A Gift of Wings (12 page)

Lucky started to protest, but she was silenced by the sincerity in Mo’s voice when she added, “And I really want you to come. Please. I need you there, for moral support.”

“What about Eric?” Lucky asked. “Won’t he provide moral support?”

Mo shrugged. “Sure, some maybe. But he’s not you. You’ve been there for me through every really difficult thing I’ve had to survive since first grade. And I want you there for this one.”

Lucky laughed. “A country club dance is a ‘really difficult thing’? Oh, come on, Mo, it can’t be that bad.”

Mo looked down at the table in silence for a minute or two. When she looked back up, her face was serious. “Lucky, please? This is really hard for me. I feel like I’m going to be walking out in front of a firing squad. Please say you’ll come.”

Seeing the nervousness in her friend’s hazel eyes, Lucky couldn’t refuse. “Okay,” she sighed. “When is it anyway?”

Mo’s expression lightened immediately. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she gushed. “It’s Friday night. I think the dance starts at 7:00.”

“Friday!” Lucky exclaimed. “Mo! How am I supposed to find a suitable dress by Friday?”

“What? It’s not like you have a job yet. You have four days to shop.”

“Yeah, but since I don’t have a job, I also don’t have a lot of spare money to be spending on fancy dresses I’ll never wear again.”

“We can go vintaging.” Mo’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “It’ll be so much fun! We’ll find you something really cool and retro chic.”

“And cheap,” Lucky added.

“You mean ‘inexpensive,’ dear,” Mo said in a snooty drawl. “A girl never wants to look cheap.”

“Whatever,” Lucky laughed. “As long as it’s cool, retro, and affordable.”

Mo reached across the table to squeeze her friend’s hand. “I’m so glad you said yes. You can bring someone too if you want.” Her eyes took on a speculative gleam. “Maybe Aidan would be willing to go with you? Wouldn’t that be a coup? The lead singer and the drummer from Icarus at my mother’s country club dance.”

Lucky was horrified. “Oh, Mo, please don’t start plotting anything that involves Aidan.”

The other girl continued as if Lucky hadn’t spoken. “You wouldn’t even have to ask him yourself. I could ask Eric to ask him, as a favor to me.”

“Mo,” Lucky said loudly, making sure she had her friend’s attention. “No. I mean it. I won’t go.”

“Alright, alright,” Mo said, with a frown. “I won’t say anything. I just thought it might be fun.”

“Mo.” Lucky’s tone brooked no opposition.

With her thumb and index finger, Mo mimed a zipping motion across her lips.

“Okay, then.” Seeing that the waiter had left their bill without their even noticing, the girls dropped their payment on the table and rose to go. Feeling somewhat embarrassed by her odd behavior, Lucky left a generous tip.

“Okay, spill,” Mo ordered, after they had walked about half a block in silence.

“I don’t know where to start,” Lucky muttered.

“How about with the black-coated man whose very presence made you scream in agony?” Mo asked, as if she were stating the obvious.

Lucky shrugged. That was probably as good a place as any. “I don’t know what it was about him. He just gave me the creeps. I felt like every nerve was on alert, like I was waiting for him to leap to his feet and try to kill us all or something. And when I looked at him, my head started to hurt.”

“And when he left? What happened then?”

“I don’t know. He looked at me for a second or two, and I saw his eyes. They were this weird, creepy yellow, and they kind of glowed. And then my head hurt so much I couldn’t see anything.”

Mo frowned. “His eyes weren’t yellow and glowing. I mean, I didn’t get a good enough look to see exactly what color they were, but I’d say brown or gray or something. They were just ordinary eyes.”

“Oh,” Lucky said in a small voice.

“Not that I don’t believe you,” her friend reassured her. “I just think you were in so much pain you didn’t know what you saw.”

“You mean, I imagined it or hallucinated or something.”

