Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (2 page)

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.