The Year of Shadows

by Claire Legrand

  Maybe if I figured out where this one puzzle piece went, I could find the rest of them and somehow put my life back together.

  THE NEXT MONDAY at school, The unthinkable happened: Henry Page sat with me at lunch.

  There I was, minding my own business and sketching ghosts. A perfectly normal day.

  Joan sat across from me. She’d been doing that a lot lately. “What are you drawing?”

  I glared up at her through my hair. Even if I’d wanted to talk to her, I wasn’t sure how to explain.

  Joan calmly chewed her sandwich. “You look freaky like that. Like one of those Japanese horror movie girls.”

  “Thanks. I like looking freaky.”

  “Yes,” Joan said thoughtfully. “You work very hard at it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Then Henry slid into the seat beside me.

  It was like you could hear the entire cafeteria hold its breath. Henry Page—baseball star, track star, popular kid—was sitting next to Olivia Stellatella—homeless girl, daughter of crazy conductor, motherless artist.

  “Hey,” said Henry.

  I shrugged. “Hey.”

  Henry opened the first of three milk cartons on his tray. The cafeteria let out its breath, and people started talking again. I wondered how much of the whispering I heard was about us.

  “Hey, Joan,” said Henry.

  Joan sat there with her mouth hanging open.

  Henry ate in silence. Eventually, Joan started doing the same. I hunched over my sketch so Henry couldn’t see it.

  “What are you working on?”

  Behind Joan, Mark Everett and Nick Weber, this other boy from Henry’s usual table, walked by with their lunch trays. Nick looked horrified, like he’d just seen some kind of alien. Mark looked angry.

  I waved and flashed him a smile.

  Henry raised his eyebrows at me. “Hello? What are you drawing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s one of them, isn’t it?” Henry craned his neck to peer at my paper.

  I slammed my sketchpad shut. “One of what?”

  Henry glanced at Joan. “One of . . . you know.”

  Joan leaned closer. “What’s going on? Is something going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I said. “And I have to pee. If you’ll excuse me.”

  I headed for the restroom. On the way, I dropped a piece of paper into Henry’s lap so Joan couldn’t see. My stomach jumped when I did it, but it definitely was not because of Henry, no matter what anyone might think. It just felt nice to have a secret that was actually fun to hide.

  I want to contact the ghosts, the note said. For real. We can’t find them, so we’ll bring them to us. And I know someone who can help us. I’ve got a plan. Meet me in the courtyard after school, by the water fountain that doesn’t work. P.S. We’re still not friends, though.

  This thing between me and Henry, this ghost hunting thing—I didn’t know what it meant, and I still didn’t want him to be my friend. But maybe we could at least be partners. It would be, as Henry had said, “strictly business.” Not friends. Partners. I could handle that. I could handle “strictly business.”

  Henry found me by the water fountain after school. I was watching Joan march in circles through the courtyard, holding up a posterboard and shouting out something about corrupt banks.

  “Hey,” Henry said. “So, what’s your brilliant idea?”

  By that point, I was pretty much bursting, but I tried to keep things cool, like partners would.

  “I’ve started working at The Happy Place after school.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s probably because I don’t tell you every little detail about my life.”

  Henry frowned. “If you’re going to be rude, I’ll just go home or something. I’ve got lots of homework to do.”

  “This is more important than homework.” I paused at the shocked look on his face and sighed. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I won’t be rude, ever. Promise.”

  “Ha. Yeah, okay.”

  The fact that Henry thought I was incapable of not being rude hurt in a kind of surprising way, like when a bee stings you out of nowhere. “Well. I’ll try, anyway.”

  “Fine. So, The Happy Place?”

  “Yeah. Well, you know the Barskys.”

  Henry nodded. “Sure.”

  “So, they’re really weird, right? I mean, I like them a lot, but they sell all this crazy stuff in their shop. New Agey stuff, you know? Crystals, incense, books about how to understand your dreams. But I think they actually believe in all of it. So I was thinking—”

  A couple of girls walked past us, talking just loud enough to make sure we could hear.

  “Do you think they’re going out?” one of them said.

  “Nah,” the other one said, practically shouting it. “You kidding? Henry Page? With her?”

  Henry’s chest puffed up, but I shoved him out of the way and marched up to the girls myself.

