The Pentrals (11 page)

I think back to the night of Mary’s accident. Ben roamed the hospital halls, as if his sister was concealed in a game in hide-and-seek, not medical trauma. Usually quick with a sarcastic remark, he was completely speechless, wrecked with pain. I watched from below as he transformed from a self-assured young man to a little lost boy. It reminded me of one of my first encounters with Ben, at Mrs. Kelly’s funeral.

Ben had only just been adopted by the Kellys when she passed away. I wasn’t privy to the details of her death; the girls were too young to talk about it with each other so I remained in the dark. It was an impossible situation to shadow; Violet had never experienced such a trauma before, and I didn’t know how she would react. I wasn’t sure if I should be ready to replicate hysterical crying or quiet mourning.

The funeral was drenched in darkness. A relentless rain poured at the gravesite, the congregation’s tears merging with the showers. Everyone was dressed in black, so for once my dark shape was not just an outline, but a real representation of the scene. We stood, silently, as a preacher spoke about Mrs. Kelly’s life. I knew her, sort of, through times spent running through the Kellys’ house with Violet and Mary, but my interactions with her were limited.

The least acquainted with her was Ben. He stood with the crowd, hands jammed into his pockets, trying to figure out what to do with himself. Everyone was weeping, offering farewells, but he held back, no memories to share or emotions to display. It was difficult to watch, and it took a very long time for him to crawl out of whatever protective shell he’d wrapped himself up in.

And now, it seems like he’s trying once again to get himself back on track. We walk and talk a bit more before I find myself at Mr. West’s door. “This is my stop.”

“Physics?” he says with confusion. Violet’s distaste for science must be well known. Ben looks at me puzzled, searching my face for some sort of explanation, but quickly shrugs it off. “Better you than me.”

“It should be great,” I say, more defensively than I intend. I am actually looking forward to this class. Mr. West is my favorite teacher of Violet’s and I am excited to learn from the vantage point of a desk, rather than the floor.

“Okay. See ya,” Ben signs off. I watch him disappear down the hall before taking a seat. Sam is not there yet so I look for a spot where I know she won’t sit by me. There is one desk left in the first row—perfect. I can avoid a lifter while absorbing knowledge.

Mr. West bounds into the classroom full of pep like always. His disheveled blonde hair, crumpled clothes, paired with his overly-caffeinated jitter, gives him a sort of mad scientist vibe. He begins pulling materials out from his desk but then stops mid-drawer pull, as if a silent alarm has alerted him to a disturbance. He quickly scans the room, eyes flitting from corner to corner, desperately searching for something, and then finally locks his gaze on a target.

Me.

Maybe only a few seconds go by, but for me it feels like an eternity. Mr. West is staring like he has seen an alien, his blue eyes wide in disbelief and needing an explanation. Something is clicking away in his head, logging my presence before him. I do not know Mr. West all that well visually, as usually I only listen to his lectures as I stare up at Violet, but this behavior does not seem normal. No one else notices his laser beam stare though, so I try to remain calm. A brief chill runs through me.
Stay cool, Antares
, I tell myself.

Eventually he tears his eyes away and takes a second to look at his desk. He regains his composure and taps on the room’s holopane, bringing up a lesson on the visible light spectrum. I was so looking forward to his class, but now I cannot even concentrate. Mr. West’s eyes were so fixated in studying me that he did not even blink. What was he thinking? The only interaction he and Violet ever had was him giving her Mary’s journal—was he wondering if I had read it? Seems like an intense expression for a book full of formulas. Then again, he is a physics teacher, so maybe thinking about formulas takes his brain to a crazy place.

When the bell rings, I consider approaching him about the journal, but he disappears into his supply closet before I get the chance. I scan the room to see where Samantha ended up but she is nowhere to be seen. Probably spent the period lifting in the bathroom.

