by L. J. Smith
CHAPTER 5
Actually, it wasn’t the light she noticed first. It was an eerie feeling that some… presence was in her room with her.
She’d had the feeling before, waking up to feel that something had just left, maybe even in the instant it had taken her to open her eyes. And that while asleep, she’d been on the verge of some great discovery about the world, something that was lost as soon as she woke.
But tonight, the feeling stayed. And as she stared around the room, feeling dazed and stupid and leaden, she slowly realized that the light was wrong.
She’d forgotten to close the curtains, and moonlight was streaming into the room. It had the thin blue translucence of new snow. But in one corner of Gillian’s room, by the gilded Italian chest of drawers, the light seemed to have pooled. Coalesced. Concentrated. As if reflecting off a mirror.
There wasn’t any mirror.
Gillian sat up slowly. Her sinuses were stuffed up and her eyes felt like hard-boiled eggs. She breathed through her mouth and tried to make sense of what was in the corner.
It looked like… a pillar. A misty pillar of light. And instead of fading as she woke up, it seemed to be getting brighter.
An ache had taken hold of Gillian’s throat. The light was so beautiful… and almost familiar. It reminded her of the tunnel and the meadow and…
Oh.
She knew now.
It was different to be seeing this when she wasn’t dead. Then, she’d accepted strange things the way you accept them in dreams, without ordinary logic or disbelief interfering.
But now she stared as the light got brighter and brighter, and felt her whole skin tingling and tears pooling in her eyes. She could hardly breathe. She didn’t know what to do.
How do you greet an angel in the ordinary world?
The light continued to get brighter, just as it had in the meadow. And now she could see the shape in it, walking toward her and rushing at the same time. Still brighter—dazzling and pulsating—until she had to shut her eyes and saw red and gold after images like shooting stars.
When she squinted her eyes back open, he was there.
Awe caught at Gillian’s throat again. He was so beautiful that it was frightening. Face pale, with traces of the light still lingering in his features. Hair like filaments of gold. Strong shoulders, tall but graceful body, every line pure and proud and different from any human. He looked more different now than he had in the meadow. Against the drab and ordinary background of Gillian’s room, he burned like a torch.
Gillian slid off her bed to kneel on the floor. It was an automatic reflex.
“Don’t do that.” The voice was like silver fire. And then—it changed. Became somehow more ordinary, like a normal human voice. “Here, does this help?”
Gillian, staring at the carpet, saw the light that was glinting off a stray safety pin fade a bit. When she tilted her eyes up, the angel looked more ordinary, too. Not as luminous. More like just an impossibly beautiful teenage guy.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said. He smiled.
“Yeah,” Gillian whispered. It was all she could get out.
“Are you scared?”
“Yeah.”
The angel made a frustrated circling motion with one arm. “I can go through all the gobbledygook: be not afraid, I mean you no harm, all that—but it’s such a waste of time, don’t you think?” He peered at her. “Aw, come on, kid, you died earlier today. Yesterday. This isn’t really all that strange in comparison. You can deal.”
“Yeah.” Gillian blinked. “Yeah,” she said with more conviction, nodding.
“Take a deep breath, get up—”
“Yeah.”
“—say something different….”
Gillian got up. She perched on the edge of her bed. He was right, she could deal. So it hadn’t been a dream. She had really died, and there really were angels, and now one was in the room with her, looking almost solid except at the edges. And he had come to…
“Why did you come here?” she said.
He made a noise that, if he hadn’t been an angel, Gillian would have called a snort. “You don’t think I ever really left, do you?” he said chidingly. “I mean, think about it. How did you manage to recover from freezing without even needing to go to the hospital? You were in severe hypothermia, you know. The worst. You were facing pulmonary edema, ventricular fibrillation, the loss of a few of your bits….” He wiggled his fingers and waggled his feet. That was when Gillian realized he was standing several inches off the floor. “You were in bad shape, kid. But you got out of it without even frostbite.”
