Chapter Twelve

 

The darkness lasts only a moment before a memory takes its place. It is an old memory. I was only seven. Cecille was just a baby. Mom pushed her in a stroller, and Dad held my hand. We had driven down to the lakefront and parked our car near Lincoln Park Zoo. First, we walked along the path, but Mom said there were too many runners, too many bicyclists. I was fine with that. I wanted to get into the zoo.

The leaves crunched under my feet. The wind whipped at my face, but I didn’t care. Once we got inside the zoo, we found there weren’t many animals out, but that didn’t bother me either. I chased blowing leaves across the asphalt paths while my parents sat on a bench and Cecille slept in the stroller. Nothing exceptional happened that day. Except—we were together as a family, and that was enough.

 

The memory ends as quickly as it began. When I come out of the darkness, Warren is waiting for me.

“You remembered something from your life.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but I nod anyway.

“A happy time.” Again, not a question. How does he know? “Now use that memory.”

I look at him like he’s told me to speak Finnish. “Use a memory?”

Warren looks around the room. “We’ll start with something small. You won’t be able to do the big things, like move your wings, until you’ve grown more in grace.” He smiles at me. “But you can make the wind blow.”

“Huh?”

Surely, Warren has lost it. He points to a jock who is seated next to Vera and resting his head against his hand. From one angle, it looks like he might be working on his assignment, but he’s actually asleep.

“See that pencil on the edge of Rodger’s desk. Blow it right over the edge.”

“What? I can’t do that. I don’t have any breath anymore.”

“Not like humans have, but you do have angelbreath.” Warren pulls me into the aisle next to Rodger. On the opposite side of Rodger is Vera, who has flipped her assignment sheet over and is composing her own poem on the back.

“Stand right here.” Warren moves me by my shoulders. “Then lean down and blow. You’ll make the pencil roll right off the desk.”

I roll my eyes, but he looks so excited about me trying this, that I follow his instructions. Bending down, I close my eyes, and exhale like I’m blowing out birthday candles. When I open my eyes, the pencil’s still lying there.

“I told you I couldn’t do it.”

Warren shakes his head. “You’ve got to think about that memory. The good one. The one that made you smile.”

Smile? Had I actually smiled?

“How’s this going to help Vera?”

“Just try it already.”

I bend down again and stare at the pencil. It’s not much of a pencil—pretty stubby, well-chewed, and only a little eraser. It shouldn’t take much of a breeze to get that thing moving.

“Think about that memory. What was it the fall leaves reminded you of?”

Family. That’s what the crunch of fall leaves reminds me of. I close my eyes and picture myself chasing the whirling leaves around the zoo. From her seat on the bench, Mom yells at me not to wander too far. She’s sitting next to Dad and rocking Cecille’s stroller back and forth. For the moment, I am happy.

I hold onto the happiness, and as I push the tunnel of breath through my lips, I imagine I’m a kid blowing burnt orange leaves across the asphalt path.

The soft clatter of compressed wood on linoleum makes me open my eyes. The sound has the same effect on Rodger. Dazed, he looks around suddenly like he’s trying to figure out if someone called his name.

I pass through his desk so that I’m standing in the aisle between him and Vera. The stubby, chewed-up pencil lies across a crack in the old linoleum floor. I look up at Warren.

“Did you—”

Warren smiles. “That was all you.”

For the first time in forever, I’m excited. Then the truly unexpected happens. Vera sees Rodger staring at his assignment and lifting up his pile of texts and spirals to see if the pencil’s rolled underneath. Vera bends down, picks up the pencil, and places it on Rodger’s desk.

For a moment, the big oaf looks at it like he’s never seen a pencil before. Then he turns and smiles at Vera. “Thanks.” He might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but his smile is warm, and Vera’s cheeks flush a little at the attention. In my mental checklist, I add “Never had a boyfriend” to the list of Vera’s problems.

 

For the rest of class, Warren makes me imagine happy moments and blow other small objects—paper clips, scraps of paper—around the room. Sometimes it is easy; other times all I can remember are the times my parents fought, or the rejection letter from DePaul, or the sound of Ally’s scream right before our car slammed into that minivan.

Exhaling wasn’t hard when I was alive, but it’s exhausting as a Guardian.

“It’ll get easier,” Warren says, but I find it difficult to believe. I’m actually glad when the bell rings, and I have to follow Vera to her next class while Warren stays behind to guard Ms. Kitchin.

“Keep trying to remember the good,” Warren says as Vera stands up to leave. “And see if you can help Vera do the same.”

I don’t get how blowing a pencil or a piece of paper off a desk is going to do any good, but I decide to play along. It’s the only way my angelhood will conclude with anything other than a very unhappy, very fiery ending.

While Vera takes notes in geometry, I try to think of happier times in my life. The problem is that every happy time seems to be paired with an unhappy time. I remember how excited I was when I got my first role in a high school play, the mayor’s daughter in The Music Man my freshman year. But as soon as that memory fades, I remember losing the part of Laurey in Oklahoma the next year, and getting the part of Ado Annie instead. It was still a big part in the play, especially for a sophomore, but I’d had my heart set on Laurey.

