Angel Dares (17 page)

‘You really do believe in fairy tales, don’t you?’ Kurt stood in the sunshine outside the bus, trying to regain his balance after we had just shoved him off centre with our little revelation.

‘Ask her later. You probably aren’t going to believe me even though I’ve shown you what I can do. I’m used to that.’ A thought struck me.
Hey, Kurt, are you a savant too?

What the hell are you doing in my head?

I grinned.
Just checking. Oh my gosh, you are! What’s your gift? Go on: you can tell me.

‘My gift is for kicking the ass of annoying telepathic chicks who turn my world into an episode of
Paranormal
.’

I hugged myself. ‘You do have a gift—you do, but you just don’t know that it makes you a savant. Why else is your band called what it is?’

‘Because we were big-headed and rather fancied ourselves as gifted musicians.’

Disappointing answer. ‘Then it’s fate—the name is perfect. What do you do, think about it, what’s your superpower?’

‘Geez, do you never give up?’

‘Is it embarrassing—like seeing people with their clothes off? Misty’s mum can do that. Or depressing? Uriel’s girl can tell you when you’re going to die—so not a nice thing to know about someone but she’s getting a handle on it.’ His expression darkened. ‘Oh God, I’m saying too much again, aren’t I? Sorry, sorry. I’ll shut up. I’ll let Victor and Uriel talk to you. They’ll help you through this so much better than me.’

‘Angel, do you want to play the violin part for me or not?’

‘Yes.’ I mimed zipping up my lips.

‘Right, forget all this mad stuff and go get your instrument. I’ll meet you at my Winnebago in half an hour.’

I unzipped my mouth. ‘Where’s that?’

‘Opposite Marcus’s. I think you remember where that is, don’t you?’ He swaggered away, needing the break from me to put his thoughts in order.

The instrument storeroom was rapidly becoming my thinking place. Shutting the door behind me, I drowned out the sounds of the festival rumbling away in the distance. Even in the sleepy mornings it wasn’t quiet—the hubbub of voices, strains of bands practising, piped music on some of the food stalls, the ever-present swish-hush of the sea calling to my gift. I sat down with my back to a box containing someone’s drum kit and rested my chin on my knees.

Too much was happening at once, even for me—and I’m the opposite of a person who seeks the quiet life. The discovery of a little knot of savants outside the usual network was a good result, and finding Margot was just wonderful. Even if I sicced Victor onto him, it was going to be tough teaching Kurt the need to keep his gift secret as he was already as much in the spotlight as anyone could be on the planet and I sensed he wouldn’t take advice easily. Far too used to calling the shots. But then, he had managed to keep his power hidden—or didn’t even realize he had one—so it couldn’t be that spectacular or someone would have noticed.

And there was Marcus. I cursed myself softly under my breath. I had blown what was potentially the most important encounter in my entire life and the repair job would not be an easy one—like piecing together an eggshell after someone had trodden on it.

I reviewed my behaviour of the last two days. I had been unbearably hyper even for me, a kid zipping around in circles with too many E-numbers in her bloodstream. Even if Marcus did answer me, did turn out to be my soulfinder, was he likely to be pleased by the news? I knew that boys thought of me as a fun girl to date, but for the long haul? No, I didn’t think I was anyone’s dream partner.

I was going to have to change. ‘Grow up a little,’ I whispered, testing the concept out on the darkness. Serious, calm, and professional. More like my parents. Geez Louise. I banged my forehead on my knees, screwing up my eyes. No, no, you can do it, Angel. You have depths; you just need to show that to your serious, poetically minded Marcus. He doesn’t appreciate lightweight so you can become the equivalent of super heavyweight boxer, knock him out with your newfound sophistication.

I practised a few lines.

Hi, Marcus. Oh, what’s that I’m reading? I’ve just been dipping into my collected works of James Joyce. Say, do you prefer
Ulysses
or
Finnegans Wake
?
I’d seen Summer studying both texts and had read a little over her shoulder so knew they would be dead impressive.

Maybe he was more an ideas guy?
You know, Marcus, I just love French philosophy. Isn’t Jacques Derrida’s theory of deconstruction so interesting?
Alex had tried to explain this to me at one point. I think I sort of got it.

