I screeched my powder-puff pink bike to a halt one block from Goode Middle School at the old abandoned McBrin house. As usual, Gabi was already there, sitting in the grass reading some tween romance book with a superpretty girl on the cover, who would eventually end up with all her problems solved and a hot boyfriend. I used to read that stuff, too, but not anymore. Until I see proof that things like that happen in real life, I’m done with those books forever.
“Hey,” Gabi mumbled, barely glancing up from her book.
Gabi didn’t like to stop reading in the middle of a chapter. She said it was like putting a DVD on pause during a juicy scene. She’d start chatting away when she was ready, at which point it’d be hard to get her to stop; talking was her oxygen. In the meantime, I flung my color-coordinated pink safety gear behind the bushes. Can you say overprotective mom? There was no way I was going to school dressed in head-to-toe Barbie Dream House.
Gabi stood up as I dumped my bike alongside the other stuff.
“Where’s your backpack?” she asked.
“Home. I was in a rush.”
She started to laugh.
“What?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my nonexistent chest.
“I just think it’s funny that you didn’t have time to grab your bag, but remembered to put on every single knee pad sold at Sports Authority.”
She had a point. “You are not going to believe my morning!”
“Tell me about it,” Gabi interrupted. Then she straightened up her posture and put on her most serious face. “Gabi, dear, I’m a little concerned about your grades and lack of physical exertion. A B-plus average is okay, but remember you can do better than that. Now it’s lovely that you like to sing and act, but you know what would be better? Straight As, leading the swim team to victory, and bringing home an Olympic medal in jazzercise. She’s so . . .” Gabi stopped channeling her mother and smacked her head. “Oh my God. I’m totally lame. I almost forgot your birthday.”
Gabi jumped up off the ground and gave me a huge hug, practically suffocating me. I’m five feet tall, and she has a good five inches on me.
“Wait, it’s here somewhere. I know I have it,” she said when she finally let go and ran to her backpack. She pulled out a white paper bag and handed it to me. “It’s a little crushed, but it still tastes just as good.”
I looked inside. It was a smushed cupcake with heaps of gooey, bright red icing. It’s the thought that counts.
“Don’t be disappointed. I got you more stuff, but that’s for later. And we have some choices of what to do tonight. We can go see Someone’s Watching, even though I probably won’t sleep for a week, or we—”
“Or we could go to the Mara’s Daughters concert if my mother would stop being so annoying.”
That stopped Gabi. “What?!” she shrieked.
I gave her the 4-1-1 on what went down with the tickets.
“No wayyyyyy,” Gabi shouted, her hands gripping her light brown hair.
I could always count on her for the best reactions.
“I know,” I said, matching her tone. “She’s done a lot of whacko things in the past, but this, this—”
“Is crazy cruel,” Gabi finished for me. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
I nodded and took one last look at my hidden items which were well-covered by the bushes, and then Gabi followed me as I headed toward school.
“Why would your mom put the tickets in the cereal with a note signed by your dad?”
“I don’t know,” I said, staring down at my black checkered Vans. Focusing on one thing helped me think.
“Maybe,” Gabi said with a chuckle, “your mom’s tea leaves told her to do it.”
“Could be. Or maybe it was the ghost of Cleopatra.” I wished I was joking.
“I know what it is,” Gabi declared. “She conducted a séance and accidentally summoned your father on the Ouija board. His spirit took over her body and made her buy the tickets.”
“Or maybe,” I paused for a moment to consider, “my father really is alive.”
chapter 4
“That doesn’t make sense,” Gabi said, shaking her head. “Your mom wouldn’t let your dad in the house to hide the tickets. Besides, she wouldn’t lie about him being dead.”
I gnawed at the nail of my pointer finger. “She would if she thought she was protecting me.”
