Creepy. I always get squirmy every time the topic of angels comes up in any regular-person conversation, and now that’s happening in English class. I’m sure my mother would not approve this reading material.
But then again, she probably already knows all about it. Since she knows everything. And tells me nothing.
“Excellent, Wendy,” praises Mr. Phibbs, “I can see you’ve read the CliffsNotes.” Wendy turns a lovely shade of crimson.
“No harm in reading the CliffsNotes, dear,” Mr. Phibbs says jovially. “It’s good to get someone else’s interpretation. But it’s more important that you wrestle with these texts on your own. Feel the words with your gut, not just hear them in your head. But O, how fallen! how changed / from him, who, in the happy realms of light, / clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine / myriads though bright,” he recites from memory. “Beautiful words. But what do they mean?”
“He’s talking about the angel he used to be,” says Angela from up front. She hasn’t said a word during this entire conversation, neither of us have, but now it’s obviously getting to be too much for her to sit here and be quiet when he’s talking about angels. “He’s lamenting how far he’s fallen, because even though he’d rather make the rules in hell than obey God in heaven, like he said, he still feels sorrow, because now he’s”—she glances down at her book to read— “in utter darkness, . . . / as far removed from God and light of heaven, / as from the center thrice to the utmost pole. I’m not sure how far that is, exactly, but it sounds like pretty far.”
“Did you feel that in your gut?”
“Uh . . .” Angela’s a brain person, not a gut person. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, an insightful interpretation, anyway,” he says. “Remember what Milton tells us at the beginning of the book. His goal here is to explore the idea of disobedience to God, both in the rebellion of the fallen angels and in the heart of man, which leads to the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. . . .”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t want to explore the idea of disobedience to God—not exactly a gut-friendly topic of conversation for me right now, since I’ve pretty much made up my mind to fight my purpose.
“Mr. Phibbs, I have a question,” Angela says then.
“Wonderful,” he says. “Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers.”
“Right. How old are you?” she asks.
He laughs.
“No seriously. How old?” she presses.
“That’s not at all related to the subject at hand,” he says crisply, and I can tell that she’s rattled him, although I’m not sure why. He smoothes back his white hair, fiddles with the piece of chalk in his hand. “Now shall we get back to Satan and his plight?”
“I just wanted to know if you’re as old as Milton,” Angela says, acting playfully, nauseatingly dumb, like she’s teasing him, like it’s not a serious question, even though it is. “Like, did the two of you ever hang out together?”
Milton, if I remember what Mr. Phibbs told us last week, died in 1674. If Mr. Phibbs ever hung out with Milton that would put him well over three hundred and fifty years old.
Is it possible? I look at him, noting the way his skin sags in places, the host of deep wrinkles on his forehead, around his eyes, circling his mouth. His hands have that gnarly tree quality to them. He’s clearly old. But how old?
“I only wish I could have had that pleasure,” Mr. Phibbs says with a tragic sigh. “But alas, Milton was a bit before my time.”
The bell rings.
“Ah,” he says, his blue eyes sharp on Angela’s face. “Saved by the bell.” That night I sneak out to fly to the Lazy Dog. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s my angelic nature.
I sit outside Tucker’s window with snow in my hair, and I watch him, first as he works on his homework, then getting ready for bed (and no, I turn away when he’s changing, I’m not a total perv), and then as he falls asleep.
At least, right this minute, he’s safe.
Again I consider telling him about my dream—I hate keeping this from him. It feels like something he deserves to know. I’m so angry with Mom, I realize, for all the secrets she keeps from me, but am I any different? I’m keeping this secret to avoid alarming him needlessly if by some stroke of luck I’m reading my vision wrong. I’m holding back because his knowing about it won’t change it. I’m protecting him.
But it still sucks.
Around twelve thirty or so, his window suddenly jerks open. I’m so startled—I’d been half asleep—that I almost fall off the roof, but a strong arm grabs me and hauls me back over the edge.
“Hi there,” Tucker says brightly, like we’re bumping into each other on the street.
“Uh, hi.”
“Nice night for stalking,” he observes.
“No. I was—”
“Get your butt in here, Carrots.”
I climb awkwardly into his room. He puts on a T-shirt and sits cross-legged on the bed, looking at me.
“It’s not stalking if you’re happy to see me?” I suggest tremulously.
“How long have you been out there?”
“How long have you known I was there?”
“About an hour,” he says. He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re a crazy girl, you know that?”
“I’m starting to figure that out about myself.”
“So why are you really here?” He pats the spot on the bed next to him, and I sit. He slings an arm around me.
“I wanted to see you,” I say as I curl into his side. “It was a long and lonely weekend and I didn’t get to see you much at school today.”
“Oh, right. How was camping? I don’t think I’ve ever been camping in the snow,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds chilly.”
“It wasn’t exactly in the snow.” Then I tell him about the congregation. Not everything, exactly, not about hell or the Black Wings or Mr. Phibbs as an angel-blood, but I tell him most of it. I know my mom wouldn’t approve. Christian wouldn’t approve. Of course Angela wouldn’t approve. The congregation is confidential, she said, like I should take this entire weekend and put a big old CONFIDENTIAL stamp across it.
I tell him anyway. Because I’m not ready to set up my own secret identity just yet, not from Tucker. Because the one thing I know for sure is that I love him. Because if I’m honest about one thing it makes me feel slightly better about not telling him about other things.
But then again, she probably already knows all about it. Since she knows everything. And tells me nothing.
“Excellent, Wendy,” praises Mr. Phibbs, “I can see you’ve read the CliffsNotes.” Wendy turns a lovely shade of crimson.
“No harm in reading the CliffsNotes, dear,” Mr. Phibbs says jovially. “It’s good to get someone else’s interpretation. But it’s more important that you wrestle with these texts on your own. Feel the words with your gut, not just hear them in your head. But O, how fallen! how changed / from him, who, in the happy realms of light, / clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine / myriads though bright,” he recites from memory. “Beautiful words. But what do they mean?”
“He’s talking about the angel he used to be,” says Angela from up front. She hasn’t said a word during this entire conversation, neither of us have, but now it’s obviously getting to be too much for her to sit here and be quiet when he’s talking about angels. “He’s lamenting how far he’s fallen, because even though he’d rather make the rules in hell than obey God in heaven, like he said, he still feels sorrow, because now he’s”—she glances down at her book to read— “in utter darkness, . . . / as far removed from God and light of heaven, / as from the center thrice to the utmost pole. I’m not sure how far that is, exactly, but it sounds like pretty far.”
“Did you feel that in your gut?”
“Uh . . .” Angela’s a brain person, not a gut person. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, an insightful interpretation, anyway,” he says. “Remember what Milton tells us at the beginning of the book. His goal here is to explore the idea of disobedience to God, both in the rebellion of the fallen angels and in the heart of man, which leads to the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. . . .”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t want to explore the idea of disobedience to God—not exactly a gut-friendly topic of conversation for me right now, since I’ve pretty much made up my mind to fight my purpose.
“Mr. Phibbs, I have a question,” Angela says then.
“Wonderful,” he says. “Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers.”
“Right. How old are you?” she asks.
He laughs.
“No seriously. How old?” she presses.
“That’s not at all related to the subject at hand,” he says crisply, and I can tell that she’s rattled him, although I’m not sure why. He smoothes back his white hair, fiddles with the piece of chalk in his hand. “Now shall we get back to Satan and his plight?”
“I just wanted to know if you’re as old as Milton,” Angela says, acting playfully, nauseatingly dumb, like she’s teasing him, like it’s not a serious question, even though it is. “Like, did the two of you ever hang out together?”
Milton, if I remember what Mr. Phibbs told us last week, died in 1674. If Mr. Phibbs ever hung out with Milton that would put him well over three hundred and fifty years old.
Is it possible? I look at him, noting the way his skin sags in places, the host of deep wrinkles on his forehead, around his eyes, circling his mouth. His hands have that gnarly tree quality to them. He’s clearly old. But how old?
“I only wish I could have had that pleasure,” Mr. Phibbs says with a tragic sigh. “But alas, Milton was a bit before my time.”
The bell rings.
“Ah,” he says, his blue eyes sharp on Angela’s face. “Saved by the bell.” That night I sneak out to fly to the Lazy Dog. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s my angelic nature.
I sit outside Tucker’s window with snow in my hair, and I watch him, first as he works on his homework, then getting ready for bed (and no, I turn away when he’s changing, I’m not a total perv), and then as he falls asleep.
At least, right this minute, he’s safe.
Again I consider telling him about my dream—I hate keeping this from him. It feels like something he deserves to know. I’m so angry with Mom, I realize, for all the secrets she keeps from me, but am I any different? I’m keeping this secret to avoid alarming him needlessly if by some stroke of luck I’m reading my vision wrong. I’m holding back because his knowing about it won’t change it. I’m protecting him.
But it still sucks.
Around twelve thirty or so, his window suddenly jerks open. I’m so startled—I’d been half asleep—that I almost fall off the roof, but a strong arm grabs me and hauls me back over the edge.
“Hi there,” Tucker says brightly, like we’re bumping into each other on the street.
“Uh, hi.”
“Nice night for stalking,” he observes.
“No. I was—”
“Get your butt in here, Carrots.”
I climb awkwardly into his room. He puts on a T-shirt and sits cross-legged on the bed, looking at me.
“It’s not stalking if you’re happy to see me?” I suggest tremulously.
“How long have you been out there?”
“How long have you known I was there?”
“About an hour,” he says. He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re a crazy girl, you know that?”
“I’m starting to figure that out about myself.”
“So why are you really here?” He pats the spot on the bed next to him, and I sit. He slings an arm around me.
“I wanted to see you,” I say as I curl into his side. “It was a long and lonely weekend and I didn’t get to see you much at school today.”
“Oh, right. How was camping? I don’t think I’ve ever been camping in the snow,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds chilly.”
“It wasn’t exactly in the snow.” Then I tell him about the congregation. Not everything, exactly, not about hell or the Black Wings or Mr. Phibbs as an angel-blood, but I tell him most of it. I know my mom wouldn’t approve. Christian wouldn’t approve. Of course Angela wouldn’t approve. The congregation is confidential, she said, like I should take this entire weekend and put a big old CONFIDENTIAL stamp across it.
I tell him anyway. Because I’m not ready to set up my own secret identity just yet, not from Tucker. Because the one thing I know for sure is that I love him. Because if I’m honest about one thing it makes me feel slightly better about not telling him about other things.
