And then she floors me.
‘What about you, Riley? Why did your mummy and daddy call you your name?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ I answer her, suddenly realizing I have no idea.
Why don’t I know?
Was Riley a name that meant something to my parents, or did it come pinging into their minds out of the blue? Was it Mum’s idea more than Dad’s? But then I might’ve expected her to name me after a flower – she was a florist, after all.
Thoughts rattle around my brain, but I try to ignore them as I struggle to give Dot more of an answer.
‘I suppose I should try to find ou–’
‘OK, bye, then!’ Dot trills, already bored and ready to move on to the next bit of fun. ‘We’re going to play with Bee and Alastair.’
Dot and Coco clamber down the ladder and within seconds I can hear them explaining to the dogs (well, one dog and a glorified twig) who is going to be who in a game of doctors and nurses.
Still, apart from leaving me waffling in mid-sentence, Dot impressed me there with her ability to ask what’s in her head without hesitation.
Maybe I need to channel some of that right now.
‘So what do you think this is all about?’ I ask the angels, taking my camera out of my bag and showing them the image of the red writing again. They only saw it for a second at the end-of-day bell – when I explained I’d have to go and download it into the News Matters folder on the computer in Mr Edwards’s room, and that I’d meet them at home later.
‘We don’t know, Riley,’ says Sunshine, her face as serene and calm as ever as she pulls a blanket up over her long legs, tucking it round the waist of her denim dungaree dress.
It’s so frustrating. There’s definitely something unsettling going on at school – apart from Marnie and her fading – and, out of everyone I know, Sunshine and her sisters are the best qualified to work out what that something is.
Only they don’t seem to want to, or at least they don’t want to tell me if they do know what’s happening.
‘Woody thinks it might be paranormal activity,’ I say, trying to nudge a response out of them.
‘You mean not normal, not human. Is that right, Riley?’ Kitt asks, pushing her thick-rimmed black specs further up on to the bridge of her nose. She’s blinking fast, her razor-sharp mind processing ideas, thinking unknowable thoughts.
‘Like us … but not us?’ Pearl mutters, looking worried.
Yes, like you, but not you, whatever you are, I think, remembering that my friends are still a mystery to me.
‘That isn’t possible,’ Kitt says, ever certain, ever practical.
‘But with Riley our sensing was clear, and this time it’s not,’ Pearl frets, admitting to worries I hadn’t expected her, or her sisters, to have. ‘Everything seems buzzing, confused.’
‘We’re still learning, Pearl,’ Sunshine quickly reminds her. ‘All we need to do is stick together and focus and everything will –’
‘Or we could just ask for help,’ Pearl suggests.
‘Pearl!’ Kitt snaps, her eyes blazing.
‘Ask who, ask what?’ I say, my curiosity making me unexpectedly braver, stronger. Questions, questions, so many questions.
‘Pearl means that we need to ask more of our skills, to help us move forward,’ Sunshine says too quickly.
She’s covering up, I think, covering up for Pearl being careless and saying something she shouldn’t have. In fact, I don’t just think it – I know it. Pearl’s face is pinched now – her mouth a tiny, startled ‘o’ of shock – realizing she’s made a mistake.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Riley,’ Sunshine says in her best soothing voice.
But her soothing doesn’t work, cos once again I feel freaked out by my friends.
It seems like there’s so much they’re aware of and so much they keep from me.
It’s not just what’s going on with Marnie or the red writing, the angels haven’t helped me find out anything more about my mum. A knot tightens in my tummy; perhaps they can see into the past and know something that will hurt me or make me too sad.
I’m not aware I’m being studied till Pearl says something out of the blue.
‘She’s thinking about Annie.’
Pearl must’ve broken into my thoughts just now, without my permission, without me sensing her seeking.
I should be cross, but at the sudden mention of Mum – the surprise of Pearl using her name – all my indignation instantly drops away.
And maybe it’s my own fault that Pearl tuned in on me. Perhaps I have some kind of aura that only the angels see. Perhaps mine lights up brightly every time Mum comes into my consciousness.