Gabi kicked a pebble with her clunky suede wedge heel. “Well, she does always say he’s the—”
I quickly cut her off. “My mom’s nuts,” I whispered. I was never exactly sure what Mom meant when she referred to my father as “the devil.” I was fine with the possibility that he was a deadbeat dad. But if “devil” was code for criminal, or worse, I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
“We’re going to be late,” I said, and raced up the steps to school. I didn’t want to have that conversation anymore.
Gabi ran in after me, but we didn’t get very far. We were stopped at the entrance by Courtney Lourde giving Gabi a major once-over.
“Not again,” Gabi mumbled, and tugged at a piece of her hair.
Courtney had been trying to make Gabi’s life miserable ever since last year when Gabi beat her out for the part of Nancy in Oliver! They’re both way into drama, and Courtney really wanted the part. She even told Gabi they could hang out, sit together at lunch and everything—if she quit. Only Gabi didn’t do it. She told me being a part of Courtney’s clique wasn’t worth it.
I hate to admit it, but if it were me, I probably would have dropped out of the musical. Not only is Courtney the most popular girl at Goode Middle School, but she hangs out with Cole. Being her friend would have been an automatic in.
“There’s no way you’re getting cast this year,” Courtney said in her sing-song tone.
The school was putting on a production of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Both Gabi and Courtney got callbacks for the part of Lucy.
“Don’t count on it,” Gabi answered, wrapping her hair so tightly around her finger, it turned purple. “I beat you before.”
I had to give Gabi credit. She was brave. Standing up to Courtney was like messing with a werewolf. You only did it if you had superstrength, speed, and a whole posse by your side—otherwise, there was a good chance, you’d lose a limb.
Courtney rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Torin is directing this year. She’s not tone-deaf.” With that, Courtney flipped her white-blond hair over her shoulder, spun around on her heels, and walked away to join her two best friends, Jaydin Salloway and Lana Perkins.
“Forget about her,” I whispered. “She doesn’t know anything.”
We headed to homeroom but only made it a few steps before Max was all over us. I swear that guy has an internal GPS. If he had to find me in Times Square, on New Year’s Eve, at the stroke of midnight, he’d manage. Maybe it was his height. He had to have been the tallest eighth-grader in the history of tall eighth-graders. Gabi’s mother told her he had a glandular problem.
Max gave me a goofy grin, then said, “Happy birthday, Angel,” to the part in my hair.
“Thanks,” I said. It was sweet of him to remember, but it would have been sweeter if it had been Cole. Why did the only guy who knew I existed have to be Max Richardson? He was so . . . so . . . I don’t know . . . picture Big Bird. Kind, helpful, enormous. Then picture Big Bird majorly crushing on you. Awkward. “I should get going. It’s almost time for homeroom.”
“Here.” He handed me the CD he was holding, quickly glanced at my face, then right back over my head. “Since you’re not going to the Mara’s Daughters concert, I put all their songs on that. You can put them on your iPod.”
He spoke so quietly, I had to strain to listen. “Wow. You didn’t have—”
The bell cut me off.
Max took off down the hall. “See ya,” he called out, looking back over his shoulder at me and waving.
Gabi started laughing. “Looks like somebody has a boyfriend.”
“Shut up,” I said. Gabi knew
I had a tiny soft spot for Max ever since the fifth grade. On Valentine’s Day he bought all of the M&M’s out of the vending machine and put aside the red ones for me. They were all melted and sticking together from his hands. The grossness of the gift kind of outweighed the niceness of the thought behind it. But that was Max. The last thing I needed was for anyone to think I was into him. Then Cole would never ask me out.
Just then, Mr. Stanton, the principal, stepped out of his office. “Miss Garrett, Miss Gottlieb, do I need to give you two detention for being in the hall after the bell went off?”
“No, sir,” Gabi said, her eyes getting huge. And then, channeling her mother, “We’re on our way to homeroom right now. I would never do anything to mess up my transcript. It’s spotless.”
“Plus, it’s my birthday,” I said. “Maybe you can let us off with a warning?” I flashed him a big smile, showing off my dimples.
