Angel Page 35

Page 35

 

  “Kylar,” he said, tossing the wallet onto the dresser. “I don’t have any ID with that on it, though. I don’t exist, as far as the system’s concerned. ”

  I blinked. “What — really?”

  He looked amused at the expression on my face. “Yeah, really. My bank account was under a fake name; it was set up by the CIA. I never got a social security card or anything. Or a real driver’s license. ”

  I couldn’t think of much to say to this. I had thought I was joking about the James Bond thing; apparently I wasn’t. I sat down on my bed and pulled my shoes off. “Do you have a middle name?”

  Alex grinned. “Yeah, it’s James, actually. ” Taking his own shoes off, he sprawled back onto his bed, reaching for the remote. As he switched the TV on, a talk show flickered onto the screen.

  “You’re just making this up now,” I said after a pause. “Your middle name is not James, as in James Bond. ”

  “No, it’s James, as in James Kylar, my grandfather. What about you? Have you got one?”

  “No, just Willow Fields,” I said, stretching out. “I always wanted a middle name; I was the only girl in my class who didn’t have one. ”

  Alex looked over at me, his eyes interested. “So what was it like? Going to school?”

  I glanced at him in confusion and then suddenly realized. “You never went. ”

  He shook his head. “I grew up at the camp, pretty much. I’ve only seen school on TV. Is it really like that — with homecoming and proms and stuff?”

  So that’s why he hadn’t known what a yearbook was called. Feeling sort of dazed, I said, “Yeah, it’s exactly like that. Prom is a very big deal, actually. Some of the girls at my school even go into New York City to get their dresses. They spend, like, thousands of dollars on them. ”

  “Did you?”

  I barked out a short laugh. “Uh, no. I never went. ”

  He rolled onto his side, facing me. “Why not?”

  I could feel my cheeks heating up. I stared at the TV, where the talk-show host was sitting next to a guest, both of them dabbing at their eyes with tissues. “Because no one ever asked me. ”

  Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. High school is . . . ” I tried to think how to describe it. “There are all these ruling cliques, and if you don’t belong to one of them, then — that’s sort of that for you. I never really fit in; I was always Queen Weird. ”

  His eyes were narrowed as he looked at me.

  “What?” I said, feeling self-conscious.

  “I’m just having a really hard time picturing this,” he said. “Prom is like the big dance, right? At the end of school? And you’re saying that nobody ever asked you to it?”

  I would have been irritated, except that he sounded so honestly surprised that I found myself laughing instead. “Alex, I’ve never even had a date. You’re really not grasping the extent of the ‘Queen Weird’ thing here. ”

  “Queen Weird,” he repeated. “Why — because of the psychic stuff?”

  I pretended to be deep in thought. “Well, let’s see; there was the psychic stuff and the way I dress and fixing cars . . . ”

  “What’s wrong with the way you dress? You mean like that purple skirt thing?”

  I held back a smile at ‘purple skirt thing. ’ “Yes, exactly. It’s not in fashion; I bought it at a thrift shop. Most of my clothes are like that. ” I thought of a cloche hat from the twenties I had loved and a pair of high-button shoes that I’d worn until they literally fell to pieces. And Nina had threatened to disown me when I’d turned up to school in a bomber jacket once.

  Alex was starting to look seriously confused. “OK, so . . . maybe girls would notice that kind of thing, but you’re saying that this actually mattered to the guys?”

  “In Pawtucket, it did,” I said. “The girls who were popular were the ones who wore the right things and had perfect makeup. I hardly even own any makeup. I mean, I think I literally have one tube of mascara, and it’s about two years old. ”

  “Why do you need makeup?” He sounded bewildered.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never really understood it, either. I guess that’s why I’m Queen Weird. ”

  “Right,” said Alex after a long pause. He gave his head a brief shake, as if he was clearing it. “Well . . . if you want my opinion, the guys in Pawtucket are idiots. ”

  “I always liked to think so. ” My face tinged with heat as I glanced at him. “Thanks. ”

  He smiled, looking a little embarrassed. “OK, take me through a typical day,” he said, straightening up.

  “You’re really interested?”

  “Yeah, go on. ”

  I shrugged. “OK. It’s pretty boring, though. ” Sitting cross-legged on the bed facing him, I described everything about Pawtucket High — classes, and bells ringing, and homework, and GPAs, and shuffling through the hallways in a crowd, and final exams and lockers, and the cafeteria, and skipping classes sometimes when it got so boring I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Alex listened intently, absorbing every word. When I finished, he was quiet for a minute, his expression thoughtful. “That all sounds so strange. I can’t really imagine it — having to do homework and caring about what grade you get. ”

  I laughed. “Wait, my life sounds strange? God, yours is like something out of a movie. ” And then it hit me — really hit me — that I might never go to high school again. I had always sort of hated it, but it was a bizarre thought, anyway; it made me feel so adrift somehow. What was going on there now? Everyone must be talking about me, wondering what had happened.

  “What?” asked Alex, watching me.

  I managed a smile. “Nothing. ”

  We watched TV for a while after that, ordering a pizza when we got hungry. Alex turned out to know the plots of half the soap operas that were on. “I can’t believe that you actually watch this stuff,” I said. It was midafternoon by then, and I was lying on my bed, feeling too full and slightly stir-crazy.

  On his own bed, Alex was stretched out on his side, looking totally relaxed as he stared up at the TV, like a sleek panther lying in the sun. He shrugged as he took a bite of pizza. “There isn’t much else to do when I’m waiting for a text,” he said. “I get pretty sick of ESPN sometimes, when they’re just showing golf or whatever. ”

  I found myself just gazing at him for a moment, taking him in. “So how does it work?” I asked, trying to picture what his life must have been like. “Who sends you the text?”

  “Someone at the CIA. The information comes from angel spotters. Came from angel spotters,” he corrected himself. His expression hardened momentarily, and I knew he was thinking of the angels having taken over Project Angel.

  “OK, so — you got a text and then what?” I asked.

  “I went to wherever it said. And then did some surveillance, checking the angel out and waiting for it to try to feed. That’s when you have to attack, when they’re in their angel form. You don’t have much time. ”