When Mo didn’t respond, Lucky continued with a sigh, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

She told Mo about the strange experiences she had had over the last few days, leaving out only the ones that involved Aidan. She loved Mo dearly, but she didn’t want to risk the possibility of her sharing it with Eric. It wasn’t like it really mattered if he passed it on to Aidan—Aidan was already well aware that something out of the ordinary had happened between them. It was just that the experience felt too intimate, too raw, to share with anyone. It had been both terrifying and exhilaratingly freeing.

By the time Lucky finished recounting her tale, the girls had reached Mo’s building. They paused outside, leaning against the brick half-walls on either side of the steps. Mo didn’t say anything for a while. Lucky had rarely seen her friend speechless, but she supposed if anything merited such a reaction, this did.

“Well,” Mo finally said, “I can understand why you didn’t want to talk about it. It’s all really freaky.”

“I’m afraid of losing my mind, Mo,” Lucky said. “There’s G-Ma and…. I know I’m not old enough to get dementia or Alzheimer’s, but she wasn’t old enough either. What if ‘crazy’ just runs in the family?”

Mo stepped close to Lucky. “You are not crazy,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know you, and you are one of the sanest people I know. And ‘crazy’ doesn’t run in your family. Look at Josh and his parents. They’re all, like, supernaturally normal.”

“Good point.” Lucky’s smile was half-hearted.

“Besides,” Mo continued, “do you really feel crazy?”

Lucky looked at her friend as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head, which she supposed, given the things she had been seeing lately, wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. “What kind of question is that? How many crazy people actually feel like they’re crazy? If you’re crazy, doesn’t crazy seem normal to you? And, come to that, how many normal people are really normal? I mean, none of us can really know how anybody else perceives the world, can we? What I experience as the color blue, you might experience as what I think of as green or purple, right? No, I don’t feel crazy, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not, does it?”

Mo started laughing before Lucky finished speaking. After she caught her breath, she responded, “I don’t know whether to tell you you’re talking like a crazy person or to reassure you that no one who’s really crazy would ever use such a philosophical argument.”

Then, sobering, she repeated, “You are not crazy. You’re just stressed. You’ve had a lot of major things happen to you lately, and they’re bound to take a toll. You just need to get some sleep.” She grinned as she continued, “And spend more time playing with me. Let’s take the next few days to hang out and shop for your dress. I know you have to find a job, but no one’s going to hire you before your birthday anyway. Come on, what do you say?”

“Alright,” Lucky agreed with a smile. “Why not?”

What could it hurt to take a few days and just be a girl with no worries?

“Excellent.” Mo gave her a hug and started up the stairs. “I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can decide on a game plan.”

“Sounds good.” Lucky called over her shoulder as she started down the block. She had to admit she was looking forward to a few days of playing. She steadfastly refused to listen to the little voice that kept insisting that her carefree days were numbered.

CHAPTER 9

Lucky was still in bed when her phone rang the next morning. Although she grumbled at Mo for waking her up, she readily agreed to her friend’s suggestion to start the day with “French Toast à la Mo” at her place. Lucky showered and dressed quickly and then raced out the door. She had no cares in the world, her thoughts focused on French toast as she walked the few blocks to Mo’s apartment building. Mouth-watering smells were already wafting from the kitchen when Mo let her into the apartment.

Tossing her jacket on the arm of the sofa, Lucky made herself at home in the kitchen, helping Mo put the finishing touches on breakfast. She was almost as comfortable at Mo’s place as she was at her own. The two girls had been best friends since first grade and had been in and out of each other’s homes ever since.

The French Toast à la Mo was as good as Lucky remembered. Made of thick slices of ciabatta bread dipped in egg batter, fried in ghee, and finished with a liberal sprinkling of powdered sugar and generous drizzles of maple syrup, it was delectable, and she never refused it when it was offered. Mo’s repertoire of recipes was not extensive, but the few dishes it included were delicious.

