Milayna Read online

  He stared at me with a stupid expression before turning and slowly walking to his car.

  Once he was gone, I drove to the bakery where I worked part time. I had a closing shift that night, so I didn’t get home until after eight. I grabbed a frozen dinner and threw it in the microwave.

  “Milayna?” my mom called.

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t want to talk, but I knew she’d expect an answer. “Yeah.”

  She walked around the corner into the kitchen and leaned her hip against the counter. “How are you doing?”

  The microwave beeped. “Fine. I’m just really hungry, and I have a ton of homework. I’m going to take this to my room.” I grabbed my dinner from the microwave and threw it on a plate. She stood silent and watched me. “See you later.” I carried my things to my room and locked myself inside. Maybe if I locked myself in, everything would go away.

  ***

  Seven weeks until my birthday.

  Tuesday, I skipped school and went to my grandmother’s. I needed to talk to her. I needed to stretch out on her purple couch and let my problems and worries float away. My grams and I had a lot of talks on the purple couch. Maybe that was why I always felt pulled to it when life turned upside down.

  “Hi, Milayna,” one of my grandmother’s friends called when I walked through the foyer and into the great room. She was short and plump, with her hair dyed jet-black, which she insisted was her natural color. She smiled wide and waved. Her teeth were stained with bright red lipstick.

  “Hi, Mrs. Richardson.” I waved back.

  Telling everyone hi as I passed, I made my way to Grams’ apartment. She opened the door before I could knock.

  “Come in, child.” She motioned me inside and rolled her chair into the living room. The overhead lights gleamed down on the white hair that curled against her round face.

  “Hi.” I bent down and kissed her on the check. The familiar scent of her perfume tickled my nose, and I forgot I was mad. She was just my funny, old grandmother again. Not a freakin’ angel.

  “No school today?”

  “Not for me.” I shrugged a shoulder and plopped down on the couch.

  “Ah. Well, I knew you’d be back sooner or later.” She fiddled with the knitting she had on her lap. “A scarf.” She held it up. “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty, Grams. Everything you knit is pretty. I like the pink and black.”

  “Well, that’s good. It’s for you,” she said with a laugh. “So, I guess you’re not here to talk about my knitting.”

  “No.” I picked at the hem of my shirt.

  “Well, get on with it then.” She tossed the yarn in a basket next to the sofa where I sat. I loved that my grandma was a fun, eccentric person—the kind that would have a purple sofa in a bright yellow room.

  I frowned. “I don’t want it.”

  “Well, dearie, there’s nothing you can do about that.”

  “I didn’t ask to be born this way.” My voice grew louder. “I want to give it away.”

  Grams shook her head while I was talking. When I finished, she shrugged and said, “You can’t just give it away, Milayna.”

  “Why not? I don’t want it.”

  “It’d be like someone trying to give away their brain.” She tapped her forehead with her fingers. “It just can’t be done. This is a part of you. You can’t separate yourself from it.” Her hand dropped to her lap.

  “Grams, I just want my regular life back.”

  “You still have your regular life. You’re just learning more about yourself. Everyone has growing pains. Consider this one of yours.”

  “Not everyone finds out their father is a flippin’ angel. I think that’s one helluva growing pain.” I stood and walked to the window. It had started to rain, and the drops covered the glass blurring everything outside.

  “True.”

  “There’s gotta be a way for me to get rid of this. Help me find it, Grams, please?” I turned from the window and knelt in front of her wheelchair. “Grams, how do people like Muriel and I have normal lives? Will we be able to go to college, have the job we want, or go on school functions with our kids?” I laughed, but it was a short, bitter sound. “Or even have kids? Can you imagine having a vision in the middle of labor?”

  Grams chuckled. “A woman in labor hunting down a demon? Yes, that’d be quite a sight.” She smiled and patted my cheek. “The way I see it, you have two choices. You can sit around your whole life and pout like a spoiled brat because things aren’t going the way you think they should.” She ran her hand over my hair. “Or you can get on with life and find a way to be happy. It’s your choice, but I know which one I’d make if I were you.”

