The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove (6 page)

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

wishing that I could rub it away. It was oval-shaped with a higher ridge running

lengthwise, crossed horizontally with narrow pale marks caused by hasty

stitching.

Then I touched the tattoo below my left breast. Hosea would have been 18

now.

My own sixteenth birthday had not brought on any miraculous

improvements. My eyes were an unremarkable brown, as was my hair which fell

straight halfway down my back. My nose was a nose, and my mouth was a

mouth. I thought my best feature was probably my teeth, which were even and

white.

I shoved my small breasts together, but the resulting cleavage looked like a

luxury accessory on an economy car. I turned around and checked out my butt. It

wasn’t completely flat, but it wasn’t curvy either. I was as I’d always been, plain

Jane.

At least here, at an all-girls school, I’d be spared the misery of lusting after

guys that would never look my way. Even among the Alphas, I was seen as a

sexless friend type. Even though it had been safer to be ignored, my heart still

longed for love and my body still yearned for caresses.

It was another overcast day, so I dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a sweater.

As I ate a bowl of granola, I read the
Birch Grove Academy Handbook
. The

schedule for classes was an elaborate grid of short and long blocks, and no two

days of the week had classes in the same order. After I skimmed the handbook, I

decided to explore the campus.

I didn’t see another soul as I walked along the drive back to the stone pillars

at the entrance. I turned back toward the school buildings and took paths that led

through a rose garden and a terrace shaded by a vine-covered trellis. A stone

statue of nymph stood in a fountain. I cut through a sports field and found myself

at the back side of the birch grove.

The sky above cleared for a moment and sunlight flickered through the

graceful branches. I thought I saw something,
someone
, but it was only the

shadows of the branches dancing in the breeze.

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

In the center of the birch grove, I discovered an amphitheatre that was about

20 feet in diameter. Two concentric tiers of white marble benches surrounded a

flat empty space. I sat there listening to birds and watching squirrels scamper

through branches.

As I was enjoying the beauty, I had a moment of déjà vu. It was gone so

fast that I could only hold onto an image of leaves, dampness, joy. I didn’t know

what it could mean.

I resumed exploring, going in the opposite direction from my cottage. I

was gazing into the grove as I walked, trying to see if there were more surprises,

when I heard a loud crunching.

I turned my head toward the sound and saw a bicycle hurdling straight at

me.

“Watch out!” the rider shouted as he swerved to avoid hitting me. His tires

skidded on the leaves, slid sideways, and he went flying off the bike, tumbling

into the underbrush.

I rushed to him. “Are you all right?”

The rider was sprawled on the ground. He lifted his head and I saw a tangle

of long dark curls and a scruff of beard. He wore khaki shorts and a gray t-shirt.

A silver chain around his neck slipped beneath the collar of his shirt.

I studied him while he glared at his bike and cursed lowly. He was older

than me by a few years. He had strong features and wide green eyes with thick

black eyelashes.

“What the hell were you doing there?” he asked with a scowl as he slowly

stood. He was about a head taller than me, more if I counted the wild curls.

His abrupt tone was much more comfortable to me than Mrs. Monroe’s

polished manners. “I was taking a walk.”

“You came out of nowhere.” He winced and leaned to one side. He

brushed the dirt and leaves from the torn skin on his leg, exposing long, bloody

scratches.

“You’re hurt. Stay here and I’ll get help.”

“I’m okay. Get my bike for me.”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

Something about him made me keep my place until he said, “Please.”

As I picked up his mountain bike, he asked, “Where did you come from?”

“I live here.”

“No one lives here. It’s a day school.”

“I just moved into the cottage.”

“A pixie living in the fairytale cottage,” he said with a laugh. “What are

you doing out here?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” I said. “I was thinking of walking up to Mrs.

Monroe’s house. She’s the headmistress.”

“Have you met the Monroe family yet?”

“Another question.” I stared at him and he stared back. His direct gaze

made me want to be direct, too. “I haven’t met them yet. I’m having dinner with

them tonight. Are you trespassing?”

“Would you care if I was?” He tried to swing his leg over the bike and

almost lost his balance. “Come here. Please.”

I stood by his side. He smelled like warm earth and pine. When he leaned

on my left shoulder as he got on the bike, the heat from his hand went through the

thin cotton of my worn shirt. My scar pulsed in response, something that had

never happened before, and heat spread through my body.

“Later, pixie,” he said and rode off.

I wondered who he was. I glanced at the place he had put his hand. There

was a smear of blood and dirt.

Blood stains
. Instead of going to Mrs. Monroe’s house, I went back to the

cottage and took off my shirt to wash it before the stain set in. I glanced in the

mirror at my bare torso. Blood had soaked through the shirt to my scar; it was

mottled rosy red and scarlet like an autumn leaf.

I turned on the tap to wash it off, yet when I looked up again, my scar was

its normal pale color. The blood must have been a trick of the light and the

nervousness that now made my body tingle in a way it never had before.

I changed into my nicest pants, brown corduroys, a blue blouse, and fake

leather sandals that were a size too big. I didn’t have any makeup or any jewelry

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

other than Wilde’s earrings.

As I walked up the hill, it seemed as if everything was brighter and more

vibrant, from the individual notes of birdsong to the serrated edges of the birch

leaves. I felt like I’d been drowsy all my life, and now I was wide awake.

The Monroes’ house was easy to find. The two-story building stood apart

from its neighbors and was the same pinkish hue as the school. The main entry to

the house was a turnoff from a street that ran above it, at the top of the hill.