‘I – I just want to know more about her,’ I say simply, finally finding a question I can ask without getting myself in a knot.
Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl, in spite of the uncertainty fluttering between them a few seconds ago, now merge into one unit, leaning into one another, turning their luminous, silvery gaze on me.
It’s the most nerve-jangling, skin-tingling experience I’ve ever had – part fright, part thrill.
‘Come here …’ Sunshine says softly, ushering me closer.
I hesitate for a second, then give in, letting myself lean over, lie down and curl up in the comfy cushion of knitted blankets on Sunshine’s lap.
My eyes closed, I feel three sets of cool fingers rest on my head, shoulders, back and arms. Thirty tingling points of pressure that send pulses radiating through me, soft waves of energy easing into my body.
And the pulses … they turn into a heartbeat, slow and steady.
A murmuring, gentle voice, singing … singing what? Ha – it’s just some silly but oh-so-familiar nursery rhyme.
I don’t just hear the voice. The vibrations of it rumble against me, and I feel warm and protected and loved.
My cheek is against her chest.
The smell of her is roses.
Her song fades away and she kisses me on the head, lips and breath tender and soft.
‘Everything will be all right, my little Riley …’ she murmurs, she soothes.
‘RILEY! DOT! TEATIME!’
The sudden shout of Dad’s distant voice jars me out of the cocooned memory.
‘Riley?’ Sunshine’s voice comes into focus as she helps me sit up. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Why are you wet here?’ Pearl asks, dabbing away a tear that’s coursing down my cheek.
‘I – I’m fine,’ I fumble, lost for words.
By the puzzled looks on all their faces, I can tell I’ve disappointed the angels. They wanted to give me a gift, a spirit-lift to let me have that snapshot of myself, small and bundled in a cuddle with my mum.
They thought it would leave me beaming instead of blue.
How funny, I think to myself. A minute ago I felt as if I could never understand the inner workings of an angel. And now the angels have found that they can’t always understand the bittersweet feelings of a sad-but-happy, ever-so-ordinary girl like me.
‘Dot, can you get out of the way, sweetheart? I just want to watch the news for a second,’ says Dad, straining to see round the stripy vision standing in front of the TV.
‘Uh-uh,’ says Dot, folding her arms across her chest.
‘What’s up? Do I need a password?’ Dad asks, sensing a stand-off.
‘No,’ says Dot, giving her head a shake.
‘Oops – I forgot to say please, didn’t I?’ Dad tries again.
‘No.’
Dad scratches his chin, stumped.
‘Didn’t I say enough nice things about your leggings and T-shirt?’
Dot has been skipping around the house for the last few minutes showing off the new clothes Hazel’s bought her. They are nice, though they’d be better worn apart – all those stripes at once are enough to give you a migraine. Or maybe I just happen to have a killer headache after a confusing day of surprises, shocks and visions.
Now that my dishwasher duties are do
ne, I’ve just joined Dad and Dot in the living room, flopping down on the sofa, next to Dad.
‘Nope – it’s not that,’ Dot says flatly, still not budging.
Dad turns and mouths at me, Riley, help! which makes me smile.
And, as I’m quite an expert at understanding the randomness of my little sort-of-stepsister, of course I help him out.
‘She’s not answering anyone unless they call her Dorothea Madeleine,’ I remind him.
‘Ah, yes!’ Dad now nods sagely. ‘I forgot she’s got a sudden fascination for names. Hey, Dorothea Madeleine, could you shift your bum out of the way and let me watch my programme?’
‘Stuart! That is a rude word. You are a bad man!’ Dot giggles, and launches herself at my dad.
Dad gives a pained ‘Oof!’ as she piles into him, but then he wraps an arm round her in a restraining hug and Dot quickly nuzzles into his side.
At the same time, his other arm encircles my shoulders and I’m happily pulled into a hug too.
And as we sit there all cosy on the sofa together – bookending Dad – Dot says something that makes me love her more than I do already.
