Angels in Training Read online

  Contents

  Freaked out and starstruck

  Better, brighter, stronger?

  Written in red

  If only, if only …

  The angel to ask

  Ready, steady, jump

  Bittersweet and blue

  The same, but not the same

  Unravelling and rewinding

  Straight into something serious

  Ready or not?

  It’s here …

  Surprise, surprise

  Wouldn’t you like to know …

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Bestselling author Karen McCombie trained as a magazine journalist in her native Scotland before moving to London. After several years working on teen favourites Just 17 and Sugar, she turned to fiction, with her first series, Ally’s World, becoming an instant success. In total she’s had more than seventy books published and translated around the world, and more than a million books sold.

  Karen lives in north London with her very Scottish husband, Tom, her sunshiny daughter, Milly, a demented cat called Dizzy, and Biscuit, the button-obsessed hamster.

  Find out more about Karen at:

  www.karenmccombie.com

  For Amy Smith – not forgetting

  her everyday angel, Shimmer

  Freaked out and starstruck

  I’m running, racing, breathless.

  Nearly there.

  Nearly at the very top of Folly Hill.

  Nearly at the statue.

  It’s as if she’s watching us coming.

  ‘Yay – I win!’ yells Pearl, slapping her hands on the marble plinth a split second before I do.

  ‘Well done,’ I pant, flopping my back against the ice-cold stone.

  I was hoping that running up here this chilly Sunday morning would shake the thought, the secret, out of my head, but it’s still there, rattling around.

  I see Sunshine applauding us both, as she and Kitt go to sit on the bench just a little below us.

  I glance away quickly, kicking at the frost-tinged grass with the toe of my ankle boot.

  The thing is, my best friends don’t know about my secret.

  It’s a secret that makes me feel guilty.

  And confused.

  Ungrateful too.

  After all, a few weeks ago I felt lonelier than a wisp of cloud in a clear blue sky – till they turned up in my life, moving in next door, the mismatching foster kids of Mr and Mrs Angelo.

  But I can’t help the way I feel.

  And I can’t tell them my secret, cos the secret is about them.

  It’s this – they freak me out.

  That’s it.

  My friends freak me out.

  Isn’t that tragic?

  I mean, look at them – Sunshine, all calm and willowy, her long, red-gold hair dancing in the buffeting November breeze.

  Kitt, so super-smart, even if the pair of tight, dark buns in her hair make her look a little like a cute, girl-version of Minnie Mouse.

  And dainty, giddy Pearl, with her white-blonde stubby plaits framing her perfect and perfectly pretty face.

  All three of them are great, and they make me feel great (when they’re not freaking me out). Actually, forget great, these three girls are awesome.

  Ask anyone at school – when they’re not busy gaping at them in wonder cos of their cute, kooky charm or their frighteningly casual cleverness in class.

  In fact, it blows my mind that Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl actually like me.

  Every now and then I have a moment: a moment, like I’m having now, when I can’t handle the fact that we’re friends at all.

  It’s just that I’m so ordinary, so un-special.

  As for my friends … well, this is what my secret’s all about. This is the reason these great, awesome, extra-special girls freak me out: my friends happen to be angels.

  Absolute angels.

  For real.

  ‘What?’ Pearl suddenly asks, beaming at me, her breathing completely back to normal while I’m still panting like an elderly Labrador.

  ‘Huh?’ I gasp, shrugging at her.

  ‘Is something wrong, Riley? You’ve got a sort of thinking face on.’

  Pearl tilts her head to one side, her eyes darting about, trying to read my human body language.

  Please don’t let her guess what’s rattling around in my head right now.

  ‘It’s nothing … nothing. Just tired myself out,’ I lie.

  Pearl’s pale grey eyes are a little unnerving. I wish I had my camera with me; it’s great to hide behind sometimes. But I left it in my bag on the bedroom floor – I was using it to take photos of the school ukulele band for the newsletter on Friday. So instead I glance away from Pearl and stare up at the white statue looming above us.