No, ‘interesting’ was lame—Alex would never say that. I tried it again out loud.

‘Hey, Marcus, isn’t Derrida’s deconstructionism
so
challenging?’

‘Excuse me: did you say something?’

I opened my eyes to find a woman crowned with a coronet of silk flowers staring down at me. She must have slipped into the storeroom while I had my eyes closed.

‘Oh, I was just practising … my songs.’

She picked up a guitar case. ‘You sing about Derrida? That’s cool.’ With a flick of her long Indian cotton skirt decorated with sequins, she left me alone again. I breathed a sigh of relief. Just as well any kind of eccentric behaviour was OK at a festival. What exactly could one sing about French philosophers?
Der-ri-da, you make me go far, to get the gold star, with my soul-find-dah.
I giggled at the silly lyric. No, don’t laugh. Be serious. Philosophy is no joke.

Oh Lord. My thirty minutes were almost up. When I walked out of the storeroom I was going to be a different girl, the sort that top bands like Gifted might ask to play for them and Marcus would not dismiss. Operation Angel Makeover was a go.

I grabbed Freddie—no, strike that: I grabbed my
folk violin
. New Angel would not have childish names for the tools of her craft. I left my hideout, determined to make this work.

‘Come!’ Kurt’s abrupt answer was in response to my gentle tap. Normally I would beat out a little syncopated number but I was channelling my inner Summer, trying to act like she would. Poised. Not too exuberant. Charming.

‘I’m back. Oh hi, Marcus.’ I should have anticipated seeing him here; Kurt had mentioned they’d worked on the song together. ‘How are you this morning? Lovely weather we’re having.’ I didn’t wait for an answer, determined to plough on with my sophisticated behaviour. I feared if I stopped it would be like looking down in the middle of a high-wire act. ‘I brought Fred … my fiddle. So, are you going to show me the music?’ I held Freddie loosely by the neck and looked around for the sheets. ‘It would be good to crack on with this as I’m sure you’re very busy. Places to go, people to see. I don’t want to get in your way.’

I finally met Kurt’s eyes. I wasn’t going anywhere near Marcus’s gaze, that was for sure.

‘Are you OK, darlin’?’ asked Kurt. He ran his fingers through his mane of black hair, earring glinting piratically in his lobe. ‘You’re acting kinda weird.’

‘Of course. I’m here, on time, with my violin, just like you asked. Why shouldn’t I be all right?’ I got out the rosin to smooth my bow, giving me another displacement activity. I thought I was doing pretty well on the professional demeanour front. ‘Time’s money and all that.’

Marcus cleared his throat. Some kind of unspoken conversation was going on between him and Kurt—not telepathy but the normal sort of meaningful glances between two people who know each other very well.

Kurt took Freddie from my fingers and put him back in his case.

Oh, rat warts. ‘You’ve … you’ve changed your mind about me playing?’

‘No, darlin’, it’s just that we weren’t expecting you to dive straight in like that. We wanted to play you the piece, get your ideas.’

‘Oh, OK.’ I was getting the task wrong: they weren’t wanting me just to pitch up and play like a session musician; they wanted me to collaborate. Music-loving Angel did a little whoop of joy and hip wiggle but was quickly stuffed in my inner teapot by Miss Getting-this-right. ‘Yes, of course. Happy to do what’s most useful. Let’s see what you’ve got to show me.’

Marcus placed a sheaf of pages on my lap. I knew it was him from the hands. I still wasn’t looking at him.

Kurt took down one of his guitars, an old battered one that had fading stickers over the soundboard. ‘Marcus, why don’t you sing the song to her? I’ll do the harmony.’

‘It’s called “Stay Away, Come Closer”.’ Marcus picked up his acoustic guitar and began plucking the melody. Oh blast, it was happening again: as soon as he got anywhere near music, all the lights on my dashboard lit up. I found it hellishly difficult not to relapse into my usual gush of enthusiasm. Hands gripping my knees, I clenched my teeth to stop myself saying anything.

