Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

2

Brielle

I’m alone.

The room is full of people, but I don’t see them. Not clearly. They’re a blur of summer colors and shadowed faces as my legs push me across the stage. My arms bow and curve, matching my inhales and exhales. Flutes, clarinets, and instruments I can’t even name trill from the speakers, the music telling a story. The dance sharing a journey.

My journey.

Getting back to the stage was not an easy path, and my mind is full of the circumstances and the players that brought me here. I rise to my toes and I think of Ali, my closest friend. I think of the life that was taken from her. I think of her boyfriend, Marco, and the case built against him: smoke and mirrors to hide what really happened.

But truth is stronger than lies, and as the music slows, my black skirt whispers against my knees and I remember the first time I saw the Celestial. Light and life everywhere, and on every surface colors that never stop moving.

I think of the first time I saw Canaan, not as Jake’s guardian only, but as the angel he really is—his outer wings spread wide, Jake wrapped tightly in his inner wings and pressed safely against his chest.

The music changes, dropping into a minor key, and my movements become more ghost-like. I think of the fear that nearly destroyed me six months ago, of the doubt that ate away at truth and hope.

I think of Jake.

The music is all but silent now. My body moves slowly, deliberately, but my heart trips over itself at the thought of his fiery, hazel eyes, his healing touch.

It’s only right that my first performance is here, in Stratus, with him in the audience. With my dad and Canaan looking on, with Miss Macy cheering my feat from the wings. With Kaylee chattering away to Mr. Burns, telling him which pictures to snap.

The song builds, thundering drums that urge my legs faster and faster. The music crescendos and I spin, again and again. My hair pulls free of its knot, wild and free, like an angel in flight.

This choreography is my story. I let it swallow me, stretch me.

Cymbals crash like waves against rock—my doubt against the Father’s will—and I drop low, bending to it, letting my fingers brush the floor, allowing myself a moment shrouded in the darkness of my curled torso before I rise once again to my toes. Light streams through the windows, turning everything around me a vibrant gold.

And then it’s over. The music, the dance, my trip down memory lane. All of it. I drop into a bow, and the room erupts with applause.

When I rise I see the place clearly. The newly painted basketball court, the groupings of people here and there, standing, clapping, toasting me with plastic cups of red punch. Dad swipes at his eyes with gigantic paws, his ruddy face flushed. Jake stands near the back, whistling, cheering, a tiny orange tutu over his jeans.

I snort.

Where did he get that?

Hilarity joins exhilaration, and I laugh. And laugh.

Kaylee, friend extraordinaire, skips up the stairs and wraps her arms around me.

“You were amazing,” she says. “I can’t believe you almost gave that up!” She stumbles toward the microphone at the front of the stage, pulling me with her. “Wasn’t she fabulous?” she asks the audience. The crowd claps harder, and I smile as the tears fall.

The gathering here is humble—just my friends and neighbors—and the Stratus Community Center is not nearly so grand as the theatres I toured last summer.

But I did it. Really and truly.

It’s impossible not to think of Ali now. Not to remember her childlike laugh or the way she pushed and pulled me, made me believe I could conquer the world.

She’d be proud of me.

The tears are thick now, drenching my face, running down my leotard, so I wave my thanks to the crowd and duck into the wings. Miss Macy grabs me before I get too far. She pulls me into her arms and presses her cheek against mine. She’s crying too.

“You are grace personified, sweetness. I know that wasn’t easy, but . . .” Her voice catches and she pushes me away. “Oh, go. Kiss that boyfriend of yours and get back up here before our little fairies fly away.”

I glance at the youngest of our students, lining up backstage. Their mamas are busy corralling them, smearing sparkles on their cheeks, securing tiny wings to their backs. An ache passes through me—the same ache I always get when I realize I never had such moments with my own mother.

What would she have thought of my performance today?

I pull Miss Macy in for another hug and then make my way down the stairs. Kaylee’s still speaking into the microphone. She thanks everyone for coming to Stratus Community Center’s Grand Reopening, tells them her Aunt Delia’s slaved over the pies in the back and to help themselves.

I weave through the crowd, looking for Dad, looking for Jake. I accept pats on the back and words of kindness. From the stage the crowd looked small, but on the floor with their familiar faces and words of congratulation ringing in my ears, I’m impressed by the turnout. When I agreed to open the celebration for Kaylee, I had no idea she’d rallied so many to the cause. Canaan towers over the crowd at the back of the auditorium, so I angle toward his silver hair. The crowd is dense enough that I don’t see Jake until I’m right in front of him.