  Catching sight of the marble lady’s familiar face makes my thumping heart rate start to slow, maybe because ever since I was small I’ve loved her. As a little girl I’d gaze at her clasped hands, her skyward stare, her flowing robes and towering arches of wings – and sometimes pretend she was my mum. (Is that dumb? Or just sad? Or totally understandable for a kid who never had the chance to get to know her mum for real?)

  Whatever she was, the Angel was the most perfect thing I’d ever seen, and I’d curtsey to her, to this glorious figure that looks out over the valley, over the roads-and-streets tangle of our town.

  All these years, all of my life so far, she was what I thought an angel should look like.

  Not a twelve-year-old girl dressed in a cropped pink duffel, with long stripy socks and glittery baseball boots. Blowing bubblegum.

  Pop!

  ‘Sure that’s all?’ asks Pearl, cross-eyed and giggling as she picks a piece of the popped gum off her nose.

  Pearl’s new to bubblegum – Dot got her into it. My sort-of-stepsister has also introduced her to the delights of clapping games (once Pearl got over the worry that she was slapping and hurting Dot) and lemonade (the shock of all the fizzing made Pearl spit it out at the first bubbly sip).

  I guess cos Dot’s only five she doesn’t question why our exciting new neighbours can sometimes be a little hazy about stuff every kid should have seen/done/experienced in their childhood. She’s just way too excited at having a new playmate in Pearl in particular. Specially since I tend to spoil Dot’s fun and roll my eyes at her a lot.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s all,’ I say, smiling shyly at Pearl, as I absent-mindedly scratch my head.

  You know, being best friends with angels is like suddenly finding yourself hanging out with the most famous teen actor or singer on the planet, only it’s:

  a) a lot weirder, and

  b) something you can never talk to anyone about.

  Actually, there are plenty of things I can’t talk to the angels about.

  I mean, if three average girls had moved into my old friend Tia’s house, I could’ve asked, ‘Where did you live before?’ or, ‘What was your old school like?’

  If they were in a genuine foster family (instead of a magicked one), I could chat to them about their birth families, and what had happened to bring them to live with the human-but-oblivious Mr and Mrs Angelo.

  But normal and ordinary questions don’t cut it.

  Instead I have huge, deep, brain-swirling, mind-blowing questions that I’d love to know the answers to.

  Like, ‘What are you exactly?’

  Like, ‘Where have you come from?’

  Like, ‘Why did you choose to help me?’

  Over the last couple of weeks I have tried. But the three girls just laugh or look confused, as if I’m being silly or the questions don’t make any sense to them. And I guess I’m way too starstruck and in awe of them to keep asking. (For now.)

  Also, I think I’m maybe a teen
y bit scared that their answers would completely freak me out …

  ‘Riley?’

  It’s Dot. She’s been hurrying after us, her skinny little legs struggling to keep up, her tied-back fair hair flipping and flopping exactly like a pony’s tail.

  She’s clutching Alastair’s lead in her hand.

  Next to her is Bee – Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl’s snow-white fluffball of a dog.

  Bee is helpfully holding Alastair in his jaws.

  (It’s lucky that Alastair is a chunk-of-driftwood-pretend-pet and not a real animal, or we’d be yelling ‘Drop it!’ very anxiously right about now.)

  ‘What’s up, Dot?’ I smile at her, glad she’s suddenly right here to distract me from my guilty, confusing and ungrateful thoughts.

  ‘Do you have nits?’

  ‘No, I do not have nits!’ I reply, taken aback.

  What’s she on about?

  Though I don’t know why I’m surprised. Dot is an expert at coming out with stuff that makes you want to curl up and die. If there was an exam in Embarrassing Your Big-Sort-of-Stepsister In Public, she’d pass it with an A***.

  ‘Why are you scratch-scratch-scratching, then?’ Dot asks.

  Suddenly, I’m aware that my fingers are burrowing in my muddy-puddle brown hair.

  You know, something is tickling me.