  “I don’t want it, Grams. I’m gonna find a way to get rid of it.” I ground my teeth together and clenched my fists.

  “Well, good luck with that. What I’m hearing is a bunch of ‘I, I, I, I.’ When you can talk without your thoughts centering only around yourself and what you want, then we can have a real discussion about what this demi-angel thing really means and what it can do—if you let it.”

  I looked at my lap and twisted my fingers together.

  I have made it all about me.

  “Now,” Grams said, clapping her hands together, “let’s make some brownies. I’ll show you my secret recipe, but if you tell anyone, I’ll have to hunt you down and run over your toes with my wheelchair.” She tapped her finger against my nose and winked.

  I grinned. “Okay. I swear I won’t tell anyone.” Standing, I went into the kitchen. I grabbed the measuring cups and a bowl, waiting for instructions from Grams.

  “All righty. Grab the boxed brownie mix out of the cupboard—”

  “Wait! You said your brownies were homemade.”

  Grams cackled and turned her wheelchair, rolling into the kitchen. “They are homemade, child. I make them at home. I never said they were made from scratch.”

  “Sneaky old angel, aren’t you?” I said with a laugh and opened the cupboard to get the brownie mix.

  ***

  That night, I had the nightmare again. Demons chased me through nothingness—just a black void that seemed to go on forever. It was hard to move, as if the dark was closing in on me, swallowing me.

  Their leader stood watching, waiting. “Milayna,” he called. “Stop running and listen to the truth.”

  Stopping, I turned to him. I could see him clearly, but blackness framed him. His eyes were soulless and cold. Terror ran up my spine, digging into my skin and leaving a warm, sticky trail in its wake.

  “They lied to you.” He brushed an invisible piece of lint off his shoulder. “You can rid yourself of your awful visions.” Pausing, he rocked on his heels. “I can help you.”

  “How?” I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

  “Give them to me. It’s simple.” He spread his hands wide at his sides. “I take them, and you go back to your pathetic little life.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you.” He held his hand out to me, a smirk on his face.

  I backed away. Evil surrounded him, and I knew I wasn’t meant to go with him. “No,” I said, my voice firm.

  A demon grabbed me. Heat radiated from his body, and he smelled of sulfur and burnt flesh. I struggled against his grip, crying and screaming, as he dragged me by the hair to his leader.

  “Help me!” But no one came. The blackness surrounding us lifted, and I saw my family and friends watching as other demons grabbed me and pulled me into a glowing, yellow hole.

  “You shouldn’t have fought your destiny, Milayna,” someone said as the demon jerked me down, down, down—

  I woke up screaming and sat up in bed. My body trembled, and sweat dripped from my hair. Barely breathing, I tried to force myself to hold still and listen. My eyes darted around the room, looking for shadows that were out of place or movement that signaled I needed to get my skinny ass out of there.

  On
ce I was reasonably sure the monsters didn’t follow me out of my dream, I slid out of bed, went into my bathroom, and splashed water on my face. A soft knock sounded on my bedroom door, followed by the handle rattling.

  “Milayna? Are you okay?” my mom called.

  I shook my head and leaned forward, bracing myself against the sink. “Just a dream.”

  ***

  It’d been days since my last vision. I thought maybe by saying I wasn’t going to accept being a demi-angel, I’d somehow cured myself. With spirits lifted, I practically skipped out of school. The visions were gone, the sun was shining, and I didn’t have homework. I even had the day off work. Things were looking up.

  Humming, I unlocked the door of my truck when a sharp, burning sensation sizzled through my stomach, like someone had impaled me on a white-hot poker. I doubled over. It radiated upward until it swelled and lodged itself in my throat. Gritting my teeth, I leaned against my truck for support as my vision started fading in and out.

  A girl. The parking lot.

  I shook my head. The vision cleared for a few beats before crashing into me stronger than before.

