‘Getting anything?’ I ask them, keen to know if the seeking has worked.
‘Not sure … still scanning,’ says Kitt, her eyes a darker, more intense, almost navy shade of blue as she concentrates. Sunshine doesn’t lift her head, but I can just make out her eyelashes fluttering, trembling.
‘Riley … what’s a party again? I can’t remember,’ whispers Pearl, taking her hand off Kitt’s shoulder as she leans over towards me.
‘Pearl!’ snaps Kitt.
A chastened Pearl quickly reverts to her position, hoping, I suppose, not to earn another cross on the skills chart that’s pinned to the wall in their loft bedroom. The first time I saw it, I thought it was some kind of behaviour chart. I guess you could still think of it that way, only swapping various magical powers for promises to keep your room tidy and not hide crisps in your pillowcase. (Those two are on Dot’s behaviour chart.)
‘A party,’ I whisper, leaning closer to her, ‘is where lots of people get together to chat and laugh.’
Pearl scrunches up her nose and seems confused.
‘So, it’s like this?’ she asks, glancing dubiously around the library.
‘Uh, no, not exactly,’ I reply, though I get why she maybe thought that from my description. ‘There’s usually music –’
‘I like music!’ Pearl says enthusiastically, not spotting the dark look Kitt’s throwing her.
‘– and dancing,’ I finish.
‘And dancing’s like this, right?’ asks Pearl, taking her hand off Kitt’s shoulder and wiggling in her chair.
‘Pearl – concentrate!’ Kitt snaps, reining her ditzy sister in again.
Pearl flops back almost sulkily and takes up her position again.
Just at that moment, a faint breeze seems to stir – but the windows … they’re all shut, as far as I can see. I give a little shiver, then see a drift of dust swirling in the glare of wintry sunlight streaming through the closed window.
But here’s a funny thing … from where I’m sitting, I can see it’s only swirling around Kitt.
‘Atchoo!’ she sneezes, making Sunshine stir. ‘Atchoo! Atchoo!’
I pass Kitt a scrunched tissue from my blazer pocket, but my eyes are on Pearl. She’s biting her lip, trying not to smile.
Wait – was that her? The breeze, the drift of dust, Kitt’s sneezing fit?
Pearl sees me watching and puts a finger to her lips, the universal sign for Shh, keep my secret!
Wow. I think she’s just played a trick on her sister, using some strictly off-limits errant magic to get back at her for being annoying.
THWACK!
The library door is suddenly shoved open roughly and bangs against the library wall.
A wide-eyed Sanjay Kanwar rushes in, demanding attention.
‘Get this!’ he pants.
OK, even though I’m still reeling at Pearl doing something so mischievous, so un-angelic, Sanjay’s got my attention – and everyone else’s in the room.
Even Kitt and the newly awakened Sunshine are waiting to see what he has to say.
‘There’s a whole crowd of people in the boys’ toilets downstairs,’ he gasps. ‘Cos there’s this writing, see?’
‘What writing?’ asks Lauren, her face twisted with impatient contempt.
‘On the four mirrors above the sinks … there’s a word on each of ’em,’ Sanjay babbles on. ‘First one says I, second one says AM, next one is WATCHING and the last one is YOU.’
‘I am watching you?’ says Joelle, doing the head slide, arms folded, almost as contemptuous as her friend Lauren. ‘Is that meant to be a joke or something?’
‘Nah, it’s not a joke – it’s written in blood!’ announces Sanjay, thumping his schoolbag down on the nearest table to emphasize his point.
Gasps and ‘No way!’s rumble around the room. Lauren’s friend Nancy slaps both hands on her mouth, her short, bitten, black-painted nails looking like cartoon rotten teeth for a second, which makes me want to do the opposite of my class and giggle.
‘What … you saw this, Sanj?’ one of the other boys shouts out.
‘Not me, no,’ Sanjay answers with a shake of his head. ‘Couldn’t get in – some teacher was there telling everyone to get out of the toilets and back to class. But the lads who’d seen it were all saying so.’
‘Blood! Omigod, it sounds like a horror movie!’ squeals Ella. She’s paper-white, like she might faint.