Kurt joined in with the harmony, adding a fine low tenor to Marcus’s lighter voice. Part of my brain registered I was living out a private dream. What girl on this planet hadn’t imagined being serenaded by two such super-hot rock stars? It was hard not to think of the words as being directed especially to me—
stay away, I want you closer
—the guy in the song was conflicted about the girl he loved, sending out mixed messages. Kinda fitting, wasn’t it? At least this time the lyrics had been written long before I came on the scene so I couldn’t take it personally.

They finished and I was speechless, still absorbing the shockwaves of Marcus’s gift as it zinged through me, like a ball rattling through a pinball machine, hitting bells and lights in its passage before setting off the jackpot siren. I set my face against the soppy grin that my lips wanted to curve into.

Marcus groaned. ‘She hates it. Maybe we should think again, Kurt? I thought we were on to a winner but look at her.’

‘The guys like it; Margot rates it.’ Kurt put his guitar back on its stand.

‘But Angel’s completely unmoved. If she liked it she’d at least be tapping her foot or something. What’ve we got wrong, Angel?’

Calm. Professional. Ignore the fact that your heart is racing like you’ve just come off a roller coaster. ‘No, Marcus, it’s good. Excellent. Nothing wrong with it. You’re right: it’s a great track.’ I searched for a sensible question. ‘Is it going to lead the album?’

Kurt rubbed the back of his neck. ‘We had thought about making it the album title—you know, like in two levels: up top “stay away”, down the bottom of the sleeve “come closer”.’ He turned back to Marcus. ‘Hell, I thought it was a good concept but you’re right, she hates it. Where have we gone off track with it?’

I felt a little hysterical. They were seriously thinking of junking an excellent song just because I didn’t tap my foot? ‘It’s great—really. Brilliant.’

‘Then why don’t you like it?’ asked Marcus, a little angry and a lot offended.

‘I do like it—I love it.’

‘No, you don’t. The Angel we know does not sit like she’s at a funeral when she hears music she loves! Why are you acting this way if you don’t hate it?’

‘Because I’m trying to behave myself!’ I clamped a hand over my mouth. They were staring at me in amazement.

‘Behave yourself?’ muttered Marcus. ‘That’s a lost cause if ever I heard one.’

Kurt gestured him to shut up. ‘Darlin’, you don’t need to be anyone but yourself with us.’

Frustrated tears were blurring my sight. ‘Yes, I do. I’m annoying and impulsive. I jump in with two feet when I really should look first. Well, that all changes now—today.’ I thumped my knees. ‘I’m going to be calm and professional.’ My attempt was ruined by the fact that I had tears running down my cheek. I swiped at them. ‘Maybe not so calm, but I’m gonna make professional if it kills me. That’s a great song. Don’t change it. And I have some ideas for a violin part if you want to hear them.’

‘That’s why you’re here.’ Kurt gave Marcus a nod, conveying some message I didn’t quite get. Marcus put his guitar down and sat next to me. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, he mirrored my position. Kurt moved away to give us some privacy.

Marcus nudged me. ‘Angel, you don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not. I don’t think we could cope with you being all buttoned up. You’re our go-to happy girl, aren’t you?’

‘I’m more than just a happy girl,’ I sniffed. ‘I read James Joyce—bits anyway—and know about Derrida … and stuff.’ I blew my nose on a tissue he plucked from a box under the coffee table. ‘I’ve got depths.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His voice sounded as if he were laughing at me. ‘Kurt says I owe you an apology—that he’s seen proof you’re not crazy, and that your gift for doing that freaky water thing is real, or the best illusion he’s ever witnessed.’

I took another tissue. ‘It’s real.’

‘Well then, now we know you’re not about to be carted off by men in white coats, why don’t you relax and enjoy this chance to play with us?’

Because I wanted so much more. ‘But you hate me like I am normally.’

He bumped my shoulder. ‘No I don’t. It’s like the song says: it’s a case of stay away, come closer. You confuse me.’

‘You confuse me too.’

He put his hand on my cheek and turned my head so I had to meet his blue eyes. The expression in them rang through me, waking every cell to full bursting life, like the reveille bugle call in my inner army camp. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I said some things I shouldn’t have.’