On The Bright Side

By Shelli R. Johannes

"Johannes kicks off...with this fresh novel about an angel's peripatetic path to earning her wings...A humorous addition to the angel story genre." —Publishers Weekly

As if the devil's food cake at her wake and the white fat pants she's stuck wearing for eternity weren't bad enough, tween angel Gabby is quick to discover that being a Bright can be fun. The city of Cirrus, Skyphones, and InnerNets are all the rage. And working through the training levels to get her wings doesn't seem too hard.

At the ceremony, Gabby is horrified to find out that she has to protect her school nemesis and ex-beffie, Angela, who is now dating Gabby's mega-crush. But instead of protecting Angela, Gabby plays a few pranks (since when is sticking toilet paper to her shoe or putting spinach in her teeth a sin?). They seem harmless until the school dance sabotage gets out of control, forcing her SKYAgent, Clarence (with anger management issues of his own) to put her on probation, threatening her eternal future.

Determined to right her wrongs and fix the mess she caused, Gabby steals an ancient artifact that allows her to return to Earth for just one day. This violation unknowingly kicks off a series of events and unleashes a dark side. Gabby soon learns what can happen when you hate someone to death.

"ON THE BRIGHT SIDE is hilarious and heart-warming – a tale that'll have you hoping that spunky and determined angels like Gabby exist and have our backs." - Kristin O'Donnell Tubb, author of several middle-grade novels, including The Decomposition of Jack, Luna Howls at the Moon, and The Story Seekers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coleman & Stott
• Release date: Jan 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798988581840

Book preview

TAKE TWO

Apalm reader once told me my Life Line indicated a long and healthy life.

I want my two dollars back.

As I glance around the school auditorium, a saxophone spits whiny music through the large, hollowed-out space. I have to say, my funeral is a little disappointing.

Not the final act I expected.

I sit cross-legged on the lid of my shiny casket, I scan the room, watching people place covered dishes on a side table. Call me crazy, but I think it’s just plain wrong to serve food – let alone Devil’s Food Cake paired with an assortment of Celestial teas.

Then there’s the issue of fashion. I look down at my pants. Out of all the things my mom could dress me in, why did she choose the hideous white pants that make my butt look the size of Texas?

Now, I’m stuck with fat pants forever more. Lucky for me, white’s cool where I’m headed. Though I’m pretty sure pleats are not in style, no matter where you go.

At least she had the sense to accessorize with my favorite pink Converse.

Baby doll shoes would have been a serious sin.

My unseen SKYagent explains things to me as I watch hundreds of tear-eyed strangers stream by my mortal form. They’re totally unaware of my eternal existence. Seems like there are more people here than the entire population of my hometown (6,003.5, the .5 has always confused me).

Evidently, I’m more popular dead, than alive.

Billy, a lanky kid from my drama class, comes by with tears streaming down his cheeks. Strange. That dude never paid me any attention when I was alive. He probably thinks this act will convince our drama coach to offer him a lead role in the upcoming school Shakespearean play?

I can safely say I’ve got the role of Hamlet’s ghost in the bag.

Ms. Cross, my world religion teacher, comes by and whispers her respects. Bet she feels guilty for giving me that D on my last test.

Now, I could probably teach her a thing or two about the Afterlife.

The snaking line parts, and my mom stumbles forward through the sea of black polyester and white lace. My brother supports her arm as if she’s about to collapse under the weight of her sorrow. When she reaches me, she slumps over my mahogany box and sobs.

Pain screams through my chest, forcing me to double over. One of many downsides to being a Bright. The only physical sensation we feel comes through the pain of our loved ones. At least until our Transfer is complete.

Talk about phantom pain.

As I watch the dark streaks trickle down Mom’s pale cheeks, I clutch my chest and wait for the burning sensation to pass. As quickly as she started, she stops and wipes her face with a handkerchief. Composing herself.

