Guardian (6 page)

Stephanie is the only one in our cooking rotation who's allowed to pull that, but I don't care. If she wasn't so lazy, we'd never get anything cool to eat.

Silent from school decompression, Jess and I trudge down the hall to our respective rooms. But then something weird comes over me. I pause at my doorway and ask her, “Do you want to come in and talk?”

She hesitates, like an animal who sees delicious food on the ground but knows there has to be a trap somewhere.

“I need someone to talk to about something.” I hear the begging tone in my voice and hate it.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “If it's about you and your skanky girlfriend, I'm not Dear Abby.”

Jeez. What will she be like when she's married to some poor slob? “It's not about Carolina, if that's who you were referring to,” I say. “It's something else.”

She hesitates one more second, but then follows me in. I sit on the bed and she sits on my desk chair. “That is hideous!” She points to my poster of Rolan Thunder.

“No, he's cool!” I tell her. “He's the Bomb from Guam. He's Emotion in Motion. He's the Biggest Deal on the Highlight Reel.”

She stares at me like an owl. “Are you sure you belong in Gifted?”

“Let's change the subject. Do you believe in God?”

“Of course I do,” she says.

“Like the Official Catholic God?”

“Yes. You know I like to go to Mass whenever I can drag Stephanie out of bed. Andrea and I both—that's one of the few things we have in common.”

“Angels?” I ask. “Do you believe in guardian angels?”

“Sure I do. Where are you going with this?”

I take a deep breath. “I think I'm having a … relationship with Saint Gabriel.”

The owl-stare narrows to a hawk, then expands again. “That's fine, Hunter. I think that's wonderful. We all need—”

“No, it's more than what you're picturing. I had a Visitation when I was four years old. A real one. I remember it very clearly.”

She's still being attentive, but her hands are flexing in a funny way, like she's signaling for help. “I believe you,” she says finally. “I've heard stories like that. I think maybe small children receive special grace for that kind of thing.”

“Well, now he's trying to come back. The guy at the cemetery, on the motorcycle. That was him.”

Her fingers grip the edge of her seat. “Oh, Hunter!”

“Wait. Listen to me. It's the same man. Angel. I recognize him from when I was little. He had that long black hair and …”

“Angels do not ride motorcycles.”

“How do you know? If they can fly around playing musical instruments, why couldn't they just hop on …”

“You're letting your imagination run wild. It's because of Mike's death and how Stephanie is treating you.”

“Well, fasten your seat belt. I'm going to tell you some really scary stuff my imagination is doing.”

She glances at the door. “Okay.”

“I prayed for the ten dollars for Duncan Presser. And it showed up in my locker in this.…” I walk to the desk, trying not to notice that she flinches. I take out the envelope and hand it to her.

“You think Saint Gabriel wrote your name on this envelope, put in a ten-dollar bill, snuck into Sawgrass Middle School, and stuck it in your locker?”

Boy, it sounds pretty bad when she tells it. “And then, today, this.” I dig in my backpack and take out the contest confetti. “Drew told me she didn't want to be in the contest and I prayed to Saint Gabriel to destroy the entry form and here it is.”

“Hunter, you did all this yourself.” She looks really scared now.

“Where did I get the ten dollars?”

“I don't know. You tried to get into Stephanie's purse once. Maybe you tried again that same night and pulled it off.”

I point to the envelope. “That's not my writing.”

She's getting upset, taking short little breaths. “Maybe you wrote with your left hand. Maybe you're just making all this up to poke fun at me because I'm religious.”

“I don't think you're all that religious! I'm showing you a genuine miracle and you're trying to explain it away!”

“Hunter, angels don't work like this! I do believe in angels. I think they can come to your side and comfort you and I think they even rescue people that are lost in the mountains or go to hospitals and miraculously cure people. But I don't think they tear up entry forms and give people money!”

“How do you know?”

“It doesn't sound right!”

We're screaming at each other. I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “What about how my luck has changed lately? What about Carolina Cummings? Can you explain why someone like that would be interested in me?”

She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She knows this is too much of a miracle to dismiss.

“My luck has totally changed since I started praying. Mrs. Morales is nice to me, you've seen how Duncan leaves me alone on the bus. Now he's picking on Jason Gantner.”

“Yeah, but okay, so you started believing in angels and it gave you confidence and you acted differently. And everyone is reacting to that.”

“I think angels are more believable than that kind of touchy-feely psychology crap. If you believe that theory, why don't you walk up to some of the cool kids in your class tomorrow and act like you belong with them and see what happens?”

I had her there. “Hunter, I don't know what to think. I know you've always been a very sensible person. Andrea's the type to go nuts over religion.… Hey, how do you know she isn't doing this stuff to you, just to play with your mind?”

That made sense for just a second. “But no, she doesn't know what I'm praying for here in my own room. Unless you've seen her holding a water glass up to the wall.”

“No … and frankly, I can't imagine her giving you ten dollars either.”

We both laugh, but it's the tense kind of laughter you use to pave over something awkward. I'm really sorry I told her.

“I set up an e-mail account today,” I say.

You can see the relief flood her face that we've changed the subject. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, my address is Shoehorn six at Yahoo. I thought you might want to know.”

“I'm surprised you'd tell me. I thought I was just a pesty little sister to you.”

I feel much better now that we're in the awkward place I know. “You're all that and more, Jess. You're my friend. That's why I'm trusting you with this secret. In case I am going off the deep end, you're my witness and you'll know what to tell the guys who come for me with the straitjacket.”

She laughs. “You can count on me, Hunter. My …” She stops herself and blushes.