He spins in a circle, showing off his tutu. “You like?” he asks, that boyish scratch in his voice endearing.

He has no idea how much I like. “Does this mean you’re ready for that dance lesson?”

“Does this mean I’m ready? You’re the one who’s been hiding all the tutus.”

I haven’t. Not at all, but there’s something of the truth to his words. Sharing ballet with Jake would be like admitting I’m ready to move on. That I’m ready to let dance be more to me than my big break in the big city. And that’s a hard thing to let go of. At least it used to be.

I flick the orange tulle at his waist. “Apparently I didn’t hide them well enough.”

“Canaan got me this one.”

“Garage sale,” Canaan says, diving into a slice of cherry pie. “I honestly didn’t think he’d put it on. Had I known . . .” Canaan winks at me.

“You have to admit, omniscience would have been helpful here.”

Jake feigns offense. “What are you saying? That I’m not tutu material?”

“Don’t be sad,” I tell him. “You’re good at so many other things.”

“I blame you for these two left feet.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You said if I got a tutu you’d teach me to dance.”

“So?”

“So. Teach.” He scoops me into his arms and spins me full circle. “Am I doing it right?”

“Not even a little bit.” I laugh.

We bump into a slew of people. I try to pull away and apologize, but they’re kind and clap for us. Spurred on by their support, Jake prances me around the food table, around the easels set up promoting the various programs, refusing to stop until we reach center court. He dips me, all dramatic and ridiculous, but I play along, snapping up hard and fast, our faces just inches apart.

More clapping. More whistles.

“Has anyone ever told you how hot you are?” Jake says, his words nearly inaudible in the chaos.

I’m breathless and heady and trying far too hard to come up with a new response to Jake’s favorite question. Before anything remotely intelligent occurs to me, I feel a hand on my elbow.

“Elle, could you come over here for a minute?”

It’s Dad. And he doesn’t seem nearly as amused as the rest of the room.

“Um, sure.”

Jake loosens his grip and nods at my father. “Mr. Matthews.”

“Kid,” Dad says, his lips a tight line. He takes my hand, pulling me from Jake. I do my best to cast Jake an apologetic look, but Dad places a hand on my back and leads me away.

“Everything okay, Dad?”

He squirms, twisting his neck against the top button of the dress shirt I bought him for Father’s Day. He’s already shed the new tie. “Everything’s great, baby. I just wanted you to myself for a second. I’m so proud of you, little girl. You know that? Most people wouldn’t have been able to do what you did up there today. Not after . . .”

“Dad.”

“No, Elle. I’m serious. You were . . . heck, kid, you were . . .” His eyes glaze over. “You remind me so much of your mom.”

The thought makes my throat tight. He’s been talking about Mom a lot lately. A lot.

“I wish I remembered her.”

He sniffs. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The woman Dad steers me toward is dressed in a designer pencil skirt and a starched white blouse. A red belt cinches everything together over an impossibly small waist. She’s older than I am, by a decade probably, but she’s got that racially ambiguous beauty thing going for her, all olive skin and caramel eyes.

Standing here in our community center she looks far too . . . expensive. Her black heels alone retail for seven hundred and fifty dollars. I know that because my ankles were featured in the ad campaign for them last summer. They place her a good three inches taller than I am, which bothers me for some reason. The euphoric state I’ve been reveling in fades as we step closer. My toes squirm in my ballet slippers.

My repulsion surprises me.

Am I intimidated by her?

I don’t think so. I’ve done the model thing dozens of times, been surrounded by hundreds of gorgeous women. I know what intimidation is, and this feels different. Maybe it’s the haughty look on her face, or the way her eyes keep flitting to my father.

I scratch at my empty wrist, wishing with everything in me that I could see this woman with celestial eyes.

“Sorry, Keith. No beer,” she says, handing Dad a glass of punch.

“Of course there isn’t,” he says, yanking at his collar. The sloppy motion pulls my attention off the woman and back to Dad. I’m irritated that he wasn’t kinder to Jake, but I have to admit that he looks rather dashing in his suit—or would if he’d stop trying to crawl out of it. “Baby, this is Olivia Holt.”

Ah, Olivia. The Olivia.

“Liv is fine,” she says.

“I’m Brielle,” I say, extending my hand to the stranger. Her grip is cold, clammy. A startling contrast to the collected demeanor she exudes. “How did you two meet?”