‘Stuart, why did you and Riley’s mummy call her Riley?’
Out of the blue, she’s asked my question for me!
I sense the arm round my shoulders tense slightly. Holding my breath, I wonder how Dad’s going to respond. I stopped talking to him about Mum a long, long time ago. Even though I was only little, I saw that the very mention of her hurt him way too much.
‘Well,’ Dad begins, doing his best to sound as chirpy as he came across a second ago. ‘We, um, happened to see an exhibition –’ there’s a little crack in his voice there, giving away the fact that he’s not as chirpy as he’s pretending to be – ‘by a famous artist called Bridget Riley.’
‘And you called her Riley after the lady cos you liked her paintings so much!’ Dot says excitedly, bouncing up on to her knees at the discovery of the origin of my name.
I feel like doing it too, but instead only celebrate by allowing myself to breathe again.
‘Well, after looking around her paintings, we realized we weren’t particularly fans of her art, no,’ Dad explains. ‘But we did like the name Riley, so when this madam came along soon after –’ he squeezes my arm and gives me a look that makes me want to melt, it’s so raw and sad – ‘it seemed … perfect.’
‘Why didn’t you like the lady’s paintings? What were they like?’ Dot demands, not seeing that Dad is having a moment of the bittersweet blues himself.
‘Stripy. She painted lots of stripes,’ he tells Dot, his voice cracking just a little.
‘Stripes! I LOVE stripes! Can you show me on the computer, Stuart, can you?’
‘Come on, I will,’ I tell her, shoving myself up off the sofa, and holding my hand out for her to grab on to.
I’m buzzing from this small but crucial piece of my history and need to get away from Dad before he sees the happiness I’m struggling to keep from him, since it’ll clash badly with how I suspect he’s feeling.
But, before I go and check out my namesake, I do one small thing.
I kiss my dad on the forehead, and hope he understands that it means thanks a million.
The same, but not the same
Things I know about my mum (a very short list):
Her name was Annie.
She died in a road accident when I was a baby. (Of course I know this much.)
She had long fair hair.
She had a beautiful smile.
She liked to wear flowery tea dresses. (These three points I know from staring at my one photo of her.)
She ran a florist’s shop called Annie’s Posies, which was right beside the train station in town. (The old lady I met on Folly Hill a few weeks ago – she told me that. She told me because she said I looked exactly like her …)
My dad loved her so, so, SO much that he can’t bear to talk about her. (Sadly.)
I am named after an artist who painted pictures that make your eyes go funny. (Thank you, thank you, Dorothea Madeleine, for finding that out for me.)
‘Riley! You are not going to believe this!’ Woody’s eyes are wild, his grin wide – and my meandering thoughts of Mum are instantly banished.
It’s lunchtime on Wednesday and we’ve both arrived at the door to Mr Edwards’s room from different directions. I’m holding the sandwich I bought from the dinner hall, and Woody is holding a jumbled pile of white A4 sheets in his hands.
‘What?’ I ask, frowning.
‘Hold on – we should show everyone!’
And, with that, he shoves the door open with his shoulder, and we see the rest of the News Matters team already settled in the usual circle of seats, notepads in hand.
‘Hi, guys,’ Mr Edwards calls out to us. ‘Just been chatting about that photo you downloaded yesterday, Riley.’
‘We should definitely do something about the red writing, after the fire alarm yesterday,’ says Daniel, the editor. ‘Even Mr Edwards agrees now that it’s all anyone is talking about.’
Mr Edwards holds up his hands, surrendering to the story.
‘Forget that! They’re all going to be talking about this now!’ Woody holds up the wodge of paper, then passes us a sheet each.
I’d thought at first that the paper was blank, but now I see there’s actually something written in a small red font in the centre of the page.
‘YOU CAN LOOK, BUT YOU WON’T FIND ME.’
It’s only when everyone’s eyes are turned my way that I realize I’ve read the words out loud.
‘There are hundreds of these,’ Woody now starts explaining. ‘You know the student printer by the maths block? It was still churning them out when I left just now. People are picking them up, passing them around like crazy.’