“Your what?”

“My address is Hestia thirteen at Yahoo. In case you want to e-mail me.”

“I don't know that word.”

She looks up all eager and geeky. “Hestia is the Greek goddess of the hearth.”

“Oh,” I say. “
That
Hestia.”

She laughs. “She's my favorite goddess because she's … complete within herself. But she's never slipped anything into my locker yet.”

Once again, we laugh the ritual laugh.

“Hunter? Do you like Carolina like a girlfriend? You can tell me if it's none of my business.”

“It is none of your business, but the answer is, I don't know. I have to get to know her better.”

“Do you?” she asks, and then jumps up like the chair burst into flame. “I didn't mean that. Forget I said that.”

“Okay. If you'll forget everything I've been saying for the past ten minutes.”

“Let's forget I was ever in here at all.”

“Deal.”

She leaves. Rolan Thunder stares at me from the wall.

The glass in my bedroom window shatters in slow motion, moonlit fragments flying apart like the Big Bang must have looked, and in the center of the explosion is the archangel Gabriel, dressed in black leather, arms spread, his black hair and the fringe on his sleeves fanning out like wings.

I sit up in bed, panting, staring at the intact window. Moonlight glares into my face. I try to tell myself it was just a dream, but I'm awake now. And I hear the roar of the motorcycle outside.

My body jumps out of bed, springs up in one motion, and I run, in my underwear, sprint, tear, fly toward the front door. I have to see. I have to know.

The roar is fainter, getting away. I wrestle with bolts and locks, banging my fingers. I run into the night air, into the moonlight, and see him idling at the corner. The moon edges his black form with silver white, like a mane of electricity. His head is turned toward me. He raises his arm in a wave, or a blessing.

I start running. He turns the corner.

“No!” I scream. “Wait. Please!” My run slows to a defeated jog. The sound of his engine blurs into the traffic and fades completely.

I stand in the street in my neon white underwear. The trees look weird, like they're aware of me, and hostile. I wonder if I'm still dreaming. How can you ever be sure? There's no real test. A dream can simulate anything.

I walk back to my house. My thought is I'll go back to bed and if I see my body lying there, I'll know this is a dream.

I'm cold. The world looks cold in the moonlight. Would a dream-body shiver and feel like it needs to pee?

I open the front door, go in. The VCR is flashing 12:00 like it always does. None of us ever reset the clock after a power failure. I'm careful to relock and rebolt the door because I'm pretty sure I'm not dreaming now. I go to the bathroom and then to my bedroom. No one is in the bed. I lie down. The moonlight seems to burn my face. I fall asleep. In the morning, I have no idea what part of it was real.

Chapter 6

When I get to school the next day, I go straight to the media center to see if Carolina has sent me an e-mail. I'm really surprised to see I have three e-mails waiting for me.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
Study date?

Let's get together at your house or my house next week and work on our science project. We can shake things up and see how they settle. Is your house okay? My house is okay but my mom is kind of a pain and if she sees you're a boy she'll get all … is your house okay?

Your friend, Carolina

PS: I really like you

I read it over and over, from the explosive word
date
in the subject line to the part about shaking things up, which has to be intentional, to the PS, which in the eighth grade is nothing short of a love poem. I hit reply.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Study date!

I'll bet you anything my foster mom is more of a pain than your mom, and I have three snoopy sisters on top of it, but if you can handle all that, my house is fine. My mom tends to work late on Mondays, so that might be a good day to shoot for.

YF, Hunter

PS: I really like you too

I delete that PS and try again.

PS: I'm really glad you like me

I delete and try again.

PS: ditto

I delete that PS and leave it off. I hit send. I'm sweating and all the muscles of my back and shoulders are cramped up. This e-mail stuff is intense. I move on to e-mail number two.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
I feel stupid.

I feel stupid sending you an e-mail when we live in the same house, but I thought since we exchanged e-mail addresses, it was rude to not send you one. I'm glad you trusted me with what you told me yesterday. You are the only person in our family that I really respect and I will always feel that way, whatever happens. See you at home. Jessie

I wonder, how many words did she delete before she decided on
respect
? I also wonder what she means by “whatever happens.” What's going to happen? I hit reply.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Yes, but

Will you respect me if the men in the little white coats come for me?

Will you respect me if Stephanie decides she has too many kids and sells me to the gypsies?

Will you respect me if I never, ever get taller than you?

Will you respect me if Carolina becomes my girlfriend?

I hit send fast. I feel feverish from all this. How do people do it every day? I open my third e-mail.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
Hello, Hunter

I hope I'm not frightening you by sending you an e-mail, but I think it's time you heard from me directly. I don't want you to feel you are going crazy or anything like that. I'm real and I'm here and I care about you. I am very sorry for the time I was away from you. I made a promise to you many years ago and I did not keep it. I failed you. But I am here now and all I want to do is make it up to you. Anything in the world you want, Hunter, if it's in my power to do, I will do it for you. I hear your prayers. I will never abandon you again.

Your “guardian angel,” Gabriel

PS: Please don't talk about me to other people. They won't understand.

If there's still a media center around me, I'm not aware of it. There's nothing but the screen—white letters on a blue screen, like a starry sky, pulling me in, and beyond that, just a swirl of colors and sounds. I hear a bell ring and wonder if I'm late for class, but I don't really care. All I can do is stare at the screen. Something inside me seems to break loose and I want to cry. He's apologizing to me. An angel is apologizing to me via e-mail and some part of me feels that's absolutely the right thing that should happen. Some weird part of me is sure this all makes perfect sense and that he does owe me something.