Prologue:

In the year 2019

"He's beautiful," the nurses say, congratulatory tones firmly in place. "Gorgeous!"

Then they notice that there's something wrong. Immediately, he's not beautiful anymore. His mother, Anna Valdez, snatches her new child from the nurse just as she makes to remove him from Anna's reach. She holds him close.

"How …?" Asks one of the nurses, distressed. The others drag her out before she can say something even stupider. They toss fake "He's wonderful"s and "what a beautiful boy"s over their shoulders, but Mrs. Valdez knows they're lying through their teeth.

She stares down at her new son, and for a moment she feels about to cry. It's not that he isn't beautiful – he is that – but he's so strange. She murmurs to the empty room, "What do we do?”

He squalls pathetically in her arms. Mrs. Valdez reaches to comfort him, feeling the tears pricking her own eyes. She wonders whether she had said something incredibly bad in the past nine months – something that could have brought God's wrath on her child like this. He's gorgeous, but she can already imagine the bullying and the teasing and the problems he'll face.

And so will she, and her husband. "What a strange child you have," people will say. What a strange child, indeed. In that moment, she can imagine her whole life changing. She can't imagine the family being let back into church, not with their baby alongside. And what if this defect kills him? Her stomach twists – what if, one night, she wakes up to find him dead, like she's heard other mothers speaking of?

She rubs his tiny shoulders, strokes his cheek, cradles him and rocks him. She can't bring herself to touch his back yet, keeping her hands clear.

When the nurses, some hesitant and some seemingly angry, come back into the room, they ask her what she will name her child.

She's tired. She only half-registers the first thing that comes out of her mouth – but the moment it emerges, she can't revoke it. It sounds right, somehow.

"Ahn-HEL," they say when she gives them the name. "How do you spell it? A-n-h-e-l-l?"

"No," she says. "A-n-g-e-l."

"Are you sure?" One of the nurses blurts it before she can stop herself. She's staring at the newly-christened Angel, almost seeming revolted. "I'm not sure –"

But the other nurses silence her and write Angel's name down on his birth certificate, not a word exchanged. Then they bustle from the room. They take Angel with them. Once they are gone, Mrs. Valdez wonders whether they will hurt him. Might they? He's strange – and she knows how intolerant people can be.

But who would hurt a baby angel? She has already stopped imagining putting him up for adoption. She can't imagine giving him up. How could anyone else want to hurt him? He's too beautiful, she thinks, recalling the brown eyes, the tiny hands, and (how strange they are) those small, downy white wings.

----------

They learn early on that Angel, however athletic he may become, will never be a swimmer. He's fearless enough, and his parents hold that he would have no problem learning, but there is a problem.

"Mama," Angel pleads one day, hanging onto the side of the swimming pool and looking up at her. She smiles down at him; the misgivings of nearly four years ago have long since passed, and she can love him just as much as any other mother loves her own child.

"Yes?"

"Mama, I keep sinking," Angel says, frowning deeply. "Can I get out?"

For a moment, Mrs. Valdez can't fathom why her son would have so much trouble swimming – he can doggie-paddle at least, she knows that. This should keep him afloat.

But when she takes his small, tan-skinned hand to pull him from the water, she realizes that they have found something their son will never be able to do. He climbs from the pool, shaking water out of his eyes.

His white wings are feathered now, and she believes them truly beautiful. Now, as he climbs from the pool, they drip chlorine-laced water to the ground. Every feather is sodden and clingy, and she berates herself for not seeing it before. His wet feathers.

They're like clothes, she realizes. Swimming with clothes on instead of a bathing suit makes it difficult to maneuver. His wings must make it ten times worse. She sends her son a smile as she brings him a towel to dry off with; while he dries his body, she takes another towel to his wings. She carefully rubs the sodden feathers as dry as she can, wondering whether she can blow-dry them at home. She decides that it should be safe enough, as long as she doesn't get them caught in the air-vent of the blow-dryer.

Dry now, Angel sits himself on the side of the big pool, dangling his feet into the water and watching the others play. He kicks his feet against the side, bored. It is here that he meets Karson.

She plops down beside him, and gives him a hesitant smile. "Why aren't you swimming?"

Angel blows out all his air in a huff. "I can't."

"I can teach you!" She's enthusiastic. Angel sizes her up; she looks about the same age as he is, though she's shorter than he is. Her hair is blonde and wavy.

"I can swim," he contradicts, figuring that she should know why he can't go in the water anymore. "I just can't go in the water."

"Why not?"

"My wings!" For him, this is a matter-of-fact statement. To Karson, it's a new curiosity. She looks at his white wings carefully. His feathers are mostly dry, though still damp.

"Can I touch them?"

Angel figures that's all right enough. "Sure."

She reaches out and strokes his wings. "They're soft," she says. She gives him a smile. "Do you want to come play with us?"

"Who's 'us'?"

"Me! And some of my friends, too. So?"

Angel thinks about it, then turns his head to regard Mrs. Valdez. "Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Can I go play with her?" He jabs a finger in Karson's direction, suddenly realizing that he doesn't know her name. His mother nods. Both children get up and run off.

He learns that her name is Karson. She learns his name is Angel. She thinks it is a little funny, that his name is Angel, but that's all right, because her name is supposed to be on a boy anyway.

And she thinks his wings are strange, a little. But she doesn't comment much. He just has to tell her not to rub the feathers the wrong way, and it's all right between them. He doesn't mind her questions. He gets worse ones all the time, after all.

----------

The summer that Angel turns six, they discover another problem. His feathers are long and beautiful now; the down disappeared not too long after he turned five. Now, the Valdez family realizes that the wings bring with them a lot of other little problems.

