A Shimmer of Angels Read Free Page B

scream from deep within me drowned out the snickers in the room.
    I glanced over my shoulder to confirm what I already knew: the fingers belonged to the new kid. He twisted the knob, and the door groaned open. His hand released me. I bolted down the hall, into the one place I hoped he wouldn’t follow: the girls’ bathroom.
    The sharp sting of lemon cleaner and bleach invaded my nose. I flung my backpack against the wall. It hit with a satisfying thwack and crumpled to the floor. Frosted glass windows above the stalls suppressed the clamor of cars and pedestrians on the busy street below. I paced the short length of the bathroom, but it didn’t seem to help the constriction that tightened my chest until it hurt to breathe. My lungs burned. Breathe. I forced in a sharp intake of air.
    Angels aren’t real. They are figments of an over-active imagination that craves assurance there is such a place as Heaven, so it can believe your mother is in a good place . Dr. G had explained the light anomalies as hallucinations, common to someone with Schizophrenia Spectrum Disorder.
    But those wings had been so bright. How could an imagined vision sear my eyes with that glowing intensity?
    Stop it, Ray!
    I stumbled to the nearest sink, curling my fingers around the basin rim. I fought the urge to rock, only to realize my body was already teetering, the thighs of my jeans damp as they met the basin, over and over again.
    Focus, Rayna. On something. Anything. Don’t slip back. You can’t go back.
    My gaze found the scratched mirror above the sink, and I concentrated on my reflection, willing myself to think of anything but the image I couldn’t purge from my mind. Brilliant, shimmery wings, the color of falling snow on a bright day …
    Stop. It.
    Reflection. Focus on that. It’s all you have.
    My eyes glazed over skin so pale even the flaking cream walls held more color. My brown hair was flat, except for the fly-aways that curled wildly around my face. My skin had once been bronze from the sun. My more-green-than-hazel eyes had been bright with happiness, not with fear. That single glance at my reflection confirmed it: I was crazy again.
    An eerie quiet settled over the room. The tiled wall snagged my hair as I slid down to the floor.
    After all this time, none of the winged men had ever touched me. The boy’s phantom touch still warmed my skin. His hand felt real; he felt human, with flesh and muscle and bone … and wings .
    I raced to the sink. Turning the hot water on full blast, I shoved my hand under the water, burning his touch off of me.
    Dr. G would be so disappointed. After three years, he still hadn’t managed to cure me. I’m not sure what was worse: the thought that I had failed him, or the realization that I was going back.
    My backpack lay in a heap in front of the farthest stall. Inside the smallest zippered pouch, three amber pill bottles peeked at me from under the tiny flap. My hands trembled as I palmed them, the pills rattling in their respective bottles. Antipsychotics. Antidepressants. Mood stabilizers. I swallowed one of each, never bothering to stop for water.
    It had been stupid of me to quit the meds cold turkey. I knew that now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Every part of me shook as I scooted back to the wall, dragging my backpack along. I closed my eyes and waited for the crazy to subside.
    The bathroom door squeaked open. I jerked, bumping the back of my head against the wall. Pain rattled my vision. Gina Garson darted in just in time for the door to miss her as it slammed closed.
    Busted .
    Her brown eyes pinned me to the floor. I stared back, with my backpack curled up in my lap and three pill bottles lying beside me.
    So very busted .
    It just had to be Gina Garson, volleyball championship MVP. She stopped short at the sight of me and cupped a hand over her mouth. One of her eyebrows popped up in such a judgmental stare that I shrank away from it.
    “It’s not what it looks like.” I began shoving