Massive emerald-green pine trees surrounded it.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my cords before I rang the doorbell. I

expected to see Mrs. Monroe, but the door was opened by a handsome, tall

teenager with thick amber and gold hair. His broad shoulders filled a blue-green

polo shirt, and his eyes were the same shade of blue as Mrs. Monroe’s. Although

it was the end of summer, his skin was pale and creamy with hint of pink on his

cheeks.

He was like those boys who used to bash me aside as they walked down the

halls at school because I didn’t even register as being there. But he was different

from those boys, just as real silk was different from the too-shiny synthetic of my

blouse.

He smiled and said, “You must be Jane. I’m Lucian.” He reached out and

shook my small sweaty hand with his firm dry one, and the tingling in my body

made the handshake more intense than those furtive gropings I’d had with some

of the Alpha boys.

“Hello, Lucian,” I said, my voice cracking with my nerves.

“Everyone calls me Lucky,” he said. “Mom’s all excited about having you

here. Come on in.”

He led me through the foyer, where a large vase of flowers was displayed

on a circular table, and then past an elegant ivory and gray-green living room.

Although evening was still bright outside, the interior of the house was dark.

Still, I spotted polished wood furniture, rich fabrics, and framed paintings.

Lucky said, “Mom thought you’d be more comfortable in the family room.

That’s where we usually hang.”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

The family room was at the back of the house with windows facing toward

Birch Grove Academy below. It was open to the large kitchen, where Mrs.

Monroe stood over a six-burner stove, checking the contents of a pot. “Jane, good

to see you again. Lucky, offer Jane a drink.”

“Water or soda?” he asked.

Was one better than the other? “Anything is fine.”

Lucky took a bottle out of the wide glass-fronted refrigerator and said, “Try

this lemon soda. It’s kind of tart. Makes your mouth go
smack
.”

“Pour it into a glass for Jane, dear,” Mrs. Monroe said. She opened the

oven and pulled out a tray of something that looked like breadsticks.

Lucky tipped the soda into a glass, plunked in ice cubes, and took a

strawberry from a bowl on the counter and dropped it in. “There you go.” He

winked at me.

It was only a friendly wink, and a strawberry was only a piece of fruit.

Most girls, pretty girls, were accustomed to attention. They could differentiate

between friendliness and flirtation. But I wasn’t one of those girls, and I had no

idea what to make of Lucky’s gesture.

I could barely whisper, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Monroe said, “Lucky, please ask your brother to join us.”

“I’ll try to drag him out of his den,” he said to her, and to me, he said, “He’s

like a caveman.”

“No name calling,” Mrs. Monroe said as her son sauntered off whistling

off-key.

I took a sip of the soda. It was a little sour, yet tasty. “Do you have more

children, ma’am?”

“I only have Lucien and Jacob. Of course, I have all my Birch Grove

girls.” She put the breadstick things on a platter. “Would you mind taking these

cheese straws to the table, dear?”

I was glad I put the platter down before Lucky returned with his brother.

The bicyclist, still wearing his dirt-smeared shorts, limped in with a bandage on

his leg.

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

He smirked and said, “This is the pixie who crashed my bike.”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

“The dignity of each Birch Grove student is recognized and supported by the

collaboration of our rigorous academic and co-curricular programs.”

Birch Grove
Student Handbook

“Jacob!” Mrs. Monroe said, “That is no way to greet our guest.”

“It’s not
my
fault she knocked me over,” he said as he grabbed a handful

of the cheese straws and popped one in his mouth. “Yowh, hot!”

“I did
not
knock you over,” I said. “You fell of your own accord.”

“She defends herself like a lawyer!” Jacob said. “She’ll probably want to

sue me for libel with a talking squirrel as her witness and a troll king as a judge.”

Lucky slugged his brother on the shoulder and said to me, “Don’t let Jack

bother you. He’s an idiot.”

“I believe I said no name calling, Lucien, but, honestly, Jacob.” Mrs.

Monroe gave her grimy son a critical up-and-down look and crossed her arms.

Jack ate another cheese straw and said, “These are great, Ma.”

I tensed, waiting for her to yell at him, but she reached out to brush his

curls off his face. The loving gesture shocked me more than if she’d slapped him.

“Jane, this young man is Jacob, my oldest son. It’s no secret that a

headmistress’s biggest challenge is her family. Jacob, say hello to Jane.”

“Hello to Jane,” he parroted, pulling out the pockets of his shorts in a silly

curtsey.

I couldn’t decide if it was the dumbest thing I’d ever seen, or the funniest,

so I stared back at him.

“Jane can appear out of nowhere,” Jack said.

“Jack, please stop being inane and go make yourself presentable,” Mrs.

Monroe said. “Jane, would you mind helping with the salad while Lucian sets the

table?”

“Sure. What do you want me to do?”

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The Shadow Girl of Birch Grove – Marta Acosta

The headmistress showed me to a cutting board and set me to cutting

tomatoes and cucumbers. I was glad to have something to do while I observed the

Monroes.

At the group home, we’d eaten off plastic plates with mismatched forks

and the thin paper napkins that Mrs. Richards grabbed by the handfuls whenever

she ate at fast food restaurants. Now I studied how Lucky placed the plates, cloth

napkins, glasses, and silverware on the long rectangular table.

“What year are you?” Lucky asked.

“I’ll be a junior.”

“Me, too,” he said. “What’s your favorite subject?”

“It’s a tie between math and science. They make the most sense.”

“I hate science,” he said. “I’m stupid that way.”

Mrs. Monroe brought a basket of bread to the table. “Lucky, you are not

stupid. You simply don’t apply yourself. In fact, I thought that Jane might like to

tutor you in chemistry to earn some pocket money. Would you consider that,