‘OK, that’s it. We have to have this as our main story,’ says Daniel, his eyes gleaming. ‘Let’s get started on it now. Ceyda – can you write about what’s happened so far?’
‘I could research poltergeists, for a sidebar,’ suggests Billy.
‘And I’ll talk to the head or one of the deputies to get their opinions,’ says Hannah.
‘Great,’ Daniel replies, scribbling in his notebook, while Mr Edwards grudgingly nods his agreement, obviously still a bit uncomfortable with the whole school-weirdness topic.
‘If you want, I could go back to the maths block and do a vox pop,’ Woody suggests.
From the way Daniel’s eyebrows shoot up you can tell he’s not about to say no.
‘Great – and Riley, you go with Woody to take photos.’
And so with no time to think, let alone speak or plan, I’m zooming to keep up with Woody’s long legs as he sprints along corridors, through swinging doors, and bounds up sets of stairs.
‘We’ve got to be quick – the afternoon bell goes in a few minutes,’ he tells me, as we approach huddles of chattering students hovering round the still-rattling printer.
I get busy taking photos of the scene, only vaguely aware of what Woody says next.
‘I’ll grab those lads first, and you line up someone else for me to talk to, yeah?’
Help … I don’t want to do that! I mean, I’m less shy than I used to be, but I’m still pretty useless when it comes to talking to people I don’t know. My mouth – my brain – tends to go on strike. I’m just about to say so when I notice that Woody is already chatting to the boys.
Also, I’ve spotted a familiar face, standing on her own, a hand covering her mouth as she reads the sheet clutched in her hand.
‘Um, Marnie? Are you OK?’ I walk over and ask, worried that the shock of the latest weird message might make her feel bad again, same as the fire alarm did yesterday.
‘This is so spooky,’ says Marnie, not really paying attention to me. Her face is white against her dark hair – though I don’t hear her wheezing, I realize thankfully.
‘Yes, it is,’ I agree, suddenly feeling a bit bumbly now I’m speaking to her. I mean, yes, so I p
assed her an inhaler in the playground yesterday, but that hardly makes us friends. The state she was in, Marnie probably wasn’t even aware of who the helping hands belonged to.
In the moment’s silence, I take a deep breath, working up to asking her if she’ll be interviewed by Woody, when I spot the angels further along the corridor, perched on the windowsill.
They’re sitting completely still, apart from Pearl’s feet, swinging back and forth in her stripy socks and glittery baseball boots.
Sunshine and Pearl smile, while Kitt mouths some quiet words at me.
‘Keep Marnie there,’ she is wordlessly whispering. ‘We’re going to spring her.’
So the angels do need me after all. They need me to somehow hold Marnie Reynolds’s attention while they get her to speak her mind, whether she wants to or not.
And whatever she says, whatever clues she gives about what’s troubling her, I’ll remember every word and report it back to the angels.
This is it. I have to be brave and strong and useful.
‘I’m – I’m Riley Roberts, I’m in Y7C,’ I say, thinking I should properly introduce myself, if we’ve got so much in common – if she’s a girl going through what I’ve gone through.
‘Yeah, I know you,’ says Marnie, gazing up from the A4 sheet.
Her brown eyes suddenly look glazed, as if she’s been hypnotized. Which she pretty much has, I suppose, if the angels’ skill has already taken hold.
‘I think you’re in the same class as Lauren Mayhew. Are you her friend? I think you were there yesterday when my asthma was bad.’
The disconnected words and thoughts Marnie Reynolds has been holding in her head are spilling, spilling, with no gaps for me to respond.
‘What are these messages appearing at school? I don’t like them. They’re creepy. I wonder who’s doing them? It better not be anyone I’ve invited on Saturday. I hate the way everyone is acting like my friend, just cos they want an invitation to my party. Is that the only reason you helped me yesterday? Is that why you’re talking to me now? Just so I ask you to my party too?’
Angels in Training Page 5
