The Belief in Angels by J. Dylan Yates Page A

sheepish. Probably something to do with the drugs they were doing and the fact a kid is there watching them. I scan the room. “Where’s Jack?”
    “He’s taking a ride on a bike he’s thinking about buying,” Wendy says.
    Jack’s probably going to be joining the club, too, I’m thinking. Judging by the people in the living room, he’ll fit right in.
    Since Florida, Wendy’s been wearing clothes that belong on the Sonny & Cher Show. When Jack got back from sailing, he was wearing the same style of clothes. Hardly anybody in Withensea, except maybe the teenagers, dresses like the two of them. Everybody in this room dresses like the hippies on TV. Only with more leather.
    They fit right into Wendy’s interior redecoration.

    After the divorce from my father, Wendy went psychedelic with the decor. A bright magenta shag carpet now covers most of the floors. The kitchen has been covered in a vinyl pattern of large fire-hydrant orange, lemon-yellow, and lipstick-red daisies.
    In the center of the living room is our same couch, reupholstered in a bright, rose-floral print. Next to it sits the formerly black, S-shaped chaise, now reupholstered in fluffy white sheepskin. On one side table by the couch is a lamp with a crushed velvet, scarlet-colored shade and tacky, dangling, scarlet-colored plastic jewels. On the other side sits a lamp with a round chrome base and a shiny, black-vinyl shade. Both lamps have blacklight bulbs.
    All the walls are painted a pale shade of lavender. The antique framed pictures of my grandfather’s parents still hang on the walls, but now they’re joined with framed blacklight posters, most of them Peter Max creations.
    The curtain rods are draped with moss-green, slubbed polyester fabric.
    Scattered everywhere are random sculptures—donated by artist friends or created by Jack—and yard sale stuff that Wendy collects. The fact these things remain in place despite all the visitors who could have taken things without notice is more a statement about their “junkiness” and less about the honesty level of Wendy’s friends.
    In the den, the old black-and-white TV and phonograph are still there, but the TV and phonograph have become property of “the kids.” Wendy uses a much more sophisticated stereo system, complete with a Pioneer “tape deck” set up nextto a large color television she keeps in her bedroom. The bar, which used to hold my father’s alcohol, has become a candle-making workshop. The top of the bar is littered with candle molds, spools of candlewick, boxes of dye, and bottles of scent. The planter, which before held his record albums, now displays the candles. Most were molded with the sand we’ve carted in pails from the beach. Wendy sells them at one of the town’s arts and crafts stores with Jack’s stained glass creations.
    The exceptions to Wendy’s redecorating are the bedrooms belonging to my brothers and me, and the dining room.
    We rarely use the dining room since the divorce.
    The money used to fund the entire redecorating job came from my father. Not that he volunteered it or anything: A week after the divorce was final, Wendy went to Sloane Sales, a big department store in Boston’s South Shore, and used the Master Charge card he didn’t know she kept in his name to buy over seven thousand dollars’ worth of stuff.
    Wendy charged furniture, carpet, appliances, bedding, drapery, clothing, a slew of art supplies for me, a bike for David, and a unicycle for Moses. She also bought new fishing rods and a small dinghy for Moses and me so we could go fishing in the bay, which was calmer than the ocean side of Withensea. She figured he owed it to her to make up for the money he’d gambled, the money he didn’t share from the land he sold, and all the money he’d spent during the marriage.
    My father got furious about the Sloane Sales spending spree, but Wendy got away with it somehow.

    I hate the mess, the music, and the all noise from the people hanging