He paused for a minute. “All right, but don’t let me catch you out here after the bell again. You know the rules.”
“Yes, sir. That won’t be a problem. I’ll make it my business to live up to my name,” I said.
He looked confused. Even the principal forgets who I am.
“Angel,” I reminded him, trying to beam like one.
“Right, right,” he mumbled. “Now both of you get to class.”
As Gabi and I headed to homeroom, I caught our reflections in the window of the trophy case. It’s hard sometimes not to feel like a major slob standing next to her. She always looks so put together with the straightened hair that takes hours to perfect each morning and the designer labels that make her look like she stepped off the set of Gossip Girl playing one of the mothers. I’m the opposite. You only have to look at me once to know that my morning routine takes approximately three and a half minutes.
As we walked, I pulled out my ponytail holder and put my hair back up again, trying to get rid of the bumps on top. Gabi handed me a ribbon. “You can have this,” she said.
No way. I did not need anything to up my cute quotient. Adults are always calling me adorable, but what I aspire to be is mysterious-looking. Too bad the only thing that can possibly fall into the exotic category are my eyes. They’re almost translucent. I go back and forth between thinking they’re cool and thinking they’re a little eerie. They pick up the colors around them. There are times when they look super light green and other times almost black. It’s bizarre.
“Earth to Angel,” Gabi said. “Have you even heard a word I said?”
I hadn’t. “Sorry.”
“What I said was,” Gabi paused for suspense, “I have the perfect way for you to talk to Cole.”
She definitely had my attention then.
“Tell him you heard how much he loves Mara’s Daughters and you want to let him borrow your CD with all their songs on it.” She grabbed the disc from my hand and looked at the playlist Max wrote up on the back. “Even the lesser-known ones.”
Max would have flushed his head down the toilet if he knew he’d inspired Gabi’s plan to get me and Cole together. “I don’t know. It wasn’t like it worked for Max.”
“You’re not Max.”
“What if I wind up sounding pathetic?” I grinded on two of my nails at once.
“You won’t. Come on. You have to do it. It’s your birthday. If you don’t have the guts to talk to him today, when will you?”
“Fine,” I said, against my better judgment as she handed back my prop.
When we got to homeroom, Gabi pointed her chin toward the far left side of the room.
Sitting about twenty feet away was the guy I’d been daydreaming about for the past two years—Cole Daniels.
My face turned red.
Let’s be clear. Cole was not just my crush. He was my obsession. But he only knew who I was because he had to pass the attendance sheet to me in homeroom. I sat behind him. Thank goodness for alphabetical order.
“Go!” Gabi nudged me.
I took my seat and gave myself a mental pep talk. It’s just a simple conversation. You can do it. Just pretend he’s Max. When my nerves were as calm as they were going to get, I tapped Cole on the back. He turned around and looked right at me. He definitely wasn’t Max.
I froze. The words weren’t coming. It was the longest four seconds in the history of seconds.
Cole raised an eyebrow at me. “Did you want something?”
I shook my head no. I couldn’t go through with it. Staring at Cole was like staring at a real angel. And I had no idea what you were supposed to say to someone like that.
chapter 5
“Angel!” My mother yelped when I walked in the kitchen door later that afternoon. “What are you doing standing there? Go watch some TV in the living room.”
Something was up. She hated it when I watched TV. We only had one because sometimes the History Channel aired documentaries on the occult and religion. She said television was the creation of the devil (although if that’s true, then I say he can’t be that bad).
I couldn’t exactly see what she was doing because she had her back toward me, but suddenly a horrible noise came from the sink. It sounded like she was feeding aluminum siding into the garbage disposal. “What are you doing?” I inched closer toward her.
“Nothing.”
She was clearly lying. Her voice had an extra high lilt to it. I tried to peek over her shoulder to get a look, but she did a one-eighty and raced to the living room.