  “Why not with me? Because I’m crazy?” I waved my arms around and stuck out my tongue. “Ooga wooga booga!”

  The girls gasped and jumped back.

  “Psycho,” they said. “Freak.” Then they walked away, shooting these awful looks at me over their shoulders.

  Henry and I headed out the courtyard in silence. As we walked toward Arlington, it started to rain.

  “Don’t you have a raincoat?” Henry asked, after a minute.

  “No,” I snapped. “Too poor for a raincoat.”

  “Do you want my raincoat?”

  “No way.”

  “Well, what about that charity store on Clark Street? You could maybe get one there.”

  “How about you go to the charity store and see how you like it? Then we’ll talk.”

  “I do sometimes,” Henry said quietly.

  “Oh.”

  That’s when I realized exactly how little I knew about Henry Page. Why would Henry shop there, too? Was it something about The Economy? Is that why he’d had to start working as an usher? Not because he loved music, but because he’d actually needed the money? I frowned at the sidewalk, suddenly embarrassed to look at him. I wanted to ask all those questions, but I’d never, not in a million years. Partners didn’t pry into each other’s personal lives.

  “You’re not, you know,” Henry said, after a few minutes.

  “Not what?”

  “What they said. Freak. Psycho. You’re not.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Thanks, probably, but I couldn’t get the word out. So I just kept walking, concentrating on the sight of my boots against the wet pavement.

  “You promise?” I said.

  “Promise what?”

  “That I’m not a freak?”

  “Sure, Olivia.” He smiled at me through the rain. “I promise.”

  I didn’t know what to do then, so I stuck out my arm and shook his hand. Firmly, like partners do.

  The Barskys were busy with customers when we got to The Happy Place, so Henry and I started inspecting their shelves. They were full of voodoo dolls and plastic skulls, model dragons and incense burners decorated with Chinese tigers, candle holders painted with pink stars and salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like fat penguins.

  Eventually Mr. Barsky made his way over to us.

  “Olivia, my dear girl! How positively delightful to see you!” Ah. So today was Lord Winthrop, Mr. Barsky’s English character. “And you brought a friend today!” He shook Henry’s hand like Henry was the most interesting person in the world. “Tell me, my good man, dost thee desireth a spot of tea?”

  “Mr. B, this is Henry. Henry Page. We go to school together, and he’s an usher at the Hall.”

  “Ah, Sir Page, it is a pleasure, to be sure.”

  Henry looked mystified. “You too, Mr. Barsky.”

  “So, Mr. B,” I said, “I have a question for you before I start work today. And for Mrs. B. It’s really important.”

  Mr. Barsky sw
ept himself into a bow. “I shall summon the missus at once. Oh, Mother Barsky!”

  Mrs. Barsky came out from the kitchen, her neck draped with green beads. “David, I will only say this once: Never call me that again.”

  “Of course, sweeting. But if you will, Olivia has an important question for us.”

  “Hello, Olivia.” Mrs. Barsky smiled. “And who is this?”

  “Henry Page, ma’am.” Henry offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Henry ushers at the Hall,” Mr. Barsky added.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Henry. Are you a musician yourself?”

  Henry’s whole face lit up. “No, ma’am, not me. But I’m an enthusiast. Did you know, they say that music is one of the most important building blocks of—”

  “So, my question,” I interrupted. I did not want to hear one of Henry’s lectures about the greatness and benefits of music. “Like I said, it’s important. See . . .” I took a deep breath. “Henry and I, we need a way to contact ghosts.”

  The Barskys stared at me, and then at each other, and then back at me.

  “Ghosts?” Mr. Barsky repeated.

  “Yeah. We’ve seen some at the Hall . . .”

  Mrs. Barsky leaned back against the counter. She wiped her forehead, gone pale. Beside me, Henry started to look really uncomfortable.

  “. . . but we haven’t seen any for a couple of days, so we thought . . .”

  I trailed off. I had never seen the Barskys look so strange, like . . . well, like they had just seen a ghost. Mrs. Barsky looked especially frightened. Mr. Barsky put his arm around her.

  Henry jumped in. “Olivia thought, since you sell the right kinds of things here . . .”

  “Yeah, like all these candles and incense burners, and the weird voodoo dolls—”

  “—that maybe you would know, or give us some pointers . . .”