‘Maybe I should get down there and take a photo for the school newsletter,’ I say, thinking about my camera tucked away in my bag, always at the ready.
‘I’m guessing you’re all talking about the silly graffiti in the boys’ toilets?’ says an authoritative voice, and Mrs Mahoney, the learning resources manager, click-clacks into the room and strides to her position behind the big library desk. ‘Well, let me tell you now, it was NOT written in blood. In fact, it was probably just a red whiteboard pen. And it’s all wiped off now.’
Like Mrs Sharma – our regular form tutor who’s off on maternity leave – Mrs Mahoney’s smile is easy and wide, and today is untroubled by news of potential weirdness.
‘But Sanjay said he heard –’
‘Let’s not get into Chinese whispers, shall we?’ Mrs Mahoney says brightly to whoever was talking. ‘I was chatting to another member of staff just now, and they said it was simply someone’s idea of a joke. All right?’
Er, well, not really. There might be a certain number of shoulders untensing at Mrs Mahoney’s explanation, but, to be honest, I don’t think anyone in class – including me – is a hundred per cent reassured right now.
‘I AM WATCHING YOU …’ It’s not much of a joke, is it? I think with a slight shudder.
I glance over to the angels, wondering what they’ve made of Sanjay’s announcement and Mrs Mahoney’s calming words.
Uh-oh.
Their eyes all match – irises the dark, brooding silver of pewter.
Whatever our temporary form tutor has said, it seems that something, somewhere in this school, is very, very wrong.
If only, if only …
Nine is the magic number.
That’s how many skills there are; I know that much without asking, cos I’ve watched Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl practise all nine, and felt them being used on me too.
But right now I’d give anything to have – just for a minute or two – the ability to seek. I’d use that particular skill, of course, on the angels.
Cos they were freaked by the message in the boys’ loos – I know they were. But will they talk to me about it? No. They’ve shut down completely, saying nothing about it at lunch just now.
‘So you really don’t have any idea what the red writing means?’ I try again, shoving my barely eaten pasta away from me.
‘We’re not picking up anything, Riley,’ Sunshine insists again, her pleasantness infuriating me.
She doesn’t know I could see them strengthening together a moment ago, using the power of three to boost the skill, same as they’d done in the library. This time, when I dipped down to grab my dropped fork, I’d spotted Pearl and Kitt’s ankle-to-ankle link, and Sunshine’s knee resting up against Kitt’s.
Their radar is at high alert, I’m sure, but they’re not about to let me understand or let me help.
Which only makes me worry more. Is it something so big they think it might frighten me?
‘We’re only searching for the fading,’ Kitt reassures me.
Who knew angels could fib? Back in the library, I saw all their eyes change colour, which always happens when their powers begin to pulse. From Sunshine’s violet-green gaze, to Kitt’s cool blue, to Pearl’s pale grey; they’re all switching to that dark, brooding shade – the blackest of rainclouds mixed with the sheen and shine of dark metal. That definitely didn’t mean nothing.
If only I could seek, if only I could see inside an angel’s mind.
But which one?
Kitt’s too serious and sharp; Sunshine’s too calm and in control
to let me sneak a peek. But Pearl … she’s the one who struggles with her skills the most, who lets things slip, who leaves silver glitter fingerprints where she shouldn’t, who magics up drifts of dust motes to punish her sis.
Yes, of the three angels, Pearl is definitely the closest thing to a flawed normal person.
If only –
Uh-oh … I spot the time on the dining-hall clock and know I have to be somewhere. Whatever strangeness is going on, whatever the angels aren’t saying, it’ll have to wait.
‘Good to see you, Riley!’ says Mr Edwards, the ICT teacher, as I scurry into his classroom.
‘Oh, hello,’ I reply, shaking thoughts of otherworldly weirdness out of my head.
It seems I’m not the first to arrive for the News Matters meeting.
There’s Mr Edwards, obviously, since he’s the newsletter editor-in-chief – which basically means he lets the team use his room and computers, and checks all the stories before they’re published. (During the last meeting he told us that an editor once ran a competition for the best caricature – and News Matters nearly went live with a doodle of the music teacher wearing a T-shirt that said Loser on it. Thanks to Mr Edwards, that image didn’t make it to the webpage. Or win the competition.)