I followed her, and then plopped myself on the couch smack next to her. “I got an A on my English quiz today,” I announced.
“Good girl. Education is the best defense against—”
“The unknown, yeah,” I said, cutting her off. I wasn’t looking for a repeat of her favorite lecture. “Since I did so well, and it’s my birthday, can I go with Gabi to the concert?”
She pursed her lips together. “Angel. We are not getting into this again.”
“But, Mom . . .”
“Enough,” she warned. “You’ll understand someday.”
“Not likely,” I muttered, and stood up in preparation of storming to my room in a giant huff.
Mom got up, too. I knew where this was going. She was moving in for a hug like she always did after an argument. She said it got rid of the negative energy permeating the air.
I stood rigid with my arms plastered to my side. She didn’t get to make nice after ruining my birthday and possibly my life.
Then she held her palms about five inches above my head, closed her eyes, and mumbled a bunch of words I didn’t understand. She wasn’t hugging me! She was reciting a blessing in Sanskrit.
“Cut it out,” I said.
But instead of stopping, she wrapped her arms around me and drew me into her chest. Her voice got louder as she continued to pray for me. I put my hands in my pockets and began my own little prayer to make it end. And that’s when I felt the familiar feeling of two smooth pieces of cardboard.
My heart rate sped up as I pulled the tickets out and looked at them.
I did a double-take. That couldn’t have been right. And another take. How was it possible?
I was holding the Mara’s Daughters tickets.
I looked at them, then over at Mom.
Mom.
Tickets.
Tickets.
Mom.
Huh?
Her eyes practically popped out from her sockets when she realized what I was holding.
“Hand them over, Angel.”
“No.”
“Angel,” she warned.
I wasn’t an idiot. I ran for it. “They’re mine,” I shouted as she chased me around the couch.
“You took them from me,” she said. “That doesn’t make them yours.”
We paused, staring at each other from opposite sides of the couch, both of us breathing heavily.
Was she going to go left or right? I couldn’t tell. I needed a getaway plan. I could have made it upstairs, but then what? By the time I got the window open, sh
e’d have had me pinned. I’d have never escaped. “You gave them to me.”
“I did no such thing,” she said, hoisting herself over the couch like an Olympic medalist.
I squealed. She nearly grabbed me, but I made a mad beeline for the kitchen. She was right on my tail.
She caught the back of my T-shirt and pulled me toward her. All of a sudden I was on the ground on top of her.
“Are you trying to confuse me to death?” I yelled. “First, you give them to me and then take them back. Then you put them in my pocket and pretend you know nothing about it. And now you’re tackling me for them?”
Mom didn’t answer. Instead, she pried my fingers off the tickets. I held on tight, but I couldn’t take her. She was strong when she wanted to be. I think all that Bible-thumping builds muscle.
She tore up the tickets into tiny little pieces and threw them on the floor.
“Stop!” I shouted, but it didn’t matter. It was too late. “You’re ruining my . . .”
My words got stuck in my throat.
I don’t even know how to tell the next part without seeming destined for a straightjacket or like I have a serious lying problem.
Here goes: The paper shreds were slowly crawling toward each other. When they finally touched, they melded back into tickets. It was like rain drops merging with a puddle. Only that’s something you see all the time. This was different. This was fuh-reaky.
“No, no, no, no, no,” my mother said, then snatched up the tickets, raced to the garbage disposal, and stuffed them down as far as they would go.
I heard the grinding, saw the paper disintegrating, then watched as the tickets soared up out of the sink in a perfect arch and landed smack on the counter—fully intact.
What. The. Heck? Events like that don’t occur in real life. I thought my imagination had orbited out of control.
“Not again,” my mother cried. She reached into the cabinet for the mini-torch she used to polish her crystals. “Stand back,” she told me.
Then there was a giant whoosh as the tickets caught on fire. A black, streaky scorch mark blazed itself into the countertop, but the tickets wouldn’t burn.
Daddy's Little Angel Page 2