  She drops something. She bends over. A car.

  “No!” I said through clenched teeth, earning strange looks from the people around me.

  I’m not getting involved. I refuse to get sucked into these demi-angel visions. I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want it. They aren’t going to control my life.

  But the vision didn’t go away.

  A car, driving through the parking lot. A girl.

  I could hear the sounds and see what was going to happen. If someone didn’t step in, the car was going to plow right into the girl. She’d bend over to pick up what she’d dropped, the driver wouldn’t see her, and—nope, I wasn’t getting sucked into it. It. Wasn’t. My. Problem.

  A teacher driving. My history teacher.

  I figured I had three choices. Try to ignore the vision and hope everything worked out on its own, go to my history teacher and stall him the few seconds it would take to change the vision, or talk to the girl to keep her from walking out in the middle of the parking lot.

  I decided on the first one—ignore the vision and hope everything worked out okay on its own. After all, if I weren’t a demi-angel, I wouldn’t have known about it anyway.

  As it turned out, I had fewer choices than I thought. My feet took on a life of their own, and I started running toward my history teacher.

  Ambulance. A girl lying on the pavement. Blood seeping around her.

  I couldn’t do it. The vision was too strong, and my own sense of what was right propelled me forward. Dropping my books and purse next to the open door of my truck, I ran. I ran as fast as I could and then even faster. The vision flipped picture after picture in front of my eyes: The girl bending down, the car hitting her, Mr. Rodriguez with tears in his eyes, and blood. So much blood. I pushed myself to run faster, dodging cars and pushing by other people. Another picture scrolled across my vision. The girl’s limp body on a stretcher just before it was pushed into an ambulance.

  I let all resistance crumble, opening myself to the vision completely. I gave it what I was so afraid of losing. What I’d been fighting to hold on to—total control.

  The vision directed me to Mr. Rodriguez. A warm, tingling sensation started in my chest and radiated through my body. It felt like I’d stuck my tongue on a nine-volt battery. I pushed my body harder. I had to get to him.

  Wait. Just wait. I’m almost there.

  “Mr. Rodriguez!” I screamed.

  He opened the car door, and I gasped, struggling to breath around the burning in my lungs. Don’t get in the car. Give me just a second longer.

  “Mr. Rodriguez!” I screamed again. “Wait!”

  He didn’t hear me, and dread filled me as I watched him slide into his car and shut the door. The effects of the visions intensified. I felt a stabbing behind my eyes, like someone was hammering nails into them.

  Turning in a circle, I searched the crowd, frantic to find the girl. But there were too many people, and I could sense my time was running out. I pushed my way through the sea of students to the end of the sidewalk. I’d find her there. She’d have to pass me when she crossed into the parking lot. I’d grab her and say something stupid, like, ‘Don’t we know each other? Are you in Mr. Matelli’s English class?’ She’d stop to answer, and it’d delay her long enough to avoid the car. Right? Right. Unless she was rude and wouldn’t talk to me. Then I’d make something up on the fly. Maybe I’d tackle her. Not very angelic, but better than getting hit by a car. Yeah. Okay.

  I jammed my way through the massive crowd, making my way toward the sidewalk. Sweat dripped down my back, and the muscles in my arms strained from pushing people out of my way. And my legs burned from running, but I was almost there. Just a little more. I just had to get past a group of guys—but they wouldn’t move.

  “Excuse me,” I yelled, jamming into the guy closest to me. Tears were building behind my eyes, and my chest burned.

  I’m running out of time. Move, move, move!

  The guy didn’t bother to stop texting and look at me. “Go around.”

  I jabbed my elbow in his side and plowed through. Then I heard it. At first, I thought the boy was screaming at me, but it wasn’t him.

  I was too late.

  I rammed myself through the people standing in front of me and stumbled forward onto the curb. Sights and sounds faded into the background until all I saw was the girl lying on the pavement. Blood pooled around her head like a gruesome halo, and deep red stained her long, blonde braid.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I’m too late. I didn’t save her. I did this to her. My selfishness. My pride. Me. I hurt this girl. What kind of monster am I to let this happen?