Gillian looked down at her own ten pink fingers. They were tinglingly oversensitive, but she didn’t have even one blood blister. “You saved me.”
He gave a half grin and looked sheepish. “Well, it’s my job.”
“To help people.”
“To help you.”
A barely acknowledged hope was forming in Gillian’s mind. He never really left her; it was his job to help her. That sounded like… Could he be…
Oh, God, no, it was too corny. Not to mention presumptuous.
He was looking sheepish again. “Yeah. I don’t know how to put it, either. But it is true, actually. Did you know that most people think they have one even when they don’t? Somebody did a poll, and ‘most people have an inner certainty that there is some particular, individual spirit watching over them.’ The New Agers call us spirit guides. The Hawaiians call us aumakua….”
“You’re a guardian angel,” Gillian whispered.
“Yeah. Your guardian angel. And I’m here to help you find your heart’s desire.”
“I—” Gillian’s throat closed.
It was too much to believe. She wasn’t worthy. She should have been a better person so that she would deserve some of the happiness that suddenly spread out in front of her.
But then a cold feeling of reality set in. She wasn’t a better person, and although she was sure enlightenment and whatever else an angel thought your heart’s desire was, was terrific, well… in her case…
She swallowed. “Look,” she said grimly. “The things I need help with—well, they’re not exactly the kinds of things angels are likely to know about.”
“Heh.” He grinned. He leaned over in a position that would have unbalanced an ordinary person and waved an imaginary something over her head. “You shall go to the ball, Cinderella.”
A wand. Gillian looked at him. “Now you’re my fairy godmother?”
“Yeah. But watch the sarcasm, kid.” He changed to a floating position, his arms clasping his knees, and looked her dead in the eye. “How about if I say I know your heart’s desire is for David Blackburn to fall madly in love with you and for everyone at school to think you’re totally hot?”
Heat swept up Gillian’s face. Her heart was beating out the slow, hard thumps of embarrassment—and excitement. When he said it out loud like that, it sounded extremely shallow… and extremely, extremely desirable.
“And you could help with that?” she choked out.
“Believe it or not, Ripley.”
“But you’re an angel.”
He templed his fingers. “The paths to enlightenment are many, Grasshopper. Grasshopper? Maybe I should call you Dragonfly. You are sort of iridescent. There’re lots of other insects, but Dung Beetle sounds sort of insulting….”
I’ve got a guardian angel who sounds like Robin Williams, Gillian thought. It was wonderful. She started to giggle uncontrollably, on the edge of tears.
“Of course, there’s a condition,” the angel said, dropping his fingers. He looked at her seriously. His eyes were like the violet-blue at the bottom of a flame.
Gillian gulped, took a scared breath. “What?”
“You have to trust me.”
“That’s it?”
“Sometimes it won’t be so easy.”
“Look.” Gillian laughed, gulped again, steadied herself. She looked away from his eyes, focusing on th
e graceful body that was floating in midair. “Look, after all I’ve seen… after you saved my life—and my bits… how could I not trust you?” She said it again quietly. “How could I ever not trust you?”
He nodded. Winked. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s prove it.”
“Huh?” Slowly the feeling of awed incredulity was fading. It was beginning to seem almost normal to talk to this magical being.
“Let’s prove it. Get some scissors.”
“Scissors?”
Gillian stared at the angel. He stared back.
“I don’t even know where any scissors are.”
“Drawer to the left of the silverware drawer in the kitchen. A big sharp pair.” He grinned like Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother.
Gillian wasn’t afraid. She didn’t decide not to be, she simply wasn’t.
“Okay,” she said and went down to get the scissors. The angel went with her, floating just behind her shoulder. At the bottom of the stairs were two Abyssinian cats, curled up head to toe like the yin-yang symbol. They were fast asleep. Gillian nudged one gently with one toe, and it opened sleepy crescents of eyes.