I wish I could cry with her. Most Brights think the inability to tear up is a total perk. Not me. I could use a good sob right about now. Not the whimpery kind. I’m talking about the all-out blubbering, red-nosed, snotty, suck-in-your-breath kind. The ones that makes you look like total crap, but helps you feel better somehow.

I move next to my mom, wishing she could see me. My SkyAgent grabs my arm, warning me of the dangers. According to him, the Decrees of a Bright-in-Training do not allow us to be seen by Mortals unless the proper approval has been acquired. And, even that is only under extreme circumstances. Obviously some Brights don’t listen, which is why there are so many UFO sightings featured in the Mortal papers.

I’d give anything to let Mom know I’m still here. Help her feel better. Tell her I’m okay. But, communicating with Mortals is too dangerous.

For reasons that I still don’t yet fully understand.

As I watch my family leave, a terrible reality washes over me. My mom will never sing me to sleep again. My brother and I’ll never play thumb wars or watch Saturday cartoon marathons. I’ll never be with my family again. At least not in the same way. Something, even a good cry can’t fix.

Just then, two mahogany doors swing open and slam against the back wall. A weird hush sweeps over the crowd. The room full of spectators spins around and stares back at the entrance, whispering.

Michael Smith shuffles down the crowded aisle in a ratty T-shirt and wrinkled jeans. Even though it’s only been a few days, his eyes are puffy from crying, and his cheeks are sallow from obvious sleep deprivation. His face remains stiff, except for his quivering chin. He runs his hands through his dark, curly hair. It’s a mess, and as soon as he reaches my casket, he crumbles.

Gabby, I’m so sorry, he whispers. His grief sends a prickling sensation down my back, as if someone is scraping thorny roses along my spine.

I force out words, even though I know he can’t hear me. I don’t blame you.

Which is true.

Just because we sneaked out together, doesn’t mean anything was his fault. I blame Angela Black. Well, the drunk driver didn’t help either.

My SKYagent tries to console me as Michael sobs silently. Soon, my body starts to throb again. I wish I could reach out to him, but instead I slump to the ground, weighed down by his overwhelming sadness mixed with my ever-growing regret.

As the agony intensifies, I spot the Cameron High flag hanging from the ceiling. A tagline under the black panther says, show your school spirit. The reality hits me.

That’s all I am now—a school spirit.

I watch Michael’s lips move as if he’s talking to himself, and a tiny regret sneaks into my head. (And no, I’m not talking about the time I threw up on Coach Mickey in gym class after he made me do push ups. I told him I have a weak stomach.)

This regret is much, much bigger. At a dead 14, I will never have my first kiss.

How sad is that?

And no matter what Nancy Carver says. Leonard’s lizard kiss in fifth grade doesn’t count. Though if I’d known my lack of lip-locking would be for eternity, I would’ve sucked it up and kissed back. Leonard doesn’t kiss that bad. At least not compared to kissing a real reptile.

To have my life end right before I started at Cameron High flat out sucks. Now I’ll be stuck in middle school forever.

Talk about a total curse.

I bury my head in my knees. I don’t want to be dead. Not like this. Unlike most Brights in Cirrus, I want to live again. To beat Michael at Scrabble, and to hug my mom one last time. Maybe even apologize for all the times I wasn’t nice to her; all the times I brushed her off for my friends; all the times I didn’t think she was cool enough.

And to thank her for all the times she was.

Just when I think it can’t get any worse, Angela Black sashays into the auditorium and heads straight for my casket.

My pain morphs into full-blown anger. I ball my fists and grit my teeth. Who wears white to a funeral? Surely that’s a sin. I certainly don’t need her crashing my funeral like it’s a Top Model fashion show.

Michael lingers by my casket, stiff as a scarecrow, totally unaware Cruella is approaching. He reaches into his pants-pocket and retrieves a crumbled-up napkin. He carefully unfolds the decaying corners and reveals an origami four-leaf clover. Reaching up, he places the folded green paper on top of my closed box.

