Free A Shimmer of Angels by Lisa M. Basso

aside.
    Surprise jolted him. His eyes grew wide and round, spoiling his angelic face with absolute awareness. His jaw slackened and his fist clamped down onto his pen, snapping it in half. Black ink splashed over his hand, white t-shirt, and well-fitted, green plaid over-shirt.
    Oh, God.
    I scrambled for my books, sweeping them into my bag. My chair skittered into the kid sitting at the table behind me. I didn’t even get out a “sorry” before fleeing the classroom.
    “Rayna,” Mr. Barnes yelled after me, followed by something else I couldn’t quite hear before the bell rang, ending sixth period.
    I didn’t look back as people piled into the halls, simply dodged them, ran up a flight of stairs to the third floor, and took solace in the girls’ bathroom.
    What the hell just happened? They couldn’t be real.
    They were real, I felt the air rushing pass me. But, no. No, no, no, no, no, no. How else do I explain that? God, could he be a real angel? Could they all have been real?!
    A hysterical bubble of laughter burbled up my throat. I swallowed it down.
    Angels—real ones—don’t exist. Maybe. Or not.
    My back pressed up against the same tile wall I’d used for comfort yesterday when he’d first arrived, and I slid to the ground.
    I couldn’t crumble now. There was too much to do, too much still to figure out.
    The toilet in the second stall flushed, startling me to my feet. I pulled it together enough to splash water on my face and run into the hallway. The last thing I needed was another episode of “tweaker girl’s hiding in the bathroom.”
    Twenty-six quick, but measured, steps brought me to the Art room for my last class of the day.
    Just make it through the day; hold it together.
    A streak of gold skimmed the thinning group of students in the hallway, catching my eye. I stopped just outside the classroom. Turned very slowly toward the odd light.
    Cam watched me, half in the hallway, half in the stairwell. The very stairway where Allison had taken her last steps. Confusion and anger marred his face. His lips parted, as if to speak.
    No .
    I turned and ran into the classroom, my heart throbbing in the back of my throat. But he didn’t show up in the doorway.
    Good. That was good.
    I pulled my knees up to my chest—difficult to do on a tall stool—hoping no one would notice how much I was shaking. Real. Those wings were as real as the sweat coating my forehead, neck, and palms.

Chapter Thirteen
    An eternity later, the bell rang, signaling the start of Art class. My odd posture attracted a few stares. But I couldn’t look crazy. If I got sent to answer Ms. Morehouse’s probing questions, I didn’t think I’d be able to think straight enough to lie my way around them. Slowly, I lowered my legs to the floor and reached for my backpack. Sun glinted off something. I tensed, dropping my bag. Nothing. It was nothing. Just sun.
    How can those wings be real? For so many years they told me they weren’t! I’ve been fooled. Or lied to.
    Real. They were real. But they couldn’t be.
    Someone was speaking, distracting me from thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking. At the front of the classroom, a woman in a long floral dress unveiled an abstract painting. A sub. Mrs. Pheffer probably couldn’t handle what had happened to Allison, either.
    The sub wrote several words on the chalkboard. Colors. Blocking. Surrealism. Like I needed anyone to explain surreal to me. Her words faded, lost again to my own internal shouts.
    I saw Cam. He saw me. Maybe we saw each other for what we really were.
    I swallowed, hearing the swish of saliva slide down my throat.
    Slow down , I told myself, reaching for an anchor.
    Dr. G’s “knowledge is power” speech soothed me somewhat. Start with what you know as fact, then discover and uncover the rest. The more you’re sure about, the less confused you’ll be.
    So you felt something , I began, trying to break it down rationally. You saw the wings. You felt them blow wind into your