And then it was off like a flash—both cats were. Streaking down the side hall, falling over each other, skidding on the hardwood floor. Gillian watched with her mouth open.
“Balaam’s ass,” the angel said wisely.
“I beg your pardon?” For a moment Gillian thought she was being insulted.
“I mean, animals can see us.”
“But they were scared. All their fur—I’ve never seen them like that before.”
“Well, they may not understand what I am. It happens sometimes. Come on, let’s get the scissors.”
Gillian stared down the side hall for a moment, then obeyed.
“Now what?” she said as she brought the scissors back to her room.
“Go in the bathroom.”
Gillian went into the little bathroom that adjoined her bedroom and flicked on the light. She licked dry lips.
“And now?” she said, trying to sound flippant. “Do I cut off a finger?”
“No. Just your hair.”
In the mirror over the sink, Gillian saw her own jaw drop. She couldn’t see the angel, though, so she turned around.
“Cut my hair? Off?”
“Off. You hide behind it too much. You have to show the world that you’re not hiding anymore.”
“But—” Gillian raised protective hands, looking back in the mirror. She saw herself, pale, delicate boned, with eyes like wood violets—peering out from a curtain of hair.
So maybe he had a point. But to go into the world naked, without anything to duck behind, with her face exposed…
“You said you trusted me,” the angel said quietly.
Gillian chanced a look at him. His face was stern and there was something in his eyes that almost scared her. Something unknowable and cold, as if he were withdrawing from her.
“It’s the way to prove yourself,” he said. “It’s like taking a vow. If you can do this part, you’re brave enough to do what it takes to get your heart’s desire.” He paused deliberately. “But, of course, if you’re not brave enough, if you want me to go away…”
“No,” Gillian said. Most of what he was saying made sense, and as for what she didn’t understand—well, she would have to have faith.
I can do this.
To show that she was serious, she took the open scissors, bracketed the pale blond curtain at a level with her ear, and squeezed them shut. Her hair just folded around the scissors.
“Okay.” The angel was laughing. “Hold onto the hair at the bottom and pull. And try less hair.”
He sounded like himself again: warm and teasing and loving—helpful. Gillian let out her breath, gave a wobbly smile, and devoted herself to the horrible and fascinating business of cutting off long blond chunks.
When she was done, she had a silky blond cap. Short. It was shorter than Amy’s hair, almost as short as J.Z. Oberlin’s hair, the girl at school who worked as a model and looked like a Calvin Klein ad. It was really short.
“Look in the mirror,” the angel said, although Gillian was already looking. “What do you see?”
“Somebody with a bad haircut?”
“Wrong. You see somebody who’s brave. Strong. Out there. Unique. Individualist. And, incidentally, gorgeous.”
“Oh, please.” But she did look different. Under the ragged St. Joan bob, her cheekbones seemed to stand out more; she looked older, more sophisticated. And there was color in her cheeks.
“But it’s still all uneven.”
“We can get it smoothed out tomorrow. The important thing is that you took the first step yourself. By the way, you’d better learn to stop blushing. A girl as beautiful as you has to get used to compliments.”
“You’re a funny kind of angel.”
“I told you, it’s part of the job. Now let’s see what you’ve got in your closet.”
An hour later, Gillian was in bed again. This time, under the covers. She was tired, dazed, and very happy.
“Sleep fast,” the angel said. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Yes. But wait.” Gillian tried to keep her eyes open. “There were some things I forgot to ask you.”
“Ask.”
“That crying I heard in the woods—the reason I went in. Was it a kid? And are they okay?”
There was a brief pause before he answered. “That information is classified. But don’t worry,” he added. “Nobody’s hurt—now.”
Gillian opened one eye at him, but it was clear he wasn’t going to say any more. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “And the other thing was—I still don’t know what to call you.”
“I told you. Angel.”