For luck, he says.

Little does he know, prayers mean more than luck where I’m going.

Angela slinks up next to him. Too bad Reading Minds isn’t on my curriculum yet, because I’d love to know what she’s thinking. She holds his hand and whispers something.

I stare at Michael, waiting for his reaction, but he simply turns and shuffles back down the aisle.

Away from her.

But also, away from me.

I hear my SKYagent’s warnings as hate pulses through me, which is totally against the Code. Trying to calm down, I leap into the upper window and stare out at the blood-orange sun.

I can’t wait for my Transfer to be over.

To get on with my death.

To get my first Bright assignment.

But most of all, I can’t wait to come back and haunt Angela Black.

LIFE BEFORE DEATH

A FEW DAYS EARLIER…

According to Seventeen magazine, I suffer from a well-known disease: OCD. Obsessive Crush Disorder.

In my mind, there’s only one reason why they call it a crush. Because when you’re unlucky enough to have one, your heart is crushed into a bazillion pieces. Fragments so small, it’s practically impossible to glue them back together. And even if you find a way, it’ll never be the same.

At one point, my case had gotten so bad, I consulted WebMD—only to find there’s no cure. However, I’ve learned that symptoms include doodling married names all over notebooks, Facebook stalking, chronic blushing, unexplained sweating, an addiction to compatibility quizzes, and the inability to focus. On anything.

Other than the Cause himself.

The dictionary defines a crush as an intense but temporary infatuation. Only problem is I’ve had a serious crush on Michael Smith since kindergarten. Not so temporary.

As I sit on the bench getting ready for my fencing match, I spot the Cause slinking in the side door. I don’t care how sneaky he is, I could spot him at a crowded concert. Michael’s dressed in a baby blue T-shirt, weathered jeans, and tattered chino sneakers. Perfect with a capital P.

Symptom #13 of OCD? Blind adoration. Check.

Michael notices me and smiles. My stomach flip-flops, and I throw back a casual wave. He charges in my direction. Even though I see him every day, lately I’m more and more nervous when he’s around. Gotta love hormones.

My heart bounces around in my chest like a pinball as I rehearse exactly what I’m going to say first. Something light. Not too serious. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself. One time, I tried to pretend I’d watched a football game. Unfortunately, the only two things I know about the sport are that a foot and a ball are involved.

The closer Michael gets, the more my mind races through a list of topics boys seems to enjoy: sports, video games, bodily functions, and girls. Doesn’t leave me much of a choice for a conversation starter. I lean over and pretend to tie my shoes so I don’t look like I’m counting the seconds until he’s next to me.

Eleven seconds later, Michael bends over and inspects my shoes. What’s so interesting down there?

Just as I’m about to answer, I realize my shoes don’t actually have laces. My face singes from embarrassment, but I play it off by acting surprised. Oh! Hey you! I didn’t know you were coming to this. Though, I’d prayed about it all day.

Michael grins back. Wanted to see you kick some fencer butt.

I can’t help but stare at the adorable dimple on his left cheek that resembles a comma. Which of course is my favorite punctuation mark.

I squeak out, That’s me, the butt kicker. Wait, did I just say that? That’s what I get for adlibbing. I need to stick to my canned script. So, what’s up? I try again.

Nothing much, he says. He squints as if he’s suspicious.

Either that, or I just spit in his eye.

That’s wicked, I say. This is why I am not a writer. Flat dialogue marked with clichés and outdated word choices. Um, thanks for coming, I add.

We both stand up at the same time, almost bumping noses. I try to pretend my brain doesn’t turn to mush at how close to me he’s standing. So close, I catch a whiff of his deodorant.

I love the way he smells. Clean and musky, like he just stepped out of a shower. (Side note: That might not seem like much, but showers aren’t hugely popular with guys my age.) I’m proud to say that after conducting many smell tests in the local drug store, I have identified Michael’s scent as Axe’s Temptation. I’ve even been known to purchase a can (or two) and squirt (douse/pour/drown) my wrist. That way I can smell him when he’s not around.

