“Just visiting,” I said, plopping down on a vintage, purple couch. I loved that couch. It was a place I felt safe and loved. Not to mention it was wicked cool, with its back shaped like the Nike swoosh and its velvety feel. I leaned back into the couch cushions and flipped off my shoes.
“Actually,” Muriel started, sitting on the edge of a red, purple, and yellow paisley chair.
Oh, crap.
“We need to have the talk, Grams.”
“Ah. It is that time, I suppose.” Grams nodded, her snow-white curls bouncing in all directions.
“What talk?” I looked between them.
Grams took a big breath and glanced quickly at Muriel, who looked like she had a mouthful of Warhead candy. “Well, Milayna, since you’re almost eighteen, there are some things you should know—”
I shot up like I was on a springboard. “Eww, Grams. Mom already had that talk with me.”
“Good gracious, if you’d just let me finish. Cripes, that isn’t the talk I want to have with you.” She held both hands up and waved them down at me.
“Then what?” I shook my arms out at my sides.
“Get comfortable, child. This is going to turn your life sideways.”
“You’re special, Milayna.” Grams rested her elbow on the arm of her wheelchair and put her chin in her upturned hand.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No, I mean, you’re really special. You’re a demi-angel,” she told me as if it should’ve been obvious.
“Demi what?” I’d decided Grams was more senile than I thought.
“Angel, dear, keep up.” She patted my knee. “See, your mother is a mortal…”
This is gonna be priceless.
“…and your dad is an angel. So there you go.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” Shaking my head, I knew if I looked in the mirror just then I’d look like a fish, with my mouth opening and closing and my eyes bulging. I don’t think I blinked for a whole minute as I stared at my grandmother, waiting for her to laugh and say ‘Gotcha.’ I was always too gullible and fell for her practical jokes too easily.
“You’ve completely lost me, Grams. I think you need a brownie fix as much as I do. The sugar will clear your head.” I wiped my hands down my thighs. “You did make brownies, right? You feel okay?”
She sighed. “Yes, I made you some, but first, we need to discuss this. See, your mother is a mortal, and your father is an—”
“Yeah, I heard it the first time you said it. Funny. You had me going there for a minute. I thought you’d bought two one-way bus tickets, senile-ville for you and gullible-city for me.” I laughed and stood up to rummage through her small, galley-style kitchen in search of something to ease my brownie fix. “But you know I hate those jokes you pull on me, so can we just have some brownies like normal people?”
“Milayna! Sit down, child. This is important.”
“Come on, Grams.” I threw my arms in the air and let out a frustrated sigh. My hands slapped against my thighs when they fell. “You can’t really expect me to believe we’re a family of angels.” I stared at her, eyebrow raised.
“No—”
“Good. Let’s have brownies, huh? I’ve been waiting all day for some.” I pulled the plates out of the low cupboard made to accommodate her wheelchair.
“We’re a family of angels and half angels.”
Blinking at her persistence, I turned slightly and studied her. Her expression didn’t hold a trace of humor.
Okay, their joke was cute at first. Now, they’re starting to piss me off.
“Okay, whatever.” I set the plates down a little too hard on the counter, and they rattled against each other. I rolled my eyes. “The joke isn’t funny anymore.” I paused. My eyes narrowed, and the muscles in my neck tensed. I didn’t like practical jokes, especially ones that made my family sound like they had a padded cell reserved in their name. “Oh, I get it. Ha-freakin’-ha. You’re both hilarious.”
“Milayna, I know this is hard to believe, so I’m going to start over from the beginning. Now, like I said, you’re a demi-angel, a child of an angel parent and a human parent.”
“Wait.” I gave a half-laugh. “You really believe what you’re saying?” Grams nodded. I looked at Muriel, who’d been quiet. “And you?” She nodded once and turned her face away.
I paced the small kitchen, mulling over what Grams was telling me. One hand massaged the tension growing like a tumor in my neck muscles, and the other rubbed at the migraine knocking its way out of my forehead.
We’re either a bunch of angels, which makes me a freak like I thought and makes everyone else in my family a freak, too. Or Muriel and Grams have lost it completely—or are really trying to activate my bitch-mode with this joke.
I turned and pointed at Grams. “Angels are immortal.”
“Not necessarily. Your father is just as mortal as anyone else, but he is definitely an angel.”
“Not always, according to my mother,” I grumbled under my breath. Grams cackled at that, and I jumped before squeezing my arms around my stomach.
“No, probably not,” she agreed. “Anyway, when an angel leaves Heaven, or in some cases, is asked to leave, they become mortal. Unless they go south of the border.”