And today, apart from Mr Edwards, there’s Daniel Jong from Year 10, who’s the current editor and super-enthusiastic, plus feature writers Hannah Hollister and Billy Wright – both in Year 9 – and Ceyda Dogan from Year 8.
They all give me a wave from the corner, where seven chairs are set out in a circle.
Behind them on the wall are prints of a few cover/opening pages of News Matters, plus blow-ups of the team’s favourite photos from the last issue. My face will flush pink when I say this, but each of the photos is mine.
There’s the image of Woody holding Mrs Sharma’s new baby, the two of them mid-wail. (The baby’s muffiness was genuine; Woody’s wasn’t.) The others are a selection of the photos I took when Year 7 went to the Wildwoods Theme Park a few weeks back: girls’ feet flying and flailing from the Swinging Monkeys chair ride; boys goofing around in the endless queues; Lauren Mayhew freaking out at the cobwebs and ‘spiders’ that fell on her during the Haunted House ride. (Thanks, Kitt, though only the four of us know that was down to you, and not a technical malfunction!)
‘We’re talking about ideas for the next issue,’ says Daniel, as I slink shyly into one of the two free seats.
Don’t ask me to come up with one, I plead silently. My head’s been too full of awesome angels, tricky questions and fading victims to mull over feature ideas.
‘Hannah’s thought of interviewing the teachers about their own schooldays,’ says Billy, sounding really keen on the idea.
‘We could ask them to bring in their old class photos, which would be funny,’ Hannah adds. ‘Then we thought that you’d photograph them as they are now, Riley.’
‘How about we get them to dress up in Hillcrest Academy ties and shirts, and take them in the same pose as their old photos?’ I suggest, suddenly all fired up and forgetting to be shy, forgetting my frustration with the angels.
‘Brilliant!’ says Mr Edwards. ‘And Ceyda also thought that –’
‘Sorry I’m late!’ yelps Woody, clattering through the door, all long legs and gelled spikes of dark hair draped over his forehead. ‘But it’s worth it – wait till you see what I’ve got!’
I’d forgotten that Woody was trying out for the News Matters team today. He’s flopped easily into the one spare chair and acts like this is his fortieth meeting instead of his first. It’s amazing to see someone who’s the exact opposite of me – totally confident and sure of himself in front of people he doesn’t know.
‘Sounds intriguing!’ says Mr Edwards, raising his eyebrows so they peek up above his glasses.
After rifling in his inside blazer pocket, Woody pulls out his phone and, from all the flipping he’s doing, I’m guessing he’s going to show us either a text or a photo.
‘So has everyone heard about what happened in the boys’ toilets this morning?’ he asks, without looking up.
There’s a rumble of interested ‘Uh-huh’s and ‘Yeah’s.
‘Well, check this out!’ he says, having found what he was searching for and gleefully holding out his mobile.
‘What is it?’ asks Billy, who’s leaning in from the side but can’t get a good view.
From my position, I can clearly make out white tiles, four mirrors … and red writing. It does look a little like blood, with those dollops and drips here and there. But as Mrs Mahoney said, someone could’ve mocked that up with arty use of a whiteboard pen, I suppose.
‘It says, “CAN YOU SEE ME?” That’s another message, isn’t it?’ gasps Ceyda, holding her hand to her throat.
‘The first one was “I AM WATCHING YOU”,’ Hannah mutters.
‘Exactly.’ Woody nods.
‘So someone’s sneaked into the boys’ loos again?’ I say, squinting at the screen.
‘Ah, but this time it wasn’t in the boys’ toilets – it was in the teachers’ loos, right beside the staffroom,’ Woody tells us with relish.
‘What were you doing in the staff toilets?’ Mr Edwards asks him, sounding puzzled.
‘I wasn’t in them,’ Woody replies. ‘Well, not at first. I just saw a crowd milling outside, heard what was going on and sneaked in for a look before anyone could stop me. I did get a detention from Mrs Zucker but it was worth it!’
‘Hope it’s not going to happen in the girls’ loos next!’ says Ceyda.
