‘No!’ I say sharply, hurt that Marnie thinks I’m so shallow, when actually I’m trying to help her – not just with her asthma but with her lost shine too.
But that one harsh word of mine – it acts like a sudden antidote to the springing. Marnie blinks, uncertain of what she’s said, uncertain why she’s even talking to me since she doesn’t really know me.
‘Hey, Marnie,’ Woody says chattily, bounding over to join us. ‘Do us a favour and give us a quote about the messages for the newsletter, yeah?’
‘Uh, OK, why not?’ Marnie agrees, sounding now a bit offhand, a bit snooty.
‘Great! Riley, do you want to grab a photo first?’
‘Do I have to?’ says Marnie, glancing at me from the corner of her eyes, as if I’m toxic.
‘Yes, you have to,’ laughs Woody, spinning her round to face me. ‘How about holding up the sheet and looking scared?’
‘How about I don’t?’ she says back, without a flicker of a smile.
‘How you are is fine,’ I mutter, wanting to get this over as quickly as Marnie obviously does.
I lift my camera, and in the display I see a girl with her nose in the air, as if she’s looking down at me through the lens.
As I press click, I’m filled with a sudden sense of doubt.
Is this confident, possibly vain, not particularly grateful or friendly person really losing her shine?
Or am I just disappointed that this fading girl doesn’t realize I want to help her?
Photo taken, I gaze in the direction of my friends to see their reaction to Marnie – but the windowsill is empty.
In the corridor there’s only a jumble of students, all so caught up in the latest red-writing message that I bet none of them will notice the solitary white feather spiralling down against the backdrop of the cloud-filled sky outside …
The afternoon is made of elastic, undercover chatter about the eerie photocopies ebbing and flowing, lessons stretching to double their normal length, the ring of the end-of-day bell never coming.
I stare across at one or other of the angels as they sit upright and attentive in class, putting their hands up for every question, getting every fact right, of course.
And then – after something just short of forever – the briiiiiingggg of the bell releases us and I can finally talk properly to the girls about Marnie.
But, nope, it isn’t that simple. Coming out of science, I am grabbed by Daniel Jong, the News Matters editor, keen to hear how the vox pop has gone.
It is another elasticated five minutes till I can politely wriggle myself free, and so here I am now, hurrying out of the main entrance, and hoping my friends will still be waiting for me.
At first glance, it doesn’t seem like they are. Everyone’s made a speedy exit, apart from a few trailing, chatting girls, a couple of boys lazily kicking a ball back and forth, a knot of Year 7s by the gate.
But at second glance I see a snow-white blob of fluff being fussed over by some breakaway members of the Year 7 knot, and I assume that if Bee is there, then Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl can’t be far.
‘No way! You have to have something new for the party!’ I hear a girl roar, as I sidle into the outskirts of the group.
At the centre are Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl, and from the babble of crossover chatter I pretty quickly realize they are being congratulated on being invited to the party that everyone is desperate to go to.
When did that happen? It must’ve been when I was with Daniel just now.
It’s funny, but my heart sinks not just a little, but a lot. I don’t even know Marnie, and I’m not sure I even like her that much, but it still hurts when you realize you’re not on a list that plenty of other people are. Especially when those people include your best friends. Though of course Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl would be invited – they’re pretty, smart, interesting and unusual.
Unlike me.
Sorry-for-myself tears well up out of nowhere. I’m so embarrassed that I pretend to look in my bag for something (good for hiding the eyes).
‘Where’s that stupid book got to?’ I mutter, rifling through my stuff, before heading back towards school to ‘look’ for the not-missing-at-all book that I never had in the first place.
Not expecting anyone to have noticed, I jump when I feel the hand on my arm as I walk back through the sliding entrance doors.
‘What’s wrong?’ says Pearl, tilting her head, her eyes scanning, scanning for clues about why I’m upset.
‘I just forgot something,’ I tell her, keeping up the pretence.
‘No, you didn’t,’ Pearl says, with the sweetest smile.
I let my shoulders sag and decide to say something closer to the truth.