While they ate breakfast, the girls sketched out their plan for the day, deciding to hit the vintage and resale shops along North Halsted in Boys Town, where they had both previously had good luck finding things. Meal over, cleanup was a matter of minutes. Then they were out the door and headed to the bus stop. A short ride on the #6, and they were downtown, where they transferred to the red line which would take them north to Belmont, shopping, and—Lucky hoped—the perfect dress.

The trip was largely uneventful. Lucky was disconcerted to find that she did catch occasional glimpses of wings where they didn’t belong—like growing out of people’s backs—but she was relieved that there were no more encounters like yesterday’s. No one she saw gave her the heebie-jeebies or caused her skull to feel like it was going to implode. She didn’t mention the wings to Mo. She didn’t want to freak her out any further. Besides, today was about fun. If she caught the occasional glimpse of a pair of wings, well, it was starting to feel almost like a normal part of the way she saw the world. She wasn’t going to let it bother her. Not today.

They spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon drifting through resale and vintage shops. They were unsuccessful in their attempt to find a dress for Lucky, but they did find lots of other things to try on. Mo ended up buying a man’s tuxedo jacket, which must have been made for a fairly small man, since it was just fashionably baggy on her, and a dark gray felt fedora.

“I’ve always wanted one of these,” she said, popping the hat on her head at a rakish angle.

Lucky didn’t find anything she needed to own; she was saving her money for the as-yet-undiscovered dress. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she would recognize it when she found it.

Around mid-afternoon, they took a break to grab a sandwich and soda at a neighborhood deli. As they made their way from the deli toward the next shop on their list, they passed a small antique store, its windows crowded with an odd assortment of expensive-looking antiques and kitschy novelty items. After casting a disinterested glance at the windows, Mo started to pass the store by, but Lucky caught her arm.

“This place looks fun,” she said. “Let’s go in.”

Although Mo protested that they would find no dresses in the dusty little shop, Lucky insisted on going inside. Something about the window displays whetted her curiosity. Inside, the shop was stuffed with shelves and tables. Items seemed to be arranged at random. A set of leather-bound volumes was neatly stacked next to a somewhat haphazard display of Pez dispensers, and a lovely Tiffany lamp shared a small table top with a garishly painted bust of Elvis. For some reason, Lucky found the crowdedness and lack of order enchanting. She felt as if she could happily spend the rest of the day exploring the little store’s contents.

She had made it about a quarter of the way through the shop, when she saw the sculpture. As soon as she laid eyes on it, she knew it was why she had been drawn to the shop. After carefully winding between the tables and shelves that stood between her and the item that drew her like a beacon, Lucky reached out her hand to pick up the statuette. Roughly a foot in height, it depicted a beautiful warrior angel in gilded armor, his sword raised in triumph and one foot planted on the body of the dragon he had defeated. The piece had been lovingly crafted: each feather on the conquering angel’s great wings and each scale on the conquered dragon’s hide had been painstakingly carved and then painted. Some of the paint had worn away over the years, but the touch of wear only increased the statue’s appeal.

“That’s a very lovely piece, isn’t it?” said a scratchy voice to Lucky’s right.

She turned toward the sound in surprise. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching.

The speaker was a small, elderly woman, with masses of white hair pinned up on her head. She was wearing a vintage black dress, and a large jeweled spider was pinned to one shoulder. Seeing Lucky’s startled glance at the brooch, she chuckled hoarsely. “She may look alarming, my dear, but I assure you she’s completely harmless.”

She lifted the black cane in her right hand and pointed toward the statue Lucky was holding. “He has a beautiful face, doesn’t he?”

When Lucky nodded, she added, “That’s the Archangel Michael, the Dragonslayer, the Prince of Light. Do you need a protector, dear?”

Lucky still didn’t say anything, but she looked a question at the old woman, to which she responded in a voice like the scratching of a fountain pen on paper. “I’ve been watching you since you came in. As soon as you saw him, you were drawn like a moth to candlelight.”