Angel Eyes Read Free Page A

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    I run a gloved finger over Miss Macy’s winding script and am ashamed of myself. I could have written. I could have called. But, happy to move on, I soaked up life in the city and pushed Stratus and the ever-constant Miss Macy to the back of my mind. Still, she knew I’d find my way here, and she left this for me. A CD she probably mixed herself.
    My chest tightens as I insert the disk into the slot and push Play. I don’t bother removing my gloves or jacket. I’ll just be a minute. My feet find the center of the floor as the music begins. The selection is very Miss Macy. Floaty. Flowery even. I don’t recognize it. Sounds like a movie soundtrack. Jane Austen or something.
    The mirror’s in front of me, but I close my eyes. I know what I’ll see there. A skinny girl disguised as a marshmallow. Parka, gloves, hat, boots.
    Still, I dance.
    And I cry. The music pulls my arms out and up, pushes me onto my toes and into myself. For three or four minutes I’m lost. Just the music. Just me. I move across the floor, my boots squeaking, my jacket swishing. I pause just long enough to turn the music up, tune out my mountain girl apparel. And then I rise on my toes and begin again.
    The music fades away, and my body settles into first position. I rest, waiting for the next song.
    When it begins I snort. Good thing I’m alone. The song is from my fifth-grade dance recital. A ridiculous ditty about jungle animals. The thumping drums and twanging guitars couldn’t be more different from the gentle piano and flute duet of the first number.
    But I can’t help it. My feet tap to the rhythm. The music grows louder, and I stomp. My back curves out and in, out and in. My arms swing over my head one after the other, and when the animal noises start, I beat my chest like a gorilla, just like I did when I was eleven. I tip my head back and howl.
    And then I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’m not the only one howling. Outside, standing just inches from the glass, leaning against a blue mailbox, is a boy. A boy I’ve never seen before.
    And he’s laughing. At me.
    I lurch and turn toward the window, my hair flying. The boy jerks upright. Caught staring and he knows it.
    His bright hazel eyes are what catch my attention first— green with a russet flame bleeding from the center. I take a step toward the glass. Brilliant hazel eyes trimmed with thick black lashes—the kind women buy and glue to their eyelids. His brows are dark, too dark for the sandy hair falling around his face.
    And there’s something very . . . tan about him. He looks out of place standing on the sidewalk in our frozen town, but I can’t imagine him in the city either. Not part of the eclectic sect I hung with: ambitious dancers, plastic models, tragic actors, cutthroat talent agents.
    I can’t imagine an appropriate setting for him. Somewhere tropical maybe. Somewhere hot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt advertising some band I’ve never heard of, distressed jeans, and Chucks—an outfit so incredibly understated that every bit of my attention returns to his face.
    He just looks warm.
    I shove my hair over my shoulder and smooth my parka. Blood rushes to my face and neck. I’m mortified, but I stand really, really still. That’s what you’re supposed to do to avoid a bear attack, right?
    Does it work with boys?
    Apparently not. His hands come up in the universal gesture for Whoops, and his full-body guffaw is replaced by a pair of penitent puppy-dog eyes. But it seems he can’t stifle his amusement for long. His face cracks, and a smile slips through.
    At least he has the decency to cover his mouth.
    Then his hands fall away to reveal a grin. A stupid, stupid grin. He steps toward the window and presses a hand to it. The glass fogs over immediately, and his mouth opens like he’s got something to say. I cock my head, waiting.
    Apology? Hello!
    But his mouth closes, and he pulls his hand away. With his index finger he carves a single word into