Clique Cliche: Angel of Cottonwood High

Prologue

Did she just move to hell?

That had to be the only logical explanation. No place on earth could be so fetching hot, otherwise. Just sitting in the car she felt like her skin was about to slip right off her bones, much to the amusement of the car's broken air conditioner. To ease the suffering, her dad rolled the window down, but the wind was just as dry and hot as the dirt and weeds casing the highway.

As Angel Smith slowly cooked from the outside in, her dad didn't seem to be as affected as she. His arm hung outside the beat up truck, wind snapping at his white, paint-splattered t-shirt, as he bobs his head to the lyrics of ABBA, undeterred by the sun beating down on the earth outside.

If the heat didn't kill her, the music will. She never liked ABBA. They were too pop-ish and flashy. Girly. Everything she despised. Yet, for some reason, her dad found them appealing. Enough so that the whole car ride had been nothing but Mamma Mia, Dancing Queen, and Fernando.

Her dad's name is William Smith. With his square-framed glasses, wild red hair, and the prickly beginnings of a beard, he looked just as much of an eccentric artist as her mom claimed he was. It's been a while since Angel has seen him. A few years, in fact. Probably would've continued going like that if he hadn't called her mom, Emily Davis, months ago, asking if he could spend time with his child after years of keeping them at an arm's length.

It was weird. She didn't remember much of her parents divorce as a kid, mostly the cold glances they shot at each other when they thought she wasn't looking, and their arguments downstairs when they thought she was sleeping, and the packing up of boxes, and the moving van, and the way William hadn't even said goodbye before he left. So, with those few memories, she tended to fill in the gaps herself. She couldn't even really think of him as a dad. He was just William

Why William had a change of heart was as mysterious to her as the unfathomable heat outside. Why he picked such a place to live was beyond her too.

Angel looked away, just as William glanced at her. She tried to distract herself by gathering her backpack in her lap and making a mindless rummage through its contents, hoping it'd discourage him from asking how she's been. Notebooks, sketchbooks, regular books, pencils, erasers, a piece of paper with her mom's contact information -

"So, Angelica, how've you been?" William asks, turning down the music, and Angel grimaces.

Dammit.

She doesn't even correct him about her name - nobody but her mom calls her Angelica - as she drops the backpack, disheartened by its inability to avoid conversation, and stares out of the window. How's she been? Well, she's being forced to spend the year in Ari-freaking-zona, much against her own will, she's enrolling into a new school, left all her friends back in New York where she was supposed to be, misses her mom and stepfather, Dave. So, how'd he think she was doing?

But she suppresses those thoughts and settles with a shrug, "I'm fine, I guess"

William nods, a bit too serious. "I - I see. Um...I know...Look, I know this is-" he sounds like he's about to dive into some half-hearted apology about bringing her out here. Only to stops with a small sigh and the rest goes unsaid.

It's already getting awkward, and Angel wished he hadn't even tried. He can't expect things to go smoothly between them right away, can he? He's been gone for years. She wasn't some little girl anymore, who liked unicorns and princesses, and whose favor could be bought with ice-cream.

Well...

No. No, her favor wouldn't be bought with ice-cream. That'd be ridiculous.

Unless it was vanilla. But William didn't need to know that, she doubted he even knew her favorite ice-cream flavor.

Dave knew what kind of ice-cream she liked, and he was her stepfather. At least he made an effort to be in her life.

"Whatever," Angel mutters, laying on her arms propped up on the window. She stares at the long barren fields, the mountains that had risen to the left, and the weeds that seemed to stretch for smiles. Dirt. There was dirt everywhere. Where was all the green?

Hell, she thinks. I'm in hell.

_______________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

Williams house is a small, two-story building next to a field. A field of weeds. The house itself is grey, but given the years, the sun had drained it of most its color, leaving a light sleet hue behind. The driveway is loose gravel, and the potted plants on the porch steps look one breeze away from disintegrating.

Yet, there's something oddly charming about the whole place, something Angel can't quite put her finger on. Maybe its the soft twinkling wind-chimes hanging from the porch trimmings, or the curling ivy vines climbing up the wood railings. But she doesn't want to appreciate the, admittedly, quaint looking house. She wants to be back in her house.

Stepping out of the car, the heat comes at her in waves and suddenly the house seems too far away. William, who had long since forgotten their awkward beginnings of a conversation, whistles the tune to "Super Trouper" as he gets her bags from the back.

Angel swung her backpack over her shoulders, grabbed the trunk she stored in the backseat, and trudged to the door.

"Just go on in," William calls behind her. "The key is under the welcome mat."

Indeed it was. Angel lifts the new mat, with its gaudy flowers, a smiling sun with sunglasses, and the words: Welcome written in a bolded curly font, and grabs the key. But as soon as she opens the door, she's tempted to close it again. Everything is a mess.

She nudges past a wide-spread jacket on the floor, and a pair of shoes nearby, rolling her trunk behind her. Her mom always told her that William could be a bit of a slob. But, hey, that's how all eccentric artists were like. Cause they just didn't have the time of day actually clean up after themselves. Angel should've guessed this is what the house was going to be like.

The living room is up next, and she's almost hesitant about looking inside.

