it mattered, really, but I wanted to blend in if I could.

  It’ll do, I decided. Quickly, I brushed my hair, then twisted two long locks on each side, pulled them back, and caught them with a small barrette. I pulled on my jean jacket and sneakers, grabbed my drawstring bag, and went downstairs. I could hear the clatter and splash of Aunt Jo doing the dishes in the kitchen; in the living room, Mom was asleep in her favorite chair. Not a surprise: sometimes I think her sleeping dreams must be as seductive as her waking ones. Asleep, she looks just like anyone else — as if her eyes might light up with recognition if she were to open them and see me.

  Gazing at her now, something tightened in my stomach.

  I’m never going to see her again, I thought.

  What kind of stupid random thought was that? I shook it away, ignoring the fear that had suddenly spiked through me. Leaning over the chair, I kissed my mother’s sleeping cheek.

  “Bye, Mom,” I whispered. I smoothed her pale hair back. “I won’t be gone long. I love you. ”

  She murmured slightly and fell still again, her breathing soft and even. I sighed. At least she seemed peaceful. I kissed my fingers and touched them to her lips before I slipped from the room. Poking my head into the kitchen, I told Aunt Jo I was going out, and five minutes later, I was in my car, heading toward Schenectady. There wasn’t much traffic, even when I got onto I-90. Once or twice I noticed a black Porsche behind me. I glanced at it in the rearview mirror. I’d seen it back in Pawtucket, too, lagging a block or so behind me when I left town. Someone else going to the church, maybe?