Mrs. L’s office smells like perfume. Thick, sticky perfume that makes the whole room feel like a sauna. Doesn’t help that I’m wearing a sweater.

There are plaques all over the walls, “Higher Angel voted best principal” and “Principal of the decade” and shit like that. They fill up the entire wall behind the spinny chair she sits in.

On the left wall is a table with a mirror on top. There’s makeup products and brushes, which you can obviously tell don’t work when you look at Mrs. L’s face. 

The right wall has two windows and piles of paperwork. Or maybe it’s just complaints. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if they were complaints.

“So.” The chair swivels around and she clasps her hands. “Emery told me you were skipping class.”

“Isn’t skipping class allowed?” I ask. “I skipped class once and no one said anything about it.”

Mrs. L purses her lips. “You were not caught, that is all. There are over a million angels who reside at this Academy. We do not have the staff or the time to find every student who ditches class. We spend enough time extending the school as it is.”

“Can’t they just use magic?”

“Even magic takes time.”

Everything takes time. I hate time.

“Why does school even matter when we’re dead?” Camrice retorts. She crosses her arms and glares at Mrs. L. 

Not that it mattered when we were alive. It was literally just another word for hellhole. I don’t even wanna think about it–

“It is vital,” Mrs. L says, “that we keep students busy after…passing away. What else would they do? The Academy is a place to make friends and learn what you wish.”

“Well, why can’t we just get reincarnated?”

Mrs. L closes her eyes. Her jaw’s clenched and her back straightens. 

“Reincarnation,” she rigidly says, opening her eyes, “is something we know very little about.”

We know very little about everything dumbass.

“One can’t simply just ask to be reincarnated and receive what they wish.” She looks Camrice dead in the eye. “Earth doesn’t work like that and neither does Heaven. And even if you were to be reincarnated, there is a very little chance you get the perfect life you want.” 

Camrice opens her mouth, then closes it. 

“Anyways,” Mrs. L continues, “you will both receive–”

“Then why bother dying anyway?” 

“What?”

Camrice’s eyes are glossy. Her voice cracks and trembles. 

“Why bother dying,” she screams, “if nothing’s changed? If I’m still unsatisfied with my life?”

“I don’t know why you died,” Mrs. L says, almost kindly, “but we all die in the end. Death is inevitable.”

Death is inevitable. Embrace death. I think I read that in a book once. I guess death is beautiful in a way that is also tragic. Death can be good sometimes, but it can also be bad. I guess it depends who dies. Or what dies. I wonder if anyone cried when I died… 

Emery’s leaning against the wall near the office door once Camrice and I leave. 

“Have fun?” she asks.

“SHUT UP,” Camrice screams. She shoves Emery’s head against the glass wall and her halo flickers. “I’m so fucking over you.”

“Come on,” Emery says with a strained voice. “It can’t be that bad.”

“YOU CALL A WEEK CLEANING THE BASEMENT NOT BAD?” 

Emery swallows. “I didn’t know they hadn’t cleaned it up yet.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Camrice scoffs. She storms away, leaving me and Emery awkwardly standing with each other. It leaves me wondering maybe the anger had to do with…the other thing. And maybe that was their breakup. I want to ask Emery about it–and I was about to, but…

I glance at her. Emery’s eyes are filled with a sadness I hadn’t seen before. Her knees shake almost imperceptibly and she’s clutching the ends of her sleeves so tight they look like they’re about to rip off. 

“That bitch,” she whispers.