‘It’s silly, it’s nothing. I’m just … a bit muddled right now.’
Pearl nods, blinks her blonde-fringed eyes.
‘Yes. I’m just a bit muddled right now,’ Pearl repeats.
I really like Pearl, but I wish she wouldn’t do that. It’s like that irritating game Dot plays, where she copies everything you say, even down to ‘Stop, please, Dot!’ (‘ “Stop, please, Dot!” Hee hee hee …’)
And then, as Pearl continues to smile at me, I realize something very, very surprising. Pearl isn’t trying to copy me. I think she’s actually trying to tell me how she feels right now.
‘You sometimes don’t feel good enough,’ Pearl adds, tilting her head the other way.
‘Yes,’ I say simply.
‘Sometimes I don’t feel good enough.’
I’m slightly in shock. I’ve seen Kitt lose her temper (dramatically) and Sunshine get frustrated. I’ve seen Pearl slip up, with her thoughtless, carefree, tiny trails of magic. But I hadn’t expected that one of the angels might need someone to talk to. Someone non-angelic, I mean.
Only a couple of days ago, I’d wondered if Pearl was the most approachable angel, and here she is approaching me. It seems she’s the same, and yet not quite the same, as her very special sisters.
‘Do you mean –’ I pause and lower my voice, aware that there’re still staff milling around in the nearby school office. ‘Do you mean that you’re worried about the skills? About not being as good as Sunshine and Kitt?’
All the questions I have for the angels start rattling around my mind again.
I mean, with the skills – how will they be able to tell when they are all good enough at them?
It’s hardly like Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl will get a certificate in the post. Or a handshake from the head at assembly, like we do if we get a hundred merits for good behaviour.
‘My skills don’t glow like theirs,’ Pearl says frankly. ‘You should see –’
‘WOOF WOOF!’
With a swoosh of sliding doors, Bee runs into the entrance hall and jumps his front paws excitedly up on to Pearl.
‘Oh!’ she gasps in surprise.
‘What’s this?’ calls out one of the office staff. ‘No dogs in here, please. Come on – get it out, girls!’
‘Of course,’ I say, shooing Pearl and Bee back into the playground – where a smiling Sunshine and a brooding-looking Kitt are standing waiting for us. (I quickly brush a few sparkly fingerprints from my blazer so Pearl doesn’t get into more trouble.)
All my questions, including a new one about how skills ‘glow’, will have to wait till I can get Pearl on her own again.
Though when will that ever happen?
Unravelling and rewinding
It’s really getting too cold – and too dusky – to hang out in the treehouse after school.
But it’s so private up here (unless Dot’s with us).
Special too (unless it’s raining).
And the view … wow. Over the rooftops you can see the daylight fading over the town in one direction and the sun setting over the Angel and Folly Hill in the other.
All of that makes it hard to think about hanging out anywhere else, even a cosy bedroom or loft.
So I gather a blanket tighter round myself and carry
on with our conversation.
‘Wait … you made Marnie Reynolds invite you to her party?’ I ask, checking that I’ve got this right.
While I was chatting to Daniel Jong earlier, it seems that Kitt used a little twist of magic to wangle an invitation to the party.
‘Well, I put the idea into Marnie’s head,’ Kitt admits, as she wraps a woolly scarf round her neck.
Apart from the actual skills, the angels seem to have a few other tricks up their blazer sleeves.
‘Kitt saw that it was already there – in Marnie’s mind – to invite us,’ Sunshine is quick to reassure me.
‘She just hadn’t mentioned it yet,’ says Pearl.
‘The party will be a chance for us to be close, to see why her shine is fading,’ Kitt explains.
When Kitt says ‘us’, she means her and Sunshine and Pearl. Not me.
Kitt sees the party as work, I guess, not fun, which is why she didn’t think to add me to Marnie’s guest list.
What the angels can do for a person is incredible and important – just look at the change in me if you want proof – so I understand how Kitt would see it that way.
I just wish I didn’t care so much.
‘Angry with someone?’ we hear a voice call out from down below.
It’s Dad’s voice.
