No Angel by Helen Keeble

true!” she cried.
    “Oh, come on, Faith, it’s obvious,” Suzanne said scornfully. “The only reason a guy would be interested in a nut like you is if he was paid to be. Your mother’s so scared you’re going to end up like your crazy, dead dad, she’s handpicked a guy to try to make you forget your imaginary boyfriend.” She leaned in close. “Personally, I’d just sit back and wait until you offed yourself like he did. Be less trouble for everyone.”
    “For God’s sake, can’t you give it a rest for once, Suzanne?” snapped Something-Beginning-With-D, turning around from the row ahead. I was grateful to her, as I was still speechless. “Michaela’s not even here yet. Stop showing off.”
    Whatever retort Suzanne might have made was forestalled by the arrival of the teacher. At least, I assumed it was the teacher, because stick insects didn’t get that big. The gaunt figure glared at the class. “Sit.”
    I sank back to my seat along with everyone else. Faith had retreated to another table, whose occupants were pointedly ignoring her. Suzanne cast a speculative look at the now-empty chair next to me. I flipped her off from under the desk, and she turned away with a see-if-I-care toss of her head.
    “Ms. Vervaine. History of Art. You will learn it.” Apparently deciding that this was all the introduction necessary, Ms. Vervaine stalked to her desk, her long limbs moving in jerky stop-start arcs like a broken clockwork toy. “Today we will—what is that?”
    It took all my willpower not to cower away from the pointed fingernail stabbing straight at me. “Er, I’m Raf? Rafael Angelos? The new student?”
    “Not you.” Ms. Vervaine’s finger jabbed the air again. “That . ”
    With a sinking feeling, I realized where she was pointing. “It’s a hat, Ms. Vervaine. I, uh, get cold. Please, may I leave it on?” I gave her my best piteous puppy eyes.
    Ms. Vervaine looked like she wanted to swat me across the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. “Remove it.” A class-wide snigger died a quick death as her glare swept the room. “Now.”
    There was nothing for it. Bracing myself for the worst, I pulled my hat off.
    “Good,” Ms. Vervaine said, turning away to fiddle with a remote control. I glanced around. A couple of girls were eyeing me, but with no more than the usual amount of interest.
    I angled the metal lid of my pencil case, trying to use it as an impromptu mirror. I couldn’t get a decent look at my reflection, thanks to the glare of sunlight streaming in through the window behind me.
    Sunlight . Now I really was being backlit. The light must be strong enough to drown out my own glow. If I was still glowing. With a furtive glance to make sure no one was paying too much attention, I dropped my pen, then used the pretext of retrieving it to duck under the desk. Rippling light illuminated dry, ancient bits of chewing gum, and I cracked my still-haloed head on the wood in my haste to get out of the shadows.
    Okay. I started to breathe a little easier. As long as the sun was behind me, no one would notice anything weird.
    “Video lesson,” Ms. Vervaine announced. She pressed a button on her remote control and all the overhead lights went out.
    And now I knew why this class was so popular. I never thought there would come a time when I was dismayed by the prospect of a video-based lesson—or as I liked to call them, nap breaks—but now I found myself longing for a nice pop quiz. Still, although the room was dimmer, she hadn’t turned off the sun. I was safe enough.
    “Part one of fourteen,” Ms. Vervaine continued as automated blinds clattered down over the windows. “No tests—pay attention, Mr. Angelos!”
    “Dropped my pencil case!” I squawked from flat under the desk.
    “What is that light?” To my horror, I heard footsteps start to walk toward me. “Are you—Miss Dante, can you ever be on time?”
    “No,” said Michaela’s unmistakable smoldering voice. “I have more