The day trudges on as I stick to following Violet’s schedule. Even though he was weird today, my appreciation for Mr. West grows as the classes go by, because even if he is strange, at least he tries. The rest of the teachers do not exhibit the slightest interest in their subjects. I have never read a book but Mr. Worthington’s complete lack of passion for the subject of literature makes me never want to. Algebra with Ms. Blick seems more mystifying than it needs to be. And physical education? The period was spent sitting lazily on a basketball court, thanks to a lack of encouragement from Mr. Shield. I have to wonder if someone slipped the entire teaching staff some sort of depressant. The students seem fine, full of energy and interest for life, but the adults are positively sluggish, like their batteries are just about to die. Remind me to never get old.

Once during a passing period, I bump into Thomas, who playfully pushes me into a locker and plants a firm kiss on my lips . Now that I know kisses are not the amazing experience I had built them up to be, I simply go through the motions, accepting his kisses for what they are—simple signs of affection and nothing more. I try to get more into it for appearances, but can only manage the bare minimum of reciprocation. When Violet gets her body back, she can go crazy if she likes. She is the one these kisses are meant for, not Antares. For now, it is just like when I was a Shadow—doing what my Person wants me to do.

I am happiest during last period—Art class. Though usually the class is spent learning digital techniques, today is a throwback to old materials. Mrs. Greenwald dims the lights and I sit before a blank canvas, a world of possibility before me. I rub my hands on the canvas. Everything in this town is polished to a uniform shine, but this cloth has so much texture. Even blank, there is life within the fibers. Now is my chance. I have the freedom to create anything I want. No abiding to the restrictions of Pentral regulations or doing only what is needed for my Person. Right now, I can be myself as I’ve always envisioned. An artist.

I have never actually drawn, only shadowed the motions. I run my fingers over the selection of paint colors. Fire engine red and sky blue; sunshine yellow and pale pink. I set aside the blacks and grays. For once, what I create will be a rainbow of pigment.

It comes so naturally. I push away thoughts of menacing Reflections and confusing Person relations and let my mind find an image. Color after color, line after line, I fill the canvas with life. It isn’t until there is no white space left that I step back to see what I’ve created.

A body of water, an ocean perhaps, with crystal clear water and fish down below. Usually I am hesitant around water, but this scene is lovely, a place I’d love to go. Only, above the peaceful scene is a streak of orange tinged with tips of vibrant red. The shape is so violent and contrasting to the serenity below it can only be one thing.

The water is on fire.

* *15 * *

I
do not know what to make of it. Mrs. Greenwald comes over to check my progress.

“Such an interesting juxtaposition Violet. It’s almost as if the two halves of the canvas represent two completely separate scenes.”

“Yes,” I begin, “that’s what I was going for.” What else can I say? That I was given one shot at creating art and I have drawn a horrible fiery inferno? Why would I make this? Why?

The end of the day bell rings, and I drag myself outside, unsure of what to do. I seem to be falling prey to the same limitations as a Shadow, even from within a human body. I cannot properly connect with anyone, and everything I create is filled with darkness. My Reflection is a nightmare and even my physics teacher thinks I am a freak show. What a disappointing Person I am turning out to be.

I look up at the puffy white clouds overhead, wondering where exactly the Class Fours assume their careful watch. Do the Pentrals know about the switch between Violet and me? If so, why are they allowing this to go on? It has to be against every rule and yet no punishment has been issued. Unless, of course, my complete failure as a Person is punishment enough. Maybe the Class Fours are all having a good laugh at my expense, knowing I will have to live with the knowledge of my ineptitude for the rest of my Shadow servitude. I wish they would just change us back already. I have been fearful of their acknowledgment for Violet’s sake, but she has been working so hard as a Shadow, surely they would not punish her. I am the one to blame anyway.

I start making the walk back home when I remember Thomas is supposed to drive us over to Ben’s house this afternoon. I really do not feel like faking kisses and conversation, but I already agreed. I see Thomas come out the building, the sun streaking his sandy blonde hair and bouncing a glare off his glasses, and I give a little wave. His face lights up when he sees me. At least someone sees something good in me.