And now I can make out the shrill-but-happy yelps of Dot and Coco as they run from Dad’s car to our house.
Wonder what Dad’s on about? And who he’s talking to?
I put my gloved hands on the wooden ledge of the treehouse and peer over.
‘No – I’m not angry, thankfully! Just trying to figure out which of these is leaking,’ laughs Mrs Angelo, as she whacks the pillows she has pegged to the washing line. ‘I keep finding white feathers everywhere!’
‘Bet you it’ll be one of those mysteries you can never solve,’ Dad jokes, hovering before he follows Dot and Coco into the house. ‘Bit like the socks that go missing in the wash.’
Well, er, not exactly like that, I think to myself with a secret smile.
The angels join me, getting up on their knees to peer down at our parents, foster or otherwise.
There’s Dad’s dark-brown head, going grey at the sides. There’s Mrs Angelo’s light-brown hair, bobbing as she laughs at Dad’s remark. One other head is down there – it’s snowy-white and turned up to face us.
Both my dad and Mrs Angelo seem to notice and look up at the same time.
‘You lot are like a bunch of wise owls up there!’ Dad remarks with a broad grin. ‘Maybe that’s where the feathers are coming from!’
You’re getting closer, Dad, I say silently to myself, as Mrs Angelo laughs some more.
‘By the way, Riley,’ Dad calls up to me. ‘It’s fish fingers for dinner tonight. Dot – sorry, Dorothea Madeleine – and Coco requested it.’
‘Oh … OK,’ I shout down, trying not to show my lack of enthusiasm, though I can’t help it if fish fingers are my least favourite teatime option.
‘Actually,’ Mrs Angelo butts in, ‘would Riley like to eat with us tonight? I’ve made a huge pot of spaghetti bolognese, so there’s plenty –’
‘She’d love to,’ Pearl calls down on my behalf.
Of course I’d love to.
I’ve never been to the Angelos for dinner; I’ve never really talked too much to the girls’ foster parents.
It could be interesting. And the more chances I have to hang out with Pearl – maybe even get her on her own – the better, since sweet, imperfect Pearl is the one person – OK, angel – who might answer my questions.
So, half an hour later, I’m sitting in the white dining room of 33 Chestnut Crescent, feeling a little shy as I share the table with five people, two I don’t know very well, and three I do (though sometimes I’m not so sure about that).
‘Anything interesting happen at school?’ asks Mrs Angelo, as she passes round a bowl of garlic bread.
‘We got invited to a party on Saturday!’ says Pearl.
Yeah, but technically, we didn’t ALL get invited to a party, did we? I think a little gloomily.
‘How lovely. Your first party since we moved here. And nice to hear some news at last!’ Mrs Angelo adds, smiling, teasing.
‘Absolutely,’ Mr Angelo says jovially, beaming a big smile at the angels in his midst. ‘Riley, I hope you’re better at telling your parents about what’s happening at school than this lot. Though of course we know what people your age are like – full of secrets kept from us boring grown-ups!’
At his words, Mrs Angelo looks fondly at the many, many framed photos of former foster children on the walls.
I don’t suppose any of them were quite as extraordinary as Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl, or had a secret quite as jaw-dropping as theirs.
‘It’s just my dad, actually – Hazel is his girlfriend. She and Dot moved in about a year ago,’ I explain.
‘And your mum?’ asks Mr Angelo. But he says it in a matter-of-fact way, which I like. If someone acts all concerned, it makes me uncomfortable, like I might want to cry or something.
I bet Mr Angelo said it that way cos he and his wife have had to hear pretty sad and bad stories from all the kids they’ve fostered over the years. They’ve probably learned through experience just what to say and how to say it.
‘She died when I was a baby. She was in a road-traffic accident,’ I answer just as matter-of-factly.
Oh no.
As soon as I say it, I instantly wish I hadn’t.
What if Mr and Mrs Angelo mention something to Dad over the garden fence? Riley was telling us about her mother … we’re so sorry to hear she died so tragically.