  Mr. Barsky cleared his throat. “You’ve really seen ghosts?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, we think so, anyway. One was tall and thin and—”

  “Don’t describe them to us,” Mrs. Barsky whispered. “We don’t want to know.”

  This was not the reaction I’d been expecting. “Why not?”

  Mrs. Barsky considered me for a moment. “Listen carefully, Olivia. Contacting ghosts is no laughing matter. It’s not fun and games. Strange, terrible things can happen when you delve into the world of Death.”

  A chill shot through me. My burn started pulsing, like something had woken it up.

  Beside me, Henry said, “The world . . . of Death?”

  The world of Death, I thought. A million sketches raced through my mind. “Do you know anything about it? The world of Death? What does it look like? Who can go there? Where does—”

  Mrs. Barsky shook her head, covered her mouth, and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Mr. Barsky’s face was grim as he pressed my money for the week into my hand. “You’d better just go home today, Olivia.”

  “Is Mrs. Barsky okay?” Henry asked.

  “She’s fine, she’s just . . .” Mr. Barsky paused. “She’s seen a lot. She knows a lot. Some people do, you know.”

  I didn’t know, but Mr. Barsky basically forced us out, and that was that. In silence, Henry and I waited at the corner for the light to change. I guess neither of us knew what to say.

  I wondered if Henry’s brain, like mine, was too busy imagining what the world of Death looked like to bother with something like talking.

  What would the world of Death look like?

  1) a long, winding, icy river full of drifting souls

  2) stars forever and ever, in all directions

  3) heaven (clouds, angels, golden gates)

  4) hell (fire, brimstone, demons)

  5) nothing

  HOW TO CONTACT Ghosts: Ideas.

  I sat back and stared at my paper. Mrs. Farrity, my English teacher, was talking about some book I hadn’t read, and I was supposed to be taking notes. But how could I possibly be expected to take notes when thoughts of ghosts and Death and Mrs. Barsky’s terrified face kept racing through my brain?

  Henry had been avoiding me. I think Mrs. Barsky getting so scared about ghosts really spooked him. It had scared me, too, but not enough to get all dramatic about it or anything. In fact, it kind of excited me; it was an adventure, something to concentrate on that didn’t involve school or money or Mom. Henry, on the other hand, had gone back to his popular table at lunch. He’d even turned and walked the other way the couple of times we’d seen each other at the Hall.

  Not that I cared. Henry Page could sit at every popular table in the world, if he wanted to. In fact, it was a relief to have gotten rid of him and his stupid goggles and his stupid honor roll grades.

  If neither Henry nor the Barskys would help me find the ghosts, I would have to do it myself.

  Outside, rain pounded against the windows. The sky was black. It was almost October.

  I ran through everything I knew about ghosts, which didn’t count for much, but I remembered some things from books I’d read and from the couple of scary movies I knew about.

  Write backward on steamed-up bathroom mirror, I wrote. I thought that sounded poetic.

  Go into dark bathroom, close door, stare at mirror. Say Bloody Mary three times in a row. I remembered that one from when I was little, when I’d had friends over for the night.

  Visit graveyard. Sit on graves.

  Consult fortune-teller for help.

  Visit funeral home? Consult owner.

  Ouija boards?

  Fake near-death experience.

  I stared at that one. If I came close to dying, and therefore came close to being a ghost, would that make it easier to talk to them? It made sense to me, but I didn’t know what kind of near-death experience would prove most effective, so I made a note beside it:

  Research near-death experience stories. Find out which ones mention seeing ghosts.

  Suddenly, my paper disappeared from beneath my hand.

  “ ‘How to Contact Ghosts’?” came Mark Everett’s voice. He had my list.

  “Graveyards, Ouija boards . . . near-death experiences?” He laughed. “Look at this! She’s talking about ghosts now. First those freak drawings. Now this.” He waved the paper around, rattling the air. I looked for Mrs. Farrity, but she was gone. It was only us kids. Some of them stood up or leaned forward to look. Some of them were laughing or whispering things. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there, staring at my desk, my clothes shrinking around me.

  On my other side, Joan Dawson leapt to her feet, grabbing for the paper. “You give that back to her!”

  Mark Everett jumped back, hooting, and that hooting sound was so loud, so ugly, that I couldn’t help it. I bolted out of my chair, right at him, and screamed as loud as I could.

  Everyