Joane died in the summer before 4th grade. Where she ended up was floating above the tallest tree in the park.
"What just happened?" she asked aloud. She was startled when she heard an answer.
"What happened is: you died," said a tall, thin man in a mock turtle neck and khaki pants. He was oddly crisp in contrast to the scenery.
Joane's brow furrowed. "I fell out of a tree," she said. "People don't die from falling out of trees."
"Hate to break it to you, kid, but lots of people die from falling out of trees. Look down if you don't believe me."
Joane folded her arms, "So, what happens now?"
The tall man shrugged, "Eh, you're a cute kid. Blonde hair, blue eyes… once they get you fitted in your white gown and halo, you'll be a quintessential cherub."
Joane pursed her lips. The 9-year-old was comfortable in her grey t-shirt, cut-off jeans, and her brother's flannel. Joane turned away and spoke to herself, "It's just a weird dream. Any minute now, I'm going to wake up and Mom is going to say I had one doosey of a concussion. Yeah, that's it. Napoleon is probably running to go get her now."
The tall man shook his head gently. "My name's Fergus. I'm a ghost."
"Just let me wake up," she pleaded.
Fergus sighed. "I can't do that."
"Okay," Joane responded. She jutted her chin forward, "I can play your game. I'll just enjoy this dream while it lasts."
"All right then," the ghost said. "I told you my name, will you tell me yours?"
"Joane. Friends call me Jojo."
"May I call you Jojo?"
The girl shrugged. After a brief pause, she said, "I'm not going to be a cherub."
Fergus smirked. "Why not? You'd rather be a ghost like me?"
"No. I just don't wanna be chubby-cheeked kid with wings for all eternity."
"Being a cherub sounds nice," the tall man countered.
Joane wrinkled her nose. "Please! Screw that Peter-Pan garbage. I'm gonna grow up and have a real job."
When Fergus was alive, he had a degree in Philosophy and was on his way to law school. All this potential was snuffed out due to a drunken make-out session with a guy who had been noshing on peanut-butter cookies and knew nothing of Fergus's severe allergy.
Accidental deaths always take longer to process, so Fergus had been a disgruntled ghost for months. Yet, he grew to rather like his new state of existence. He especially enjoyed his monthly appointments with Providence.
Fergus ran his hands through his black, shaggy hair. "Will I look the same if I become an angel?"
Providence answered, "No. You could get a halo and wings, if you wanted."
"Yeah, but besides that. Will I still look like a college kid in need of a hair-cut? Will Amelia still look like a frumpy teen? Does Jojo still look 9 years old? Jojo made it into Heaven, right? I haven't seen her in ages."
Providence smirked. "In Heaven, a person is allowed to transition into their ideal self. Some age, some look young again – it all depends on what the individual views as ideal."
"Is it just age? What if my ideal self has a six-pack?"
"Physique may be altered, too."
"What about my race, or gender, or species? What if deep down someone fantasized about being a dolphin?"
Providence laughed. "Most people aren't that creative with their identity. In fact, I know several angels who are still wearing their ghost clothes."
On graduation day, Joane and her fellow guardian-angels-in-training received their official halos and a personal visit from Providence. Providence was a buxom woman in a dazzlingly white tailored suit. Her hair was short, spikey and cosmic purple. There was a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lips. "Now all that is left to do is choose someone to protect," Providence said to the sassy adolescent in pig-tails. "Lou in the file room can help you with the process."
Joane tilted her head. "There's paperwork in Heaven?"
"Of course, girl! One man's torture is another man's therapy." Providence took Joane's hand and gave it a friendly shake. "Congratulations on completing your training. Have a splendid time selecting your charge." With that, she released Joane's hand and took a large step to the left.
Joane found herself in a space made of nothing but filing cabinets. A plump woman with sandy brown hair and pink horn-rimmed glasses welcomed her.
"You must be Lou," Joane said.
"I am," the woman responded, straightening her halo and adjusting her glasses.
"Do you have a file for everyone? Like, every-everyone?" Joane asked, gazing at the towering cabinets.
"Living and dead. Just tell me the name and I can find 'em quick as a wink."
With so much information so easily accessed, Joane couldn't resist looking up a certain name. She had not thought of him in years, and he certainly wasn't someone she wanted to protect.
"Napoleon Maxwell Sowachowski," Joane stated clearly.
True to her word, the angelic secretary handed over the file just as Joane finished saying, "The boy who murdered me."
Joane snapped open the file. She grinned as she scanned the pages. However, the grin quickly faded. Napoleon Maxwell was not in jail, he was dead. Yet, he was not being tortured in Hell; he was a demon with a counterpart named Jonathan. She slammed the file closed and returned to the desk.
"Jonathan Combs," Joane said to Lou.
Joane snatched the new file out of Lou's hands. She chuckled when she to found a section titled Romantic Interests. She returned to Lou with one more request, "Magill Nancy."