Can you imagine? He would absolutely hate that. I mean, if Dad can’t face his own daughter talking about her mother, he’s not going to love semi-strangers next door getting all chatty about it, however kindly meant.
The angels sense my stress, I’m sure – they’re all staring at me, trying to tune in.
I’m about to let them when Mrs Angelo speaks.
‘That’s terrible,’ she says. ‘It’s so upsetting when you hear about young lives lost. Just the other day I read in the local paper that there’s been a campaign for years now to improve the crossing further down Meadow Lane, near the library. Apparently it’s a real accident blackspot. The worst case was a young mum who was knocked down and killed there more than a decade ago and still nothing’s been done –’
As soon as the words are out of Mrs Angelo’s mouth, I can tell that, like me, she wishes she hadn’t said them.
Because, like me, she’s just made a mental note of timings and probability.
Of course, another young mum might have been in a fatal traffic accident around the same time as my mother, but that would be a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?
And, as the realization sinks in, it feels as if someone’s just punched me in the chest, making it hard to think, speak or breathe.
‘Riley?’ says Mr Angelo, concerned all of a sudden, leaning towards me. As his outstretched hand reaches towards my arm, I feel a soft but steady trembling that’s got a sound to it, a noise like a hiss on a wire.
Mr Angelo’s hand is hovering in mid-air, as still as if he’d been turned to stone.
It’s unnerving to lift my eyes and see his gaze frozen on me, unblinking.
And, when I turn to the other side, Mrs Angelo’s eyes are fixed on me too, wretched with apology, but her body is rigid, the gloopy spaghetti gently unravelling from her fork and slipping back down on to the plate.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask the girls.
I’m finding it hard to look directly at them. The effort of doing what they’re doing is lighting up the room, their own eyes like six piercing, silver-white laser beams.
In a panic, I hurry over to the windows and pull the curtains shut so no neighbours – especially my own family next door – get a glimpse of what’s going on.
‘You’re upset, so we’re going back,’ murmurs Sunshine, as the two othe
r angels soundlessly mimic her words. ‘You don’t have to worry about things you wish you hadn’t said, or why.’
‘But I’ll still be able to remember what Mrs Angelo just told me, about that accident?’ I check, realizing I’m witnessing a memory rewind in full flow.
‘If that’s what you want,’ Sunshine says, while Kitt and Pearl mouth the sentence.
‘I do,’ I say very definitely, very surely.
I’ve just added another – not very happy but vitally important – fact about Mum to my short what-I-know-about-her list, and the last thing I need is to let it slip away.
Blinking as the light intensifies, I feel a deep warmth that’s immediately replaced by a temperature dip – and the room returns to a normal level of brightness, the overhead light doing all the work.
Mr and Mrs Angelo smile again, coil pasta on to forks again, chit-chat again.
‘Absolutely! Riley, I hope you’re better at telling your parents about what’s happening at school than this lot,’ says Mr Angelo, unaware that he’s repeating himself. ‘Though of course we know what people your age are like – full of secrets kept from us boring grown-ups!’
Instead of answering, I just laugh, as if what Mr Angelo has said is the funniest joke ever.
‘Oh my goodness! You girls must’ve been hungry,’ Mrs Angelo remarks all of a sudden, staring at our practically empty plates that minutes before had been full of spaghetti.
What? Where did our spaghetti go? Is it swirling around in some parallel universe?
‘Yes, we were,’ says Sunshine to Mrs Angelo, with a meaningful flick of her eyes towards me. ‘It was delicious, thank you. Is it all right if we leave the table?’
Suddenly I get it. Sunshine – or one of the angels – wants us to move on to something else. But what?
‘We have homework to do,’ Pearl adds very convincingly.
‘We need Riley’s help,’ Kitt tells her foster parents, which is an even bigger fib – the angels know every answer to every question in every subject at school.
‘Um, yes … that’s fine,’ Mrs Angelo replies, watching us make our way towards the hall.
Walking up the stairs, I hear Mr Angelo ask, ‘Did one of the girls close the curtains? I was sure they were open.’
Angels in Training Page 6