Come to think of it, people probably wonder why I always smell like a guy.

Michael tilts his head to one side. Today’s the big day. You’ve been practicing for this all year. You ready?

I cup my hands together to keep from fidgeting. Does a duck’s quack echo?

He appears confused. "Huh?

You know, ‘Quack, quack’? Oh God, I could kick myself. I shake my head. Never mind.

(Side note: Whoever wrote joke books must’ve been much funnier than me.)

He stares at me for a second. Why do you seem so nervous?

After years of catching frogs and rock-skipping contests, Michael knows me well. But it doesn’t keep me from throwing out a diversion.

"Could be because of all your questions? I say. I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t want to lose… again."

Or, maybe I happen to have a serious crush on my best friend, and I don’t want him to know for fear of absolute total rejection and humiliation.

You won’t lose. Maybe this will help. Michael pulls something out of his pocket and places it in my hand. Why I’m crushing on a geek who folds paper into little shapes while riding a BMX bike is beyond me. I made it for you. It’s for luck.

At first, I simply stare at the four-leaf clover in my palm and nod politely. Unfortunately, Gabby is my nickname, so diarrhea of the mouth is obviously in my DNA.

Um… great. Thanks, I blurt. I mean, why did you do this? Because you didn’t have to. If you didn’t want to. I mean you didn’t have to do this. But thanks. I think.

I close my eyes so I can’t see his reaction.

He laughs. Well? Spit it out Gabs. Do you like it or not?

I manage to squelch my nerves and whisper, I love it. Thanks.

I study the fragile folds of the smooth green paper. I clear my throat because I kinda feel like I want to cry at the thoughtful gift. Yet I don’t want to smudge the perfect gift with tears of joy. I hope it works.

It will. Michael shrugs. Then, we can celebrate. Meet me tonight?

Goose bumps perform a figure eight along my spine, and I shiver. Dude, why do you like trying to sneak out? What’s so exciting?

He nudges me with his elbow. It’s fun. There’s a full moon tonight.

Another geek trait I adore. His love for lunar phases. Don’t strange things happen at full moons?

Michael flashes me a devilish look. I’m not gonna howl, if that’s what you mean.

Getting ready for my match, I slip into my metal lamé and close the side zipper. The last thing I need is to get busted out on a school night, I argue. Especially when my mom finds out I barely squeaked by on yesterday’s world religion test.

Like we’ll ever use that stuff anyway. Michael sweeps his bangs to one side. I bet she’s going to that PTA meeting tonight? That thing’ll drag on for hours. You know how parental units looove to rattle on about rules.

I guess.

He flashes his adorably crooked smile and pokes my ribs with his elbow. Come on. You in or what?

I catch myself grinning back like the Cheshire cat, and then quickly shrugging as if it doesn’t matter.

Like hanging out with Michael Smith is the everyday, normal, boring, last-thing-in-the-world I would want to do.

I play off the excitement buzzing inside my head like a hive of bees. Fine, but if I get caught, I’m taking you down with me.

Over the loud speaker, a man announces the fencing match is going to start in five minutes. I grab my mask and point up to the bleachers.

Better get outta here, I say. I need to stretch.

Michael gives me a thumbs up. Knock ‘em dead.

A FRENEMY FOR LIFE

Ihate to lose. Especially to Angela Black.

To make it worse, I hate losing in front of Michael. How embarrassing.

I yank off my mask and drop it into my ratty duffle bag. Leaning over, I stare at the floor, replaying every tiny mistake in my head. As soon as I look up again, Angela is sitting down on the bench ignoring me. She peels off her fencing mask and tosses her black, silky hair over her shoulder, as if Garnier is in the building shooting a new shampoo commercial. Out of habit, I reach up and smooth my halo of wild red frizz. Whenever she’s around, I feel like the fuzzy mutt positioned next to the beautiful dog that just won Best in Show.

