April rolls around and now that it’s short-sleeve weather, it’s proving quite the struggle to hide my wings/ I’ve noticed, and I’m sure Bailee and Ciara have as well, that the stubs have hardly grown. And we all know why. It’s because I haven’t been being a Guardian Angel. I’ve been playing the part of the boyfriend. And every time I see the stubs I’m reminded of what I am and what I’m doing and how eventually the whole thing will come and bite me in the butt. Lies are the foundation of all my relationships here—especially the one between Autumn and me. I do what I can to put that out of my mind and focus on the normal life I’m trying to live. But Bailee won’t let me/ Today, she corners me in the kitchen while I hum and make myself a plate of mac and cheese.
“I’ve let this go on far too long,” she says, planting her hands firmly on her hips. Ciara glances up from her magazine, sensing a showdown.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my mouth full of gooey noodles and sharp cheddar.
“You’re not helping her at all, Adam. You’re being selfish.”
”How?”
"I know you still like her," Bailee accuses. "And I've tried to leave it alone because you both seem so genuinely happy, but you're not here to make her happy. You're here to help her get over her troubles and earn your wings."
I scowl. "Everything is about the wings with you. Why can't you let me handle this?"
"Yeah, because you're doing a great job of that."
I slam down my spoon. "You know what? I'm letting you stay here. I can ask you to leave."
"That doesn't mean we have to go."
Ciara nods in agreement and I shoot her my laser glare. I wish I was intimidating enough to make her shrink back into her chair, but she holds my gaze with the same amount of fierceness until I'm the one who looks away. My status of young, wingless Guardian Angel-in-training is brought back to my attention and my face flushes.
"You're still just a kid, Adam," Bailee says, her voice gentler.
I feel furious. When I get mad, I get irrational. So I blame my lack of self control when I hurl my plate of Mac and cheese at my sister. The macaroni splatters all over her gray shirt. Some even lands in clusters in her curls. I expect her to retaliate. I almost want her to. To throw something back. But she calmly blinks, suppressing her anger. Ciara swivels her head back and forth, like she's watching a tennis match.
"I'm not a kid!" I snap.
"You are. You're fifteen and in high school. That's a kid."
"If I was really a kid, then I would be normal and not have these stupid tasks to fulfill! I wouldn't be cursed with this stupid life!"
Ciara looks impressed. Bailee gasps. "Being a Guardian Angel is NOT a curse! It's a huge honor and so is being given this task. This is a chance to earn your wings. Does that mean nothing to you? You're more ungrateful than I thought."
"I don't even want wings!" I yell. "I wish I'd never get them!"
The color drains from Bailee's face. She glances in horror at Ciara, who stands up, keeping her eyes on me. Like she's harboring a secret. Like there's something she wants to say, but isn't going to say it. Bailee, on the other hand, looks scared of me. It takes me aback and briefly I wonder what it is that I did so wrong.
"Adam Castle Malach," Bailee says, her voice trembling, "what are you saying?"
They both stare, waiting for me to answer.
I swallow the growing lump in my throat. "I think you're smart enough to figure it out."
Bailee suddenly flies at me and grabs ahold of my shoulders, her fingers like clawing digging into my skin painfully. She shakes me so hard that my teeth clack together.
"Adam! Tell me what you're saying!"
I shove her away, feeling no guilt when she falls to the floor. I see tears in her eyes. Ciara kneels beside her.
"I, " I seethe, "don't want to be a Guardian Angel."
"Go," Bailee snaps. "Get out!" her voice rises to a scream.
"It's my house!" I roar, but I grab my phone and sprint out the door. It slams behind me and rattles the whole house. I turn to glance back and see Bailee watching me from the front window. She looks like a ghost, haunting my house. Haunting my life. Sadly, she shakes her head and lets the curtain fall, obscuring her from my view. I yank my bike off the front porch and pedal away.