  Students screamed. Some grabbed their cell phones and dialed 911, and a couple boys ran into the school and brought back the nurse. But I just stood there, motionless. Useless. Guilty. People ran into me, jostling me, pushing me out of the way.

  It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so stubborn—if I hadn’t fought the vision so hard and done something sooner—she’d be driving home right now instead of lying on the ground in her own blood.

  Mr. Rodriguez stood next to his car door with both hands on top of his head, looking at the girl. Tears ran down his face. He was a nice man. If I hadn’t been so selfish, so stubborn, I could have spared him the agony of knowing he’d hurt a student.

  It’s my fault. I’m to blame.

  I jumped when I felt a soft touch on my elbow. “Come on, Milayna. I’ll drive you home. There’s nothing you can do.” I turned and saw Muriel. A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision.

  “It’s my fault, Muriel. I saw it coming. I waited too long. I fought it.”

  “C’mon. Let’s go home.” She went to my truck, picked up my purse and bag from where I’d dropped them, and locked the doors. Then she pulled me toward her car.

  We drove in silence. I cried, and Muriel would occasionally look over at me with an expression of pity? Disappointment? Blame? Yeah, with an expression of a mixture of all three on her face.

  When we got to my house, she walked me upstairs and pulled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt from my dresser.

  “Here, put these on.” She handed the clothes to me.

  I peeled off my clothes and slipped into the clean ones before I climbed into bed. The soft, flannel sheets pulled me in with their soothing smell of lavender. I grabbed a pillow, buried my face in it, and screamed before crushing, ugly sobs took over. Muriel sat on the edge of my bed and put her hand on my shoulder.

  “She’s gonna be okay, Milayna.”

  “How do you know?” I wiped my tears away with the backs of my hands and sniffed.

  “I just know.”

  “Another angel thing?” My voice was raspy and when I turned to her, she was blurry from the hot tears filling my eyes.

  “Yeah, something like that.” She gave me a small, sad smile. “W
e all have visions. Some of us just see different things.”

  “And Mr. Rodriguez?” A sob slipped out at the thought of him, and I put my fist to my mouth to hold it in.

  Muriel’s gaze drifted to the floor. “He’ll be fine once he knows she’s okay. Besides, there was nothing he could’ve done. He didn’t see her. She was kneeling down. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “No, it was my fault.”

  I’m to blame. What kind of demi-angel will I make? I just let someone almost die.

  She didn’t deny it. We both knew that if I hadn’t fought the vision, the accident wouldn’t have happened.

  Muriel sat with me until my parents got home. Then she kissed my cheek, said she’d see me at school the next day, and left to go downstairs.

  I heard her tell my parents what happened. Telling them it was me who caused it.

  When I woke the next morning, the sun streamed through the window blinds and glittered through the stained glass suncatchers I had hanging from the ceiling, creating rainbows on the walls. The birds chirped happily in the treetops. I stretched all the way to my toes under my warm blankets. It was a beautiful morning. And then I remembered—

  It was my fault.

  Six weeks, five days until my birthday.

  I padded down the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a granola bar for breakfast, finding my parents sitting at the kitchen table. My mom’s curly, blonde hair was smoothed into an elegant French twist, and she wore a navy suit that made her blue eyes look like laser beams. My dad wore his normal jeans and a polo, and his auburn hair was cut short, military style.

  The sudden realization made me tense up and forget about breakfast. They’d both gotten ready for work earlier than usual so they could wait for me to come downstairs and then pounce.

  Damn it. They set a trap, and I walked right into it.

  “Sit down, Milayna,” my mom said.

  I shook my head and crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t want to talk.”

  “Too bad. Sit down.” She pushed a chair out for me with her foot and pointed.

  I walked slowly to the table, dragging my messenger bag behind me. Then, dropping into the chair, I crossed my arms around my waist and hunched over.