An Angel Dies

Oops--I Made Front Page

The next morning, I decided high school wasn't even remotely thrilling anymore. Maybe that had to do with waking up at five-thirty in the morning, or the fact that apparently, I had to make myself look 'presentable'--whatever that means. I've been hopping (flying) from city to city for years, so I've never stayed in place long enough to pick up a fashion sense. Hoodies and sweats were good enough for me. Why would I waste precious money on skintight, revealing clothing that wouldn't do a thing to keep out the cold?

I slumped downstairs at the breakfast nook in the employee's lounge, my head cradled in one hand. Ms. Watson, who somehow arrived at shop even earlier than I woke up, bustled over to me, smiling cheerfully.

"Here honey, have some coffee."

She tipped the pot over a thick-handled porcelain mug before I could argue. To me, still stuck in my early morning daze, watching the stream of steaming black liquid was almost mesmerizing. She filled it up full, almost to the rim, and then click-clacked away, tying her thick curly black hair up in a ponytail. She once joked to me that she might end up hacking her hair off and dying what's left blonde so that customers wouldn't see it in their food.

I will never get tired of the way New Yorkers pronounce coffee as 'cwoffee.' It actually made me crack a watery smile.

I drink my coffee with a butt-load of creamer and a healthy dosage of sugar. My metabolism's off the charts, so I don't have to worry about calories--one of the benefits of being a freak.

I tossed back the last dregs of delicious, wonderful coffee as Ms. Watson opened shop, dusting off the counters and tabletops. I wiped my mouth sneakily with the underside of the tablecloth (I never said I had good manners) and drowsily heaved myself up, grabbing my book bag and slinging it over my shoulder.

"Bye, Ms. Watson, thanks for the coffee," I called out, rubbing my eyes blearily as I padded sleepily to the entrance. Honestly. It should be a crime to be up this early.

"Call me Jenna!" She yelled back as she slipped around the counter. I rubbed my arms uncomfortably.

"Um, yeah..." I'm not very good with adults. They make me uneasy. Especially so soon after last night's events.

I shuddered, pressing my palms to my eyes as I exited the shop. Don't think about it, don't think about it...

'Not thinking about it' has been my strategy for years. I'm actually quite good at repressing my memories. I think it's a defense mechanism.

Manhattan was bustling with people already, and it was only five thirty in the morning. I craned my neck as I briskly walked the blocks, fascinated by the tall skyscrapers that towered over the surrounding buildings. Their hundreds of glass windows looked like numerous bugs' eyes, and the cars zipping past were like speedy metallic ants.

I rubbed my shoulder as I ducked between two chatting couples loitering outside a homey-looking bookstore. My shoulder blades were sore from my lengthy flight yesterday, and there was a bruise on my cheek, given to me by that wonderful thug. I'd managed to cover it up with liquid concealer. I had to physically grip my fingers to stop them from wandering upwards and prodding the spot. I didn't want the makeup sliding off.

A bright yellow school bus lumbered past me, and I instinctively raised the hood on my black hoodie, angling my face slightly. Harsh laughter echoed out of the cracked windows, and horrible smelling exhaust slapped me in the face, waking me up better than any cup of coffee could.

Why didn't I take the bus?

Simple. I don't like people. Therefore, why would I willingly put myself in a situation where I am helplessly crowded like a sardine in a can in a smelly deathtrap that puked noxious gas? I trusted my wings. I didn't trust automobiles.