Then I think about my eighth birthday party, the last one I had in the old house. My mom had invited all my friends from school and the neighborhood, and we played silly games like pin the tail on Barney until our sides hurt from laughing. But that only reminds me of my fifteenth birthday when my parents were so busy fighting over who got to take me out to dinner that neither of them bothered to ask me what I wanted to do for my birthday.

I called Ally the night before my birthday and complained about my parents being complete morons. The next morning, when I arrived at school, Ally had decorated my locker with a million comedy and tragedy faces cut from construction paper, and purple curled ribbons hanging like tiny streamers in a cascade. Taped to the outside was an envelope. Inside the envelope were two tickets to the local theater’s production of Wicked. I had begged my parents to get us tickets, but Dad had already said we didn’t have money for “foo-foo” stuff like that. Theater wasn’t “foo foo” to me. It was my future—something my dad didn’t want to believe. He wanted me to focus on a “stable career,” something that had a good 401k plan and stock options.

As I look back on the memory, my vision focuses on the theatre faces Ally had taped all over my locker. Those side-by-side comedy and tragedy faces summed up life, didn’t they? The tragedy exists right alongside the comedy. My parents may not have asked what I wanted for my birthday, but my best friend knew without even having to ask.

Friends, I realize. They were what made life worth living. I look at Vera sitting in geometry class. Mr. Gallagher has asked the students to compare their answers with a partner, but Vera sits there alone. Everyone around her has partnered up. I look to see if there’s a Sleeping Beauty for me to wake up by blowing his pencil right off the desk, but there’s none in this class. Everyone is alert and working with a partner. Everyone except for Vera, of course. She stares at her paper and writes words in the margins: sharp angles dig into my skin, wretched numbers no one cares about, one is a very lonely number, even zero is better than one.

The wind howls in the hallway. I don’t even need to look toward the door to know what’s coming. I’m losing Vera to the darkness, and if I don’t do something fast, it will settle in her soul. There is no Warren to help me this time, but I know my little wind-blowing trick isn’t enough to blow away a shadow if it enters the room. I need help, but how? From where?

I look around the room. None of the students notice Vera, alone in the back corner. The window next to her is open a crack, probably the teacher’s way of airing the teen sweat out of the classroom. Vera continues to scrawl verses in the margin of her paper. Two aisles over, Mr. Gallagher discusses the problem with a wrestling jock and his buddy. Indignation fills me. Isn’t it the teacher’s job to make sure every student stays on task? Why hasn’t he noticed Vera’s alone?

In the doorway, the shadow swirls into formation. It is Tamesis, the shadow girl from last week. I glide toward the teacher. I must make him look at Vera. I try to tug on his shirt, but as I expect, my hand passes right through him. Angelbreath is the only tool I have.

I head back to Vera. On the windowsill next to her is a pile of math worksheets. The breeze through the window is gentle, barely ruffling the top sheet. I take in the biggest breath I can and blow on the papers. Nothing happens. Are papers harder to move than pencils?

Then I remember Warren’s advice. I have to think of something happy, something that made my life worth living. I glance at Tamesis. Her gray, gaunt face gazes over the room until her sunken eyes rest on Vera. The teacher continues to work with the jocks. I need him to care about Vera like my theater teacher Mr. Cardone cared about me and my performances. He was the one who pushed me to take my acting to the next level.

Looking at Mr. Gallagher, I remember the kindness of Mr. Cardone, and then I turn to the pile of papers and with my breath, I command them to dance before me. The worksheets fly off the windowsill in beautifully curving arcs. I blow again, and they dance over the heads of the students, gliding and curling this way and that. Vera looks up in wonder as the ballet in sheets of white plays out before her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadow halt.

Likewise, the rest of the students stop working. It doesn’t take much to distract teenagers.

“Whoa! What happened there?” cries one of the stoners.

“That was freaky,” says another. “The window’s barely open.”

Mr. Gallagher sighs. “It’s only a gust of wind, people.” He moves to pick up the worksheets, and a preppy girl from the front row hops up to help him.

Vera smiles as the last of the worksheets see-saw floats down to her desk. Mr. Gallagher takes it from her. “Excuse me, Ms. Lavoy, I’m sure you won’t mind if I hang on to that assignment until tomorrow.”

Vera shakes her head and looks down at her worksheet. Mr. Gallagher takes the paper and adds it to the ones Miss Goody Two Shoes from the front row has collected. He pounds the stack of papers against the windowsill to straighten them.

“Ms. Lavoy, have you discussed your answers with anyone yet?”

Vera’s voice is small when she responds. “No.”

“Ms. Anderson, discuss problem #12 with Ms. Lavoy.”

Ms. Goody Two-Shoes pops up from her front row seat and heads back toward Vera. I can see Vera is uncomfortable, but the Anderson girl jumps right into a discussion, and I relax as Tamesis glides out of the room.