“Just met her. Turns out Liv here is the one who saved the day. Swooped in at the witching hour.”

Somehow that’s not too hard to believe. I release her hand and resist the urge to wipe mine on my tights. “I’ve heard about you, of course. Kaylee’s convinced you hung the moon.”

“I’m impressed with your friend Kaylee,” Olivia says. “She’s done a noteworthy job here.”

Olivia Holt’s not wrong. With the Peace Corps taking forever to get back to Kaylee on her application, she decided she needed a project to take her mind off the wait. The Stratus Community Center was nothing but a rental hall before Kaylee petitioned the city council and gained permission to organize programs and seek out volunteers. And she did it all while juggling graduation and final exams and everything else that comes with the last semester of high school.

But there was little money, and the center was falling apart.

Enter Olivia Holt and the Ingenui Foundation.

“Kay’s awesome,” I say.

Olivia turns her attention back to Dad, closing me out of the circle. I bristle at the snub, but I’m more intrigued by the fact that Dad hardly notices. Olivia asks about his job and the state of the economy here in Stratus. He tells her things are rough, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit jacket. Classy.

“The foundation could lift some of the strain, Keith. We have resources,” she says, placing a freshly manicured hand on Dad’s bicep.

Is she flirting? With my dad?

My head spins at the thought, and I lose track of the conversation. Dad’s dated here and there, but always women I knew. Always women from town and never anything serious.

“Brielle’s getting ready to head off to college, right, baby? Dance scholarship.”

My stomach clenches. I avoid his gaze and smile as sweetly as I can at Olivia.

“Oh, congratulations. I do envy you.” Her eyes drift off. “College was one of the happier times in my life.”

There’s a break in the crowd, and I catch sight of Miss Macy. Talk about saving the day. She winks at me and tilts her chin toward the stage.

“Excuse me. I’ve got a little thing to do.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Olivia says, waving my dismissal. “Your dad and I can figure out how to pass the time. I’m sure of it.”

They laugh, Dad’s face turning fire-truck red. “Break a leg, baby.”

Anybody’s leg? The thought flies through my head unchecked. Dad’s voice carries across the gym floor as I make for the stage. He’s stammering a bit, bragging on me. To Olivia. He tells her about all the colleges I’ve been accepted to. About the dance scholarship from that “fancy school on the East Coast.”

He doesn’t tell her about my doubts. That the idea of leaving makes me ill. He doesn’t tell her, because he thinks it’s nothing but jitters. Cold feet. He thinks if he keeps talking about it, I’ll feel better about leaving Stratus for school.

To pursue dance. Again. ’Cause that turned out so great the first time.

Jake materializes out of the crowd and slides his hand into mine. “Where’d Jessica Rabbit come from?”

“That’s Olivia Holt,” I say.

“Kaylee’s favorite person in the world, Olivia Holt?”

“Yup.”

“I assumed she was just one big checkbook,” he says.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

“Everything okay with your dad?”

I blow a hair out of my face. “I guess. He keeps pushing college.”

We take a good seven steps before Jake says anything.

“It’s worth considering, Elle.”

Three more steps.

“I know.”

Jake stops and turns me toward him. “We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Good. ’Cause I have a surprise.”

My mind flies to the shiny black chest in Jake’s house. The one the Throne Room uses to communicate with Canaan. It’s cut from some sort of glorious-looking onyx and inside it sits a diamond engagement ring. My engagement ring.

I shake off the thought. It’s too soon. We’re too young.

And if Dad gets his way, I’m leaving town.

I start walking again, pulling Jake with me.

“Another surprise?” I ask, gesturing to the tutu he’s now holding. “What can compete with that?”

“Well, it can’t, right? I mean, this thing is orange. And sparkly.”

We’re at the stage now. Miss Macy is there, prodding a wayward fairy princess back up the stairs.

“Whenever you’re ready for that lesson,” I say, “you slide that tutu back on, okay?”

“Bu-arf,” Kaylee says, pushing past me and grabbing the waist of my skirt. “Stop being so dreamy, Jake Shield. Twinkle Toes has a show to do.”

“I’ll be here,” Jake says, “holding my tutu.”

“And my heart,” I tell him, as theatrically as I can muster.

“I really am going to vomit.” Kaylee shoves me, and I slide toward our little dancers, all fidgeting and waving at the crowd. I take my place at stage right. Miss Macy takes stage left. Feedback screams through the speakers as Kaylee turns on her microphone.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Again, I can’t thank you all enough for coming. So many of you helped get this place open again. You donated your time to teach workshops. You helped sandbag the place when the rains got to be too much. And then, when it looked like safety concerns were going to shut us down, Miss Holt stepped in and kept the dream alive.”

