6. Books

Madeline grew from an average child into an average teenager, pimples and braces and lop-sided breasts included. Her mother called it her ‘ugly-duckling-phase’ which made Madeline either roll her eyes or run off in outrage, depending on her mood. She had recently come to the realisation that parents could not only be horribly embarrassing but also annoying, neither of which was something she usually wanted to deal with. 

In the three years since her unfortunate therapy session, she hadn’t come any closer to unveiling her guardian angel. Though she still had as many scrapes and bruises as before, truly dangerous situations had evaded her just as she had started to look forward to them. By now her thoughts were taken over by much more important things, like how blue Jeremy Stretton’s eyes were and reliving that one time the edge of her skirt got caught in the bus-doors, and she had almost died from mortification. 

Another huge portion of her time was taken over by her part-time job at the local library, which mostly consisted of digitalising book catalogues (boring) or startling couples making out, believing themselves hidden by the tall shelves (entertaining). At the moment, Madeline was resorting, which was just a smidgen less mind-numbing than typing numbers into small squares on a screen, stretching onto her toes to cram a book between two of its brethren. The old ladder she was balancing on wobbled precariously when she had to lean forward to grab a book which had been shelved incorrectly (there might be a similar target group for cookbooks and bodice rippers, but poor Jamie Oliver looked quite uncomfortable between gleaming pectorals and see-through blouses). One corner of the book got stuck and Madeline pulled harder, the ladder creaking ominously when suddenly her foot slipped, a terrible second of vertigo, while her stomach turned weightless before a pair of arms steadied her. 

Madeline looked down, her heartbeat echoing behind her forehead, laying eyes on her saviour. A boy about fifteen returned her gaze, with messy, untamed curls, lashes so long and dark they caused a stab of jealousy in her gut and an arrogant chin. 

Before she could think about it, the fingers of her free hand hooked into the sleeve of his white shirt. “Got you!”

“If anything, I got you,” he mocked, proving his words by letting go of her and forcing Madeline to quickly abandon his shirt and steady herself against the shelf. 

“Until next time. At least try to stay alive, hmm?” 

He pulled a black cap onto his head and vanished. As if he had never been there in the first place. 

Madeline blinked at the blank space, but the boy didn’t reappear. She was alone, her only company Jamie Oliver’s printed face, laughing at her gobsmacked expression.