They were glowing.
Really, I swear they were. I wouldn't lie—at least, not to the face of my father and mother, why would I?
But they were, my hands, they were glowing. At least, they had been, five minutes ago when I had let loose a scream. What the hell? I had thought while trying to make sense of it all.
Now as I watch my parents trying to discern whether their daughter is insane or not I feel myself frown, knowing that my impatience is starting to show. "I'm not lying." I say once more, my voice falling on deaf ears.
"Maybe it was the sun Angelica," my mother starts to say, and I find myself curious as I realize her voice is shaken, trying to believe her own theory. "Maybe, it was an illusion. I mean, I know you are always tired in the morning—"
My dad, Allen, places his one free hand that isn't holding his glasses on my mom's shoulder, trying to hide the shiver that I have all ready seen as it courses through her. "Your mother is right; perhaps you are still half-asleep?"
Mom, Julia, with smooth honey blond curls looks up at me and asks almost wistfully, "You are tired, right honey?"
I'm sixteen and never have I felt so—well, the best word really is betrayed. Here I am, sure that something is going to explode from me, because excuse me, but I was glowing and no one believes me. I am sure some sleep in my eye is not going to cause any glowing hallucinations. But instead of voicing my opinions I keep my mouth shut. When I was eight something similar had happened, only that time my hands had not been the body parts that had glowed, no, that time it had been my stomach. If that makes sense to you, please, enlighten me. I had told my mom and dad in a frenzy sure that I had some sort of illness that would vanquish me that very night to no avail. It had been awkward and my mother had tried to calm me down with a snack, saying that I had been watching too many cartoons, but still, I note now, with the same quiver in her voice that she is currently using.
"Yes, I guess I’m just tired." Relief passes through their faces so quickly that I cringe.
Half an hour later I am on my way to school, Conway High School in Miami, Florida, or as its one-thousand and ten student body has fondly called it, CHS; creative minds aren't they?
Well, I guess I should introduce myself shouldn't I? You might hear the occasional person calling me Angel and not know who they are talking to, so I guess it is inevitable. My name is Angelica Blair, or commonly known as 'Angel' by anyone who knows me, which may I say, isn't a lot of people. My name leaves much to be desired since my name, Spanish for angelic is the last thing that I am, since I don’t have much of an angelic appeal to the opposite sex as I would hope, because let’s be honest, I’m not the prettiest rose in the garden.
I know it may come as a surprise, but a stick-thin girl with too pale of a skin tone and bright blond hair isn't as popular of a candidate for homecoming as you would think. Not that I am going to try it or anything. I have two best friends in this world and they are currently walking up to me since I have just entered CHS property.
Sarah Price smiles and reveals teeth covered in braces that shine painfully in the sun as she sets her bright red hair behind her ears. Connie Laughton smiles her weak smile due to the loss of her hamster the night before and I notice that she has failed to let down her long black hair again (this being her best feature, Sarah and I had begged her).
For us, life in CHS has never been an adventure, like most parents try to explain to their kids. It is simply a daily routine. I think that's what they are truly teaching us—how to maintain a routine lifestyle.
My hair has surprisingly been co-operating with me in the past two weeks since my (late) sixteenth birthday so I am not surprised that the girls make comments on it. My mom had tried to explain to me how the same thing had happened to her, how one day her hair was a puff on her head and that the next thing she knew, it was perfectly set into natural loose curls. Boy, had I been jealous, but not anymore, at least, not for the past two weeks.
I pay no mind to my two best friends' words of praise and cut them short, "So, how do you think junior year is going to treat us?"
Sarah scrunches up her face and says in a tortured voice, "Who knows, I say go with what the year brings and hope for little."
Connie being the optimistic in the group, despite her hamster's sudden demise, gives Sarah a look that says Tragic much? and looks back at me, "I think we need to become one with the student body this year."
I snort, not because I find what she says funny in anyway, but because, come on, become one? No way. Not if you knew these kids, and let me tell you, kids can be cruel. "I don't think so."
I turn around to open my locker after my two friends have gone to their own lockers, and drop my books on the ground when something catches my eye. It is very slight and so delicate that I have to squint against the sun coming in from the windows that decorate the hallway above the lockers. My hands are glowing again. It isn't a shimmering glow, but a glow almost soft as velvet. So smooth to look at, yet you also want to feel it. It is so unnatural. I turn my hands over to see if the same effect is occurring on my palms and what I see makes the world around me disappear. Imprinted in the center of both of my palms is a tattoo, yet it isn't a tattoo I realize. Instead of harsh black lines that would indicate as such, there is a faint light coming from within my palms making the tattoo-like forms appear almost holographic. They are of two wings, one left and one right, each on the corresponding palms.
I gape at the glowing beauty that is within my grasp when the bell rings and awakens me from my stupor.
"Are you okay?" Asks Sarah as she and Connie make their way towards me, still frozen with my books strewn all around me.
"Yeah," I mutter quietly and quickly pick up my things, "c'mon, we're going to be late."
I close my locker and head off with my friends, before entering our first class I take a look back into the bright hallway, feeling slightly paranoid and see that my paranoia is not in vein—standing in front of my locker is a teenage boy that I have never seen. I probably would not have thought anything of it, if it were not for the fact that his hands begin to glow when he presses his palms against my locker.