Gillian smiled, and was immediately struck by a jaw-cracking yawn. “Okay. Angel.” She opened her eyes again. “Wait. One more thing…”
But she couldn’t think of it. There had been some other mystery she’d wanted to ask about, something that had to do with Tanya, with Tanya and blood. But she couldn’t summon it up.
Oh, well. She’d remember later. “I just wanted to say—thank you.”
He snorted. “You can say it anytime. Get this through your head, kid: I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here tomorrow morning.” He began to hum a Blind Melon song. “‘I’ll always be there when you wake….’ Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Gillian felt warm, protected… loved. She fell asleep smiling.
• • •
The next morning she woke early and spent a long time in the bathroom. She came down the stairs feeling self-conscious and light-headed—literally. With her hair gone, her neck felt as if it were floating. She braced herself as she walked into the kitchen.
Neither of her parents was there, even though her father was usually having breakfast by now. Instead, a girl with dark hair was sitting at the kitchen table, bent closely over a calculus textbook.
“Amy!”
Amy glanced up and blinked. She squinted, blinked again, then jumped up, standing an inch taller than Gillian. She moved forward, her eyes huge.
Then she screamed.
CHAPTER 6
“Your hair!” Amy screamed. “Gillian, your hair! What did you do to it?”
Amy’s own hair was short, cropped close in back and full in front. She had large, limpid blue eyes that always looked as if she were about to cry, because she was nearsighted but couldn’t wear contacts and wouldn’t wear glasses. Her face was sweet and usually anxious; just now it looked more anxious than normal.
Gillian put a self-conscious hand to her head. “Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t know! It’s gone!”
“This is true.”
“But why?”
“Calm down, Amy.” (If this is the way everybody’s going to react, I think I’m in trouble.) Gillian had discovered that she could talk to Angel without moving her lips and that he could answer in her head. It was convenient.
(Tell
her you cut it because it froze. That ought to flip her guilt circuits.) Angel’s voice sounded the same as it did when she could see him. Soft, wry, distinctly his. It seemed to be located just behind her left ear.
“I had to cut it because it was frozen,” Gillian said. “It broke off,” she added brightly, inspired.
Amy’s blue eyes got even wider with horror. She looked stricken. “Oh, my God, Gillian—” Then she cocked her head and frowned. “Actually, I don’t think that’s possible,” she said. “I think it’d stay pliable even frozen. Unless, like, you dipped it in liquid nitrogen….”
“Whatever,” Gillian said grimly. “I did it. Listen, I’ve got it slicked back behind my ears right now, but the ends are sort of uneven. Can you smooth them out a little?”
“I can try,” Amy said doubtfully.
Gillian sat down, pulling together the neck of the rose-colored bathrobe she was wearing over her clothes. She handed Amy the scissors. “Got a comb?”
“Yes. Oh, Gillian, I was trying to tell you. I’m so sorry about yesterday. I just forgot—but it’s all my fault—and you almost died!” The comb quivered against the back of Gillian’s neck.
“Wait a minute. How did you find out about that?”
“Eugene heard it from Steffi Lockhart’s little brother, and I think Steffi heard it from David Blackburn. Did he really save you? That’s so incredibly romantic.”
“Yeah, sort of.” (Uh, what do I tell people about that? What do I tell them about the whole thing?)
(The truth. Up to a point. Just leave me and the near-death stuff out.)
“I’ve been thinking all morning,” Amy was saying, “and I realized that I’ve been an absolute pig this last week. I don’t deserve to be called a best friend. And I want you to know that I’m sorry, and that things are going to be different now. I came to pick you up first, and then we’re going to get Eugene.”
(Oh, joy.)
(Be nice, dragonfly. She’s trying. Say thank you.)
Gillian shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter much what Amy did, now that she had Angel. But she said, “Thanks, Amy,” and held still as the cold scissors went snip behind her ear.
“You’re so sweet,” Amy murmured. “I thought you’d be all mad. But you’re such a good person. I felt so terrible, thinking about you alone out there, freezing, and being so brave, trying to save a little kid—”