Part of me wants to walk off and ignore her back, but then I remember something my dad used to say: "Fencing isn’t about winning; it’s about honoring the sport's tradition of sportsmanship."

I suck up my pride and face her, holding out my hand for a quick shake. Good match, Angela.

She stares at my palm as if I have a huge wart and ignores my gesture. I know, right?

I shrug and begin packing my bag. But inside I feel sick.

When I don’t react exactly the way she expects, her voice grows a bit louder, warning me of an impending scene. "Guess you’re mad?"

I keep my voice low so the woman next to me can’t hear. What? I’m not mad.

Angela goads me in a hissy voice, like a cobra that’s about to strike. "Aw, that’s okay. I understand. Must suck to lose for the third year in a row. Not that I would know."

I try to ignore her, but she’s like a mosquito that insists on buzzing by my ear. I swat back before really thinking. "I saw you fléche. Isn’t that against school rules?"

Angela folds her arms across her chest and blinks her cat-eyes at me. "You don’t know a fléche from a plié."

She pulls a red beret out of her bag and slips it on her head. In any other school, someone wearing a French hat would be considered a total dork. However, at Cameron Middle, Angela is obviously a French god, no matter how silly she looks. If I wore an accessory like that, I’d be laughed out of the building. And all the way to France.

She looks over at her new friends and waves, and I finally muster up a perfect comeback. Better late than never. By the way, what’s up with the beret? Just because you’re from Paris, Texas, doesn’t mean you’re actually French.

Angela gives me a once over. Like I’d take fashion advice from you.

I instinctively hide my feet under the bench, wondering if she can see the hole in my pink Converse.

She scoffs. "Because you are so not panache’."

Lucky for me, I’m much better at French than pre-algebra and have retained enough to catch her mistake.

"I believe the word you’re looking for is soigné. I say with a big grin and a wink. If you’re going to insist on wearing that hat, you better carry that French dictionary around with you. Never know when you might need it."

I refrain from cheering inside at my perfectly timed comeback. I mean, how often does that happen? A movie couldn’t have scripted it better.

Angela opens her mouth to retaliate just as the fencing judge walks over. He holds up the gold USFA medal and lets it sway in front of us. Congratulations on another win, Miss Black. At this rate, you’re a shoe-in for State this year.

Angela snatches the prize out of his hand and shrieks in a high-pitched voice that only dogs should be able to hear. Awesome! As soon as the man leaves, she shoves the gold circle up to my nose. "Well Crabby, I guess it’s official. I’m the true winner. No matter what you think."

My eyes cross as I focus on the medallion. The overhead, florescent lights reflect off its metallic surface, and I refuse to allow any tears to sneak out. It’s not her illegal fléche or even another loss that upsets me. Winning this match meant more than just a medal. It was something I’d promised Dad I’d do this year. Right before he died. A lump balloons in my throat as the failure swings in front of me.

You’re not gonna cry, are you? Angela tosses the medal into her bag like it’s a piece of trash. Because that would be awkward.

You wish. I lean over and grab my bag, planning a quick exit, and a florescent pink flyer flutters out, landing at her feet.

Angela snatches up the paper. She reads it and narrows her violet eyes. No doubt, the result of fake colored contacts obtained at a strip-mall eye doctor.

You’re going to the dance? She scoffs. I don’t believe it. With who?

The Rose Dance is the one dreaded event of the year where girls have to sacrifice egos and swallow insecurities, all in the name of bad food and a bad dress. Personally, I don’t get the whole Sadie Hawkins thing. Evidently, Sadie was an old maid and so ugly that her dad forced all the guys in town to run in a race to get away from her. If Sadie caught one, the poor dude had no choice but to marry her… and her beard. (Side note: Not the most inspiring story if you ask me.)

Angela asks me again. So? Are you going to the dance? Or not.

My