The Belief in Angels by J. Dylan Yates

on the sidewalk, waiting for Wendy to get out. Instead, Wendy waves at her and reaches over to unlock mydoor from the driver’s side. Mrs. Dougherty helps me slide in, and without saying a word Wendy drives off before I even have time to say good-bye and close my door. I hang on to the dashboard as Wendy swerves out and in again with the car to swing the door closed.
    I turn and catch Mrs. Dougherty’s face as we pull away from the school. She looks like Edvard Munch’s
Scream.
    I know it’s useless for me to ask, but I want an explanation. “Why didn’t you come?”
    “I have friends visiting, and I couldn’t leave them.”
    “But I have a concussion. Do you know how mortifying it is to wait for you? I think the nurse might call the police on you.”
    I know I’ve gone too far. Wendy laughs. I can tell she’s high because she’s weaving the car all over the road. I’m glad we only have a few blocks to go.
    “Are you going to take me to the doctor? Mrs. Dougherty says I should go to see a doctor.”
    “No. I don’t think you need to see a doctor.”
    I’m not surprised by this. We have to be practically dying or dripping blood for Wendy to take us to our pediatrician. So I figure I should do what Mrs. Dougherty told me, to be safe.
    “Mrs. Dougherty told me to lie down when I go back to the house, with the blinds closed, but not to fall asleep.”
    Wendy doesn’t say anything.
    “Just so you know, I don’t want to end up like the Wild Boy.”
    Wendy laughs and reaches over to feel my head. I flinch because I think she might hit me. Sometimes she gives me a slap when I speak sarcastically. Sometimes she ignores it.
    “I wanna feel your bump.”
    I direct her hand to the back of my head.
    “Wow, big bump. Okay, lie down in your room if you want to. I’ve got friends over, though.”
    That’s Wendy’s hint to stay out of her way and outside, if at all possible.
    My brothers and I make this possible for her since we don’t like her friends. When she invites friends over, they don’t do drugs—none that we’re aware of, anyway. It’s like a concession to a code of ethics related to her parental status. So far, anyway.

Eight
    Jules, 8 years | April 15th, 1970
    CODE CHANGE
    WE PULL INTO our driveway. Music blares out onto Alethea Road from inside.
    On almost every inch of our driveway and our now tire-marked front lawn: motorcycles.
    I stagger out of the car, still dizzy, and start exploring the motorcycles. They say “Hells Angels.” They have wild-painted designs in bright colors.
    “What does ‘Hells Angels’ mean?” I ask Wendy.
    Wendy says, “It’s a club for motorcycle riders.”
    Then she walks inside and joins the party.
    The smell of something moldy-sweet hits me as soon as I walk up the porch stairs. It’s the same smell I remember from Wendy’s visits to her old friend Natasha.
    Inside, tons of people sit around the kidney-bean glass coffee table in our living room. They pass a cigarette with the weird, moldy smell back and forth to each other. I know its marijuana. I’ve smelled Jack smoking it when he thinks we’re outside and I find tiny ends of them around all the time. As soon as I step into the living room, people scoop things up off the coffee table and stuff them in their pockets. They’re hiding some kind of small tools from me, but I don’t have a chance to see what they are. Everybody stops talking when I walk in the room. They stare at Wendy until Jill speaks. Jill is Wendy’s newest, best friend.
    “Jules, this is my boyfriend Billy, and these guys are friends of his and their chicks,” Jill says, gesturing around.
    “Hello,” I say. “Are you all in the Hells Angels club?”
    They all laugh hard. I can’t understand why it seems like a funny question, but I figure Wendy lied about it’s being a club or something. “Yeah, we’re all part of the club,” Jill says. I can tell she’s trying to be nice, but it still seems like a joke on me.
    Everybody seems