In my entire life I've never disliked someone as much as I dislike my sister. How dare she invade upon my new life and tell me how to run it? Try and take it away from me? Am I not perfectly capable of being in charge of what I choose to do? I halt my bike and pull out my phone. Thankfully my earbuds were plugged into my phone when I grabbed it. I pop them both in and press the home button on my phone. My screensaver blinks into view and I smile sadly. It's one of the many photos Autumn and I have taken over our last four months together. It's of us on Christmas. We'd met up in the park to swap presents. The one she gave me turned out to be Reginald the beta fish. The present I'd given her was far more squirmy and earned a, "FLURRY!" when she first saw it. Who knew ferrets were so expensive?
After that, we roamed around the park, thankful to have been blessed by the first Texas white Christmas in twelve years. It being Texas, it was more of an icefall than a snowfall, but the two of us dropped to the ground, laughing. Bits of snow and ice clung to Autumn's hair and eyelashes and we snapped the photo.
On anther day, I got her to play her guitar as we both sang. I recorded us singing a few different songs, although more than once, I'd drop out singing and let her continue. She'd get so lost in the music that she never noticed I'd stopped. Or if she did, she never said. The song currently playing through my earbuds is Iron Man. Autumn's guitar skills are honestly very impressive. My singing is...unique. But I love hearing her voice.
These are the parts of our relationship that—despite my lies—seem genuine.
I pedal to Wildflower Park and when the tops of the tress come into view, I smile. My pike is parked against a stump surrounded by shoots of green grass. Small purple flowers sprout up around me, reaching for the sunlight. Dew glitters on each individual petal. Everything looks so alive and beautiful, and it's hard to look at it all. I chide myself for not stopping to appreciate nature more often.
I pass by benches and picnic tables and a walking trail. An old set of swings creak nearby. The park is abandoned except for me. I ditch the sweatshirt I dined as I was leaving, taking a moment to soak in the spring air. To feel it through my t-shirt. I keep walking until I get to my desired destination.
Our Tree.
There it stands, tall and sturdy. I see our names carved in it three times. Once for Thanksgiving Break, one for Christmas, and one for Spring Break. We came here at the end of each one. I sit down on the grass and stare up at it.
Something black among the green catches my eye.
It's a leaf, looking charred and so unlike the others that I am confused at first. But then a second black leaf flutters into my peripheral. One catches the wind and slowly falls to the ground. I catch it and fold my hand over it's rough surface. When I peel my fingers back, all that's left in my palm is a pile of smoking ash.
The smoke curls up into the air. When it rises to the height of the tree, the gray substance zig-zags drastically toward the bundles of green foliage. Our Tree seems to gasp and the smoke coils around it, circling from the roots to the tip of the topmost leaf. Life slowly seems to leech from Our Tree, the color draining from the deep cocoa bark to the emerald leaves. They fade into a gray and slowly darken into black, dead things. Pieces of bark fall away from the trunk. They writhe like agonized snakes as they touch the ground. I jump back, watching with wide eyes.
Soon, all the bark is gone and Our Tree stands naked. Somehow, Autumn's names and my own have been carved so deeply into the wood, that they are etched still into the heart of Our Tree, even though the outer covering of bark is gone. The letters blaze across my vision. Cautiously, I take a step towards Our Tree. My fingers hover over our names, then—gently—they graze the carvings. The moment they do, the letters swim with red. Something similar to blood. The words change. instead of saying ACM+AEH in some variation three times, they form the words: YOUR FINAL WARNING.
I gasp and reach for my phone. My fingers shake as I swipe left and the screen switches to my camera. I press the white button, and when it flashes, this horrible grinding and screeching sound pours from the phone speaker. Groaning, the phone slides from my fingertips. Everything startles me, from the smallest twig snap and rustle of leaves. The panic rises inside of me and crashes down like a violent wave over a shore. I search with a cloudy vision to find my phone in the grass and when my hand closes over it, I hear his voice.
They found you.
"Where are you?" I shout, and the sound echoes. "Help me find you!"
You will become like me.
"Please!"
Lost.
"Help!" I get to my feet.
Broken.
Forgotten.
I break into a run, one thought riveted in my mind.
I shouldn't've come. I shouldn't've come. I shouldn't've come.
I'm so shaken. I need a calm in my storm.
I do exactly what his voice implied that I shouldn't.
I call Autumn.
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