Home > Strange Angels (Strange Angels #1)(3)

Strange Angels (Strange Angels #1)(3)
Author: Lili St. Crow, Lilith Saintcrow

I’d propped my cheek on my fist and was staring out the window at the cold wasteland of a baseball field, waiting for the chimes to sound. Foley High School didn’t believe in bells. Instead, a sound like a cell phone ringing would echo through the room when it was time to go run on the treadmill in another classroom.

The pencil in my hand rested against blank paper, and I brought my gaze around slowly, sudden silence in the room meaning all eyes were on me.

I hate that.

Bletchley was round-faced, white-haired, and plump. The other teachers probably thought she was a kind, harmless soul. She had small dark hazel eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses and carnelian lipstick feathering off the edge of her lips. Her hands, when they weren’t clasping a yardstick like a cane, were constantly picking at the bottom edge of her lumpy cardigan. She alternated between three sweaters: primrose, blue with knitted roses, and a bilious yellow one with a Peter Pan collar. Today it was the yellow.

She looked like a weasel getting ready to steal its next chicken. The kids called her Mad Dog behind her back, and she could smell weakness.

There are two species of teacher—the soft and the hard. Soft teachers might genuinely want to help, or they might have been broken in. They’re usually nervous and afraid of kids, especially high school boys. The hard teachers are another thing entirely. They’re like sharks—machines made for eating, with a finely tuned sense for blood in the water.

“Were we paying attention, Miss Anderson?” You could have stropped a knife on Bletchley’s tone. A tide of whispers ran through the room. Bletch had picked her target for the next thirty minutes, and it was me.

I just love being the new girl.

I really shouldn’t have even opened my mouth. Hard teachers are like bullies. If you don’t react, pretty soon they think you’re stupid and they leave you alone.

The half-Asian goth kid in front of me shifted in his seat. He was tall and skinny, with a mop of wavy dark hair. The back of his neck was visible as he bent down in his seat, the collar of the black coat he never took off sticking up at the corners but folded down in back. I stared at his nape under the dark curls.

What the hell, might as well. “Fort Sumter,” I said.

Silence. Bletchley’s eyes narrowed behind her steel-rimmed glasses, and I’d opened my mouth. So I jumped in with both feet.

“You asked where the first shots of the Civil War were fired. It was Fort Sumter. April 12 to April 13 of 1861.” I delivered the words in a flat, bored monotone, and the whispers turned into the particular type of silent laughter a hard teacher hates most.

Who knew sophomore American History could be so fun?

Bletch eyed me for a moment. I wasn’t quite a known quantity yet, so I might actually get away with it. The goth kid in front of me squirmed again in his seat, making it creak.

The teacher visibly decided to pick on someone else, with a look that promised me trouble later. “Thank you, Miss Anderson.” Her pause lengthened as she tapped meditatively on the desk with her yardstick. Her ankles were swelling out of her oxfords, despite the heavy dark nylon socks she wore under a long waddling denim skirt. They looked like circulation socks—the kind they give diabetics.

Gran used to wear those when her ankles pained her. My skin chilled as I slumped in the hard plastic seat, not daring to look out the window again. Bletch might just as easily circle back to me. I hadn’t told Dad about the owl on my windowsill. Was he still home?

The unsteady, sinking feeling in my stomach got worse. I stared at the boy’s neck in front of me, but he shifted again, tugging at the corners of his collar with nervous fingers.

Don’t move, I wanted to whisper. She’s looking for her next victim. If I’d been all there in the classroom instead of worrying about Dad, I might have done something like smacking him on the back of the head to save him, since I didn’t give a good goddamn if I was sent to the office or signed up for detention or whatever.

The axe fell. “Mr. Graves.” Bletch’s eyes lit up.

The kid in front of me stiffened, his shoulders going tense.

Blood in the water. I tried not to feel guilty.

“I certainly hope you’re taking notes. Since Miss Anderson has answered the question about the start, perhaps you can tell us about the causes of the Civil War?” Her eyebrows went up, and the predatory gleam in her eyes reminded me of cottonmouths in glass aquariums, staring lidless before they opened their mouths and made that awful ratcheting sound. The thumps of snakes hitting the glass echoed in my head, along with the smell of red beans and rice, body odor, and incense.

We were a long way away from Florida. The proprietor of that little occult store had given me the genuine willies, what with her filmy eyes and the shifting mass of stuff trailing behind her—a cloud of disturbance regular people wouldn’t see, but would feel like a cold draft. She’d given me a long, measuring look before Dad snapped his fingers and informed her that she was talking to him, thank you very much, ma’am.

I should have told him about the owl. The sudden certainty was chilling, and my fingers turned numb, prickling with cold.

“Um. Causes of the Civil War. Uhhh . . .” The kid in front of me stumbled, and Bletch had him. She spent the rest of the class period picking on him, even though he eventually came up with the right answers—when she let him get a word in edgewise. By the time the chimes rang for the end of the round, even the back of his neck was red. I felt bad about it, but I didn’t let it slow me down.

   
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