Ben lives high on a cliff overlooking the rest of Talline. His house is massive and covered in chrome, a less common but still highly reflective material. The unique silver sheen makes the mansion seem even more impressive, and rightly so—his father, William Kelly, is the founder of FreshView, a drug manufacturer located in the middle of town. FreshView specializes in medicines for terminally ill children, and has successfully created cures for many previously deadly diseases. Mr. Kelly is practically a celebrity in Talline—everyone knows and respects him. I guess it is hard to hate a man who helps cure the sick.

Ben greets us at the door, and the boys settle in to watch something on the holopane. I take my time walking through the house, noticing the hanging artwork. Real canvases hang in perfectly straight lines. They look as if they’re floating on the fingerprint-free glass walls. The Kellys can afford to purchase paintings by famous artists, so their home is a bit like a museum. Even if I am not meant to be an artist like I had hoped, I can still appreciate others’ talents. I gaze at canvases filled with luscious landscapes and abstract compositions, but the framed piece that holds my attention longest is not even a painting. It is a photograph.

The picture is of Ben and Mary, sitting on a large rock at the end of the lake. It must be from a few years ago. They are both laughing, Ben’s arm around his sister’s shoulder, Mary struggling to keep her long hair from blowing in her face. Even though the two are not blood related, they could easily pass for natural siblings. They both have beautiful brunette hair and caramel skin.

It is not that the picture itself is that remarkable; it is that is exists at all. Photography is a rare commodity. I remember hearing in one of Violet’s history classes how years ago, long before I became a Shadow, print photography was phased out in preference of digital imaging. The cost and time spent developing photos was so burdensome compared to the instantaneous results of digital. Not only that, but through holopanes, all images could be projected in three dimensions, making the two-dimensional plane of prints seem antiquated. Now, there are no more traditional cameras left. Even holopanes, with all their advanced technology, don’t have any built-in cameras. Persons have no way to take a picture of one another.

I look at the Kelly children, so happy in their captured moment. I wonder what it feels like, to be part of a family like that. To have people love you unconditionally. But then my eyes are drawn to the red hair being reflected by the glass wall. I tilt my head, and sure enough, the puffy face monster peers around the picture frame, scabs and all. Who would want this monster in their own family?

I make my way to the living room where the boys are watching something on the holopane. From the looks of it, Celestia Sky is introducing the start of the next program.
Hmph
. I bet she doesn’t have a monster staring back from her mirror. I turn toward the kitchen instead, only to find Ben’s father rummaging through the refrigerator.

“Violet,” William Kelly says warmly, a dazzling white smile clicking into place. “How wonderful to see you.” The man is quite a wonder himself. I have never had time to notice before, but Ben and Mary’s adopted father is like a man carved from marble. Everything about his appearance is complete perfection: not a hair out of place or single disproportion. His skin is so goldenly bronzed it is almost shimmering, and his hair has stolen its pigment fresh from the sun. It is not often you encounter a Person of such sheer physical beauty. But his impeccable looks almost make me feel uncomfortable, as if my lowly form should not be allowed in his presence. My stomach ties itself in a knot.

“Nice to see you too, Mr. Kelly,” I say in a small voice.

“Oh, come on now Violet, how long have we known each other? Please call me William,” he says with an unflinching smile.

“Okay.” I do not know what to do with myself. I feel like it would be rude to walk away and yet I have no idea what to say to this man. I look down at Violet, lying calm and quiet on the expensive tile, and envy her hiding in plain sight.

“I went by the hospital today,” he says, breaking the silence. “Mary looks well.” His face falls a bit, as if he is trying to remain strong, but failing. I know how Violet has handled Mary’s condition, but I cannot imagine what it would be like to have a child in a coma. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Um, yes, I stopped by the other day. I owe her another visit though.” I think of Violet’s last hospital visit, confessing her shame to her comatose friend.

“You have always been so good to her. You and my Ben, always keeping a watchful eye.”

“I do what I can.” I pause. “It isn’t much.”

“No, it’s everything. I know Mary can sense when loved ones are present. You know, we haven’t made this information public, but FreshView is working on a prototype to help awaken young coma patients. I have a team of scientists who believe young trauma victims have a better chance of waking up, due to their brains’ resilience. I am very hopeful,” he says, looking directly at me, “not just for Mary, but Ben as well.”