‘Wow – would be way too spooky,’ murmurs Hannah, biting the nail of her thumb.
‘OK, let’s not get excited here,’ says Mr Edwards, holding his hands up for calm. ‘So the joker’s struck again – but that’s all it is.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ asks Woody.
‘Because I’m a teacher, and I’ve seen plenty of practical jokes before,’ Mr Edwards replies.
‘Yeah, funny stuff like locking people in the stationery cupboard and chucking their sports kit on the roof of the bike shed,’ says Woody. ‘This is different. This is pretty dark, don’t you think? Like we’re all being watched …’
‘Maybe it’s someone with a grudge?’ Billy suggests.
‘Who says it’s a someone? What if it’s a something?’ says Woody.
Everyone freezes, even Mr Edwards for a nanosecond.
‘You mean, like … like a poltergeist?’ says Daniel.
A Mexican wave of shudders reverberates round our little circle.
‘Whoa! Stop right there,’ says Mr Edwards. ‘There’s no poltergeist, all right?’
‘But it would make a great story, wouldn’t it?’ says Woody. ‘Everyone’s talking about it.’
I don’t know what idea Woody had on the way to school, but you can tell by the gleam of excitement in his eyes that this morning’s happenings have blasted whatever it was well into a trailing second place, for sure.
‘A stupid scribble or two by some idiot does NOT make a story, guys.’ Mr Edwards laughs good-naturedly.
‘Yeah, but I bet you a million pounds it’ll happen again,’ says Woody, as he stuffs his evidence (and phone) back in his pocket. ‘And when it does we have to write about it.’
I suddenly realize that Woody’s talking like he’s already part of the team, and everyone sitting in the circle – including me – seems so hooked on what he’s saying it’s like he’s passed some invisible test.
‘How do you spell poltergeist?’ asks Billy, starting to scribble in his notebook.
‘N-O,’ says Mr Edwards very definitely.
But no matter how sure Mr Edwards is about this being the work of a trickster, I can’t help feeling a chill ripple all down my back.
Though I don’t know why the idea of a poltergeist has unnerved me so much – it’s not like I even believe in ghosts.
But then a fortnight ago I didn’t believe in angels.
The angel to ask
THE NINE SKILLS:
SEEKING: tuning into someone’s thoughts or feelings
QUIET WORDS: talking with no sound
VIRTUAL STROKING: infusing someone with a sense of happiness (starting with a touch, but doing it from afar)
WARMTH: stopping a person panicking with a sensation of cascading warm water spilling over them
SPRINGING: making someone tell you what’s on their mind, without them meaning to (like a truth drug)
CATCHING: seeing JUST into the future – phones about to ring, people coming round a corner, etc.
SPIRIT-LIFTING: cheering someone up by letting them relive – just for a few seconds – a treasured memory
TELLING (the second-strongest skill): giving a person an insight into something that’s happened to them, like watching snatches of the bonus DVD of their life
REWINDING (the strongest skill of all): the ability to stop time and unravel it back to a minute or so before
If a guardian angel HAD been looking out for Mum on the day she died, I think, as I look at the words I’ve scribbled in the back of my homework notebook, then surely rewind would’ve worked?
Lost in thought and chewing the top of my pen, a sudden noise makes me jump.
‘Wake up, it’s a beautiful morning!’
That’s Hazel I can hear, singing a snatch of some song.
‘How are you, my angel?’ she calls out, the door opening.
To Dot’s room across the landing, that is.
Dotty is nothing like an angel. It’s not that she’s naughty; it’s just that she’s more likely to stab a too-small dressing-up tiara into your head than lay hands on it to release the warmth. And, instead of helping you regain your shine, she’s more into helping herself to a handful of dry Cheerios from the packet if no one’s looking.
‘I’m FINE, Mummy!’ I hear Dot yell, before she clatters into my room without a knock.
I’d be grumpy if anyone else did that, but Dot is a special case. I like being interrupted by her randomness.
‘Do you have any wishes, Riley? You can have three,’ she announces, skipping over to me in her fairy nightie. Dot’s waving her coordinating wand, which she might have slept with because the points of the stars are looking a bit bendy.
Angels in Training Page 3