The room fills with applause. Olivia smiles and waves it off.

Is her arm looped through Dad’s?

“Seriously, Miss Holt, it’s been a ride and a half, but we couldn’t have done it without you, without the foundation. Please pass our thank-yous on to the board.” Kaylee takes a sip of water, spilling half of it down her shirtfront. “So, behind me, right? What’s all this dancing about? Well! Miss Macy’s Dance Studio has agreed to offer a few classes here at the center free of charge.” She pauses. “You should totally be clapping right now. Miss Macy’s is one of the premier”—air quotes around premier—“dance studios in Oregon. She suggested that an introductory class here at the center would allow more of our kids to participate in the arts. You’re clapping, right? Yes? Clapping?”

The crowd obeys, bursting into rambunctious applause yet again. I shake my head in amazement. Standing here on the stage, watching Kaylee in her element, I find Miss Holt is not the only one impressed by my friend. The girl may be clumsy, but she’s great at rallying people.

“Miss Macy has brought one of her classes here to show you what they can do. After the performance, please take a minute to visit the other art rooms to see all that your support has made possible. Thank you, thank you for coming.”

Feedback screeches through the speakers yet again before the microphone can be silenced. After an agonizingly long pause, the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” begins. The room fills with oohs and ahhs as our little ladies sashay right and left, adding a spin here and there as whim would have it. Miss Macy and I do our best to keep our dancers onstage—a task far more exhausting than my own performance earlier but equally as rewarding.

When at last the song is over and the parents collect their children, I grab my bag and slip into the restroom. I trade my leotard, tights, and skirt for jean shorts and a green flouncy top. Then I hop on the counter and pull my duffel bag onto my lap. I dig around until I find the halo. It’s near the bottom, tucked inside a legwarmer, warm and waiting.

I slip it onto my wrist and pull a light sweater over it. It’s warm out, and the halo’s sure to make me warmer, but Dad gives me grief every time he sees it.

“High school boys don’t give their girlfriends gold bracelets, Elle.”

“Sure they do.”

“Not bracelets like that, kiddo.”

I had no response to that.

My skin soaks up the halo’s presence, and I lean against the mirror. Today was a good day. A very good day.

So why do I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach?

Someone knocks on the door, and I jump.

“Coming. Sorry.” I slide off the counter and twist the doorknob. “Sorry, I was—” The door swings open, Olivia Holt on the other side. “I was changing.”

All at once, I know exactly why I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

“Not a problem,” she says. I step out of her way and into the hall. “A girl without a wardrobe change could never be the belle of the ball, right?”

She tilts her head at me, scrutinizing me from beneath those long—probably fake—lashes.

“Your dad, Keith . . .”

“I know my dad’s name.”

“Of course. He tells me you’re multitalented. Modeling, right? And some acting.”

I heft my bag higher on my shoulder. “Not so much anymore.”

She taps her teeth with a red fingernail. “Shame. The foundation’s looking to do some publicity in the near future. I wonder if I could convince you to help us out with some print work, maybe a commercial or two?”

She’s not the first one to ask. My agent’s called no less than a billion times over the past several months. I tell Olivia the same thing I tell Susie.

“I don’t think so. Dance is really my thing. I can get you the numbers of a few girls in Portland who might be interested, though.”

She shrugs off my offer. “Models in the city are easy enough to come by, but I’d like the opportunity to work with you.” She produces a business card. “Take it. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

I don’t want her business card. I don’t plan to change my mind. Still, politeness demands I take it. But the minute her fingers touch mine, I jerk away. The halo flames red-hot against my wrist—angry hot.

Her face pales and her caramel eyes narrow.

She felt it too. She balls her hand into a fist but leaves it hanging there, the business card wrinkled.

“Probably just static electricity,” she whispers. “This dry weather and all.” But her eyes are on my hand, and I have a sick feeling, like I’ve just given up a friend’s secret. I slide both arms behind my back and twine my fingers together.

“There,” she says, placing the card on the bathroom counter. “Don’t want another shock, do we?” And then she takes a step back and grabs the door. “I’d appreciate you taking the card, Brielle. Just in case.”

But I leave the card on the counter and walk away.

Because she’s right.

Another shock is the last thing we need.