But, surprisingly, everything's seems to be straight and in order. The plants sitting on the large, open windowsill don't actually look like they're on their deathbed, the bookshelves are sleek and filled with musty old books just ripe for the reading, the glass coffee table is clean with a decorative bowl of pretty blue marbles inside. The air conditioner is blowing near the back, sending a delicious cool breeze over her skin.

Well, one clean room in the house doesn't mean its actually sanitary. He's must've cleaned everything up cause she was coming. Didn't want to scare her away, or give her a legit reason to go back to her real home.

The kitchen is clean too. Classic. He really went all out, didn't he? There are no dishes in the sink, the dark wood floor's been swept, the cupboards and all their appliances cleaned. Did he even use that mixer? It looked brand new.

Can William cook? Angel wonders. Or is it going to be take-out and fast food from here on out? She and Dave used to cook together all the time. Sometimes they'd surprise mom with a fresh, home-cooked dinner to come home to. Angel leaned against the cupboard, folding her arms across her stomach as the home-sickness came on. She's tried not to dwell in it ever since getting off the plane, but it was getting harder and harder to fight it off with each passing hour.

She wondered what Dave was doing now. Did he get back from work? Is he taking mom out to that fancy restaurant they all liked? Did they even miss her?

William came stomping into the house and her thoughts evaporated with a pop, like over-sized bubbles. He's still whistling, this time the tune of Mamma Mia, when he comes into the kitchen, arms and shoulder piled with her bags and trunks. The whistling paused slightly when he saw her leaning against the cupboard, and he adjusted the duffel hanging off his shoulder.

"Hey, is everything okay?"

Home-sick based thoughts pile on her tongue, but Angel swallows them down. It's not like she could possibly confide in William. That's completely out of the question. What would he know, anyway? He wasn't going to understand what she was going through. He brought her there. He was the reason for all this.

"Everything's fine," Angel mutters, tugging on the sleeves of her jacket. It probably wouldn't have been so hot if she rolled them up, or took off the jacket, but it was something of a security blanket at this point. Tugging on the sleeves was somehow therapeutic, and she didn't dare relinquish this part of herself.

William buys it and moves past the kitchen into the hallway. "Your rooms upstairs. Come on, I'll show you," he bops his head toward the stairs, piles up the bags in his arms, and starts up to the second floor.

Angel listened to his heaving breaths and the rustling of the bags for a few seconds, before swinging her bag up again and followed after him.

William leads her through the hallways, where landscape paintings line the walls and the floor is rolled with a thin carpet, to the far end of the house. Her room, in one word, is small. The bed isn't too bad where its pushed against the wall, already made done up with a pink comforter and a teddy bear tied with a ribbon sitting against the fluffed pillows. She scoffs. Pink, a teddy bear with a ribbon, he definitely didn't know her. How old did he think she was? Six? Seven? Try seventeen. Practically an adult.

Besides, she had more than enough stuffed animals at home.

There's a desk facing the wall, a hope chest at the foot of the bed, and a small door, probably leading into a closet. She knows its meant to be homey, but the white walls seem icy and cold, like blocks of ice caging her in. She can already see the hours she's gonna spend sitting at the window seat, staring into the leaves of the tree's growing under her window, waiting for the sun to set day after day until she was on her way back to New York. This year was already looking so dreary.

Angel had her hand against the window-pane before she realized she had crossed the room. Her bag dropped from her shoulder and she sat on the plush cushion of the window seat. She pushed slightly on the glass, as if it would open, so she could fly away from the hot Arizona sun, and the dry air, and the weeds. Everything was changing so quickly. Her life was blurring. Just hours ago she had been on a plane, listening to the latest album of her favorite band. Now....now she was here. If only she could -

"So, here you are," William interrupted her glooming thoughts with a grin and a small clap of his hands. He'd already set her bags on the floor and now stood in the middle of the room, beaming. "I know it's not much, but I spent all yesterday getting it ready for you. What do you think?"

Angel looked at the teddy bear, the pink blanket, the window holding her captive. She forced a smile, but it feels strained, "Great?"

William's smile grows. "Good. That's good. I'm gonna go downstairs and get dinner started, you just settle in here and I'll call you when its ready."

Angel looks back out the window, at the leaves fluttering in the ghastly wind outside, and nods along with them. She hears William shuffle toward the door, only to stop after a few steps.

He clears his throat, uncomfortable, "Oh, and could you - uh, could you not put your hand on the glass," he says, and Angel timidly removes her hand, "Yeah, yeah thank you. I just washed the windows, and, you know, hands smudge. Thanks." With another grin, he leaves.

His footsteps disappear down the hall, and when they fade down the stairs Angel feels like she can finally breathe. She plopped on the bed, staring at the bags cluttering her floor, and wondered how far she'd get if she tried to walk to New York.

She wasn't ready for a year in a new life. She wasn't ready to spend time with him. She missed her friends, her family, and her city. What gave William the right to suddenly demand to be in her life? If he wanted to be a part of their family, maybe he would've thought about it before he left.

The branches outside swayed and Angel was tempted to go sit at the windowsill again. There's a compelling, melancholy feel to it. Like she could sit there for hours and hours and hours, simmering in her thoughts and emotions. Like a locked up convict, facing false charges and waiting for the end of her sentence. But, William was right about one thing, if she was going to be here an entire year, she was gonna need to get settled. With a heaving sigh, she rolled up the sleeves of her jacket and picked up the first bag.