Angel walks into the living room one day, brows knit in an angry, worried frown. "Mom," he says to Mrs. Valdez, who is reclining in the easy chair. She looks up at him, giving him a radiant smile. She still thinks he is beautiful, just as beautiful as when he was born. She marvels now, that she was blessed with such a child. It's not a curse to her anymore.

"Yes?"

"Mom," Angel says worriedly. "Mom, my feathers are falling out!"

"Are you sure?" Mrs. Valdez is, inwardly, slightly worried about this. Could this be some sort of disease? How can they treat it? After all, she figures human doctors won't be able to treat a disease that includes feathers. They're not trained for that.

In response, Angel holds up a handful of feathers. "I keep finding them, Mom. All over the carpet and things. Why are my feathers falling out?" He blinks suddenly. "Do you think I'm going to lose my wings?"

"No, hon," his mother replies soothingly. "I'll find out what's wrong. You'll be okay, sweetie, don't worry."

"But Mom –" Angel begins to complain, but his father's voice interrupts. Mr. Valdez, a tall tan-skinned man, strides into the room. He sees the worried look on his wife's face and immediately sees what's called for: A distraction.

"Angel!" He calls, smiling broadly at Angel and making eye contact with Mrs. Valdez over his son's head. "Did Mrs. B give you any homework?"

Angel frowns, trying to remember. "No," he says. "She gave it to everybody else, but not me."

"Why not?" Mr. Valdez holds his son's arm and leads him from the room while Angel explains, leaving his wife to research.

"Because she said I didn't need any," Angel says innocently. He doesn't understand the look in his teacher's eyes, of course. It's a look that says she's afraid of Angel. He can't know this.

His father looks a little concerned, but he doesn't argue or press the subject. Secretly he thinks he will have a talk with Mrs. B about Angel's homework situation.

It turns out, meanwhile, that Angel may be molting. None of the Valdez family are happy about this, Angel least of all; his young mind has convinced him that he is going to lose his wings and, despite the weird looks he is given, he doesn't want to. They make him different.

Over the weeks, they frantically try to figure out how to keep Angel's feathers from ending up anywhere and everywhere within and without their house. Angel doesn't mind, but Mrs. Valdez hates finding white feathers stuck in her carpet, covering the sofa, and (most often) in Angel's bed when she makes it in the evenings.

Day after day they try to figure out a good way to keep the feathers from ending up everywhere they don't want the feathers to go. Eventually, they come up with a solution: Bags.

They are ordinary, plastic trash bags, nothing special. Mrs. Valdez fits them over Angel's wings and keeps them in place with clothespins. At the end of the day, feathers litter the bottom, but none are to be found in the house itself. Mrs. Valdez is happy.

Angel is not, especially when he is forced to go to school with bags on his wings. People stare even more than they did before, and Angel doesn't like that. The teachers ask him why he is wearing trash bags. Angel says, "I'm shedding!"

But it doesn't last forever. Angel's new white feathers are just the same kind as before, and he waves his wings about excitedly now, pleased that he has not lost them. He is extremely exuberant.

Despite this new problem, neither Valdez parent can imagine a better son than Angel. Now, there is only the school situation to sort out.

----------

We bring you now to a time in the winged youth's life, just after he turns ten. He is taller now, already nearly four-foot eight. His parents are very pleased.

He isn't. He is older now, more mature, and he's not sure he likes having wings anymore. He walks down the halls of his elementary school and feels self-conscious; he hates people staring at him like he's an object of curiosity. "Mom," he says one night after he returns home from school. "People keep staring at my wings. Can't we take them off?"

There is a time in everyone's life when they wish they were not themselves, Mrs. Valdez knows this. She figured this time would be coming; how could it not be? She should have expected it.

"Why?" She asks as he walks over and drops to the floor in front of her. "Why do you not want your wings?"

"People stare at them," he says. "And one other boy keeps pulling my feathers."

Mrs. Valdez sighs and gives her son a hug. "He shouldn't be," she says. "Do you want me to call the school?"

"No," says Angel instantly. "I don't want you to do that. I just don't like my wings." He sighs.

"I know," says Mrs. Valdez. "It's all right. That boy shouldn't be pulling your feathers."

Angel brightens. "I don't have to do any homework," he beams suddenly, apparently remembering something. "And you know what? Someone today gave me all the answers to a test we took! Did you have them do that?"

Mrs. Valdez is unsure for an instant as to what her son is talking about. "No," she says severely. "I didn't. Who gave you the answers? Was it another student?"

Angel glances up at her. "No," he says, totally uncomprehending. "It was my teacher."

Mrs. Valdez doesn't like this. At all. She stands up and leaves the room, heading for the phone. Angel follows, tagging along idly at her heels with nothing better to do.

She calls the school, of course. But what can they do? They tell the teacher, but all she does is to give Angel the answer key instead of telling him the answers outright. Angel still doesn't understand why this is bad.

But he knows his parents don't like it, and when they sit him down one day for a talk about cheating ("academic dishonesty"), he isn't too surprised.

Still … the answers are right there. He doesn't understand them, but he writes them down anyway. He wants to understand them too, but whenever he asks teachers questions, they just smile and say that he doesn't need to bother learning that.

He accepts the test answers on another test, and this time his parents talk to him with more firmness. They've been doing this since they first heard about the cheating.

"I want to know the answers," he says one day during one of their talks.

"You won't be able to just by reading them and copying them," says his mother gently.

"But nobody will teach me anything," he almost whines, unhappy with his lot. The two elder Valdezes look at each other. They know this has been going on, but neither of them knows how to help their son.

"I know," says Mrs. Valdez as she begins to consider home-schooling her son.

But, as if in answer to his plea for knowledge, it is that year that Mrs. Marshe arrives. It is also that year that Karson and her family move, and she enters Angel's elementary school. By this time, Angel is in fifth grade.