  But it can’t be nits (shudder). Cos the tickling feels … it feels like it’s inside my brain.

  ‘You look like Bee when you do that,’ giggles Pearl, watching me itch and scratch.

  ‘She does, doesn’t she?’ Dot agrees, joining in the joke at my expense.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what it is, but it’s not nits,’ I say, addressing myself to Dot.

  ‘Anyway, if I did have them, then you would too,’ I add. ‘It’d be your fault, cos you’re always coming home with letters from your primary school saying they’re going around.’

  That shuts Dot up.

  If there’s one thing she hates more than homework/being nagged to brush her teeth/the boy down the street who’s nicknamed her Spot, it’s getting her hair treated for nits.

  Whenever her mum, Hazel, brings out the dreaded, smelly hair treatment, Dot yells so much I worry that the neighbours will think she’s being fed to wolves or something.

  ‘Whee! Watch me!’ Dot suddenly calls out, switching off from the conversation she started. (What’s new?)

  So I watch as she gallops off and throws herself happily into a cartwheel. But I guess cartwheeling on the frost-tipped grass with Bee and Alastair is a lot more fun than teasing me and risking future Torture by Nitcomb.

  Argh, there’s the tickle again. Or maybe it’s more of a maddening prickle.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Am I going to have to go home and Google my symptoms? ‘Inner Head Prickles …’

  OK, now Sunshine and Kitt are looking my way. They can’t think I have nits too, can they? I don’t believe they even know what nits are.

  I mean, all three girls must’ve had lessons or read some kind of guidebook about what to expect when they showed up on Earth from wherever. (Yep, another question I haven’t had a proper answer to.) The thing is, they’re ace at all our school subjects, but there are still some pretty big holes in their day-to-day knowledge. Last week, when Dot was playing with her yo-yo, the sisters ended up staring at it for ages, mesmerized, as if they were watching someone scale the Shard without the aid of a safety rope.

  So, no, Sunshine and Kitt probably aren’t wondering whether or not I have nits. What’s making them stare, then? What are they thinking?

  Biting my lip, I give my head another scratch and return Kitt’s stare. She’s leaning on the back of the park bench, her chin in her hands, brilliant-blue eyes magnified by thick, black-rimmed glasses. (Will I ever get used to those intense Kitt glares?)

  And Sunshine – Sunshine is standing up and walking towards me, her long legs like licorice sticks in her black tights and undone ankle boots. (Will I ever stop worrying that she’ll trip over them one of these days?)

  As Sunshine gets closer, it’s the weirdest thing – the prickles and tickles inside my head get more and more maddeningly itchy.

  She comes to a standstill, eyes locked on mine, and smiles.

  ‘You’re stopping me,’ she says simply.

  I haven’t a clue what she means.

  ‘Is she?’ says Pearl excitedly, clapping her hands together. ‘Wow, can you do that now, Riley?’

  And then – blam – I get it.

  The brain prickles-and-tickles – it’s Sunshine.

  She’s trying to muscle her way into my mind.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ I burst out. ‘It’s as bad as reading someone’s diary!’

  I probably look pretty dumb, slapping my hands across my forehead, lamely trying to protect what’s inside.

  But I don’t care; I’m too busy being hurt.

  Hurt that Sunshine’s done the seeking on me, trying to tune into what I’m thinking.

  I mean, yes, she and her sisters came to my rescue when I was lost and lonely, which I’ll never forget. And I really don’t mind being a guinea pig for some of the skills they have to practise.

  But not this one. Not when I have feelings I don’t want on show.

  Trainee angels may be awesome, but an ordinary everyday girl needs a little bit of privacy now and again.

  ‘What’s a diary?’ I hear Pearl ask, but I’m still busy frowning at Sunshine and not about to answer her.

  ‘I was only trying to see how strong you’ve become, Riley.’ Sunshine smiles at me, her violet-blue eyes blinking, her cool fingers reaching up to touch my clasped hands.

  And with her touch comes the warmth.

  A sense of soothing hot water coursing over my hands, my face, my chest and back, as if I’m relaxing in a steamy shower instead of standing on a windswept hill.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, letting her soothe me, letting my shoulders sink.

  ‘Wow, your shine is strong, Riley!’ she says, smiling at me, her eyes ever-so-slightly changing colour, like the swirls of oil on a wet road. ‘That’s brilliant. It means you don’t need us any more.’

  Those last words she said are like a punch in my chest.

  Are they going?

  Leaving?

  Suddenly, the warmth isn’t working any more. The thing is, I knew that was the angels’ plan – they’d move on at some point, to someone somewhere who needed them more than I did – but I hadn’t thought it would happen so soon.

  Please … I didn’t really mean any of that stuff about you freaking me out, I fret silently. I’ll make an effort not to be so shy; you can try out as many skills on me as you need to. Just don’t vanish from my life!

  ‘Now you’re strong, Riley, we can use all our energies to find someone new to help,’ says Kitt, suddenly joining us, joining in the leaving speech.

  They might think I’m strong, but I don’t feel ready to lose my friends, not yet. And what about the promise they made, to help me find out more about my mum? I’ve been meaning to remind them about that, just as soon as I get over my latest bout of shyness.

  ‘We think we can sense a fading at school,’ I hear Pearl say – which immediately makes me feel better. I mean, if the next person they need to help is nearby, then they won’t be moving away anytime soon, will they?

  Then – as the relief kicks in – I start fretting over who might be in trouble.

  ‘Someone’s stopped shining?’ I ask, concerned. ‘Any idea –’

  ‘Hey, have you found any, Sunshine?’ Dot interrupts, skipping up beside us again before I can finish my question.

  ‘Any what?’ Sunshine asks, the wind whipping strands of red-gold hair around her head like dancing rays of light.

  ‘Nits!’ barks Dot.

  ‘No,’ says Sunshine, letting her fingers fall from my forehead where they were still resting.

  ‘Really? Oh well,’ mutters Dot, as she ruffles the furry head of Bee, who h
as conveniently positioned himself under her hand. ‘Anyway, I’m bored. Can we do something? Can we have an adventure?’

  ‘Yes, let’s have an adventure!’ Pearl agrees enthusiastically with Dot.

  But she’s looking straight at me.

  In fact, all three angels are looking at me.

  Their eyes have turned the exact blue of the sky above us.

  Well, I guess I’d better try and feel as strong as they think I am, cos they might need me.

  The angels have their powers, but who better to spot someone fading than a girl who’s been there already?

  A girl like me, who lost – and found – her shine.

  Better, brighter, stronger?

  One locket, two tiny photos.

  On the left-hand side there’s me, head down, smiling shyly. On the right is Tia, my far-away friend, beaming, laughing.

  ‘Hey, night-night,’ I whisper to her, aware that when it’s morning here it’ll be evening in New Zealand, which is home for her now.

  I fasten the silver heart shut with a soft click and tuck it under my school shirt, then watch myself in the wardrobe mirror as I move on to my tie.

  Not so long ago, the thought of Tia moving away, living on the other side of the world, leaving me – it was like a deep, burning pain. But that feeling has gone now – thanks to the three freaky girls who live next door in Tia’s old house.

  And what’s special is that I was the angels’ first: the first person they ever helped.

  They somehow found me, my shine already dimmed because of losing Mum when I was a baby, fading further as I hovered in the dusky sidelines while Tia stood bright and beautiful. Fading dramatically fast when she and her family closed the door on 33 Chestnut Crescent and left for the last time.

  ‘If a human’s shine fades altogether,’ Sunshine had told me, that day I’d discovered who and what my new neighbours really were, ‘it can never come back. And that can leave you with sadness for all your life.’

  Thanks to Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl, I’m SO much better, brighter, stronger than I was, I remind myself, trying to shake off the confused feelings of yesterday, up on Folly Hill.

  With my striped tie now looped and knotted, I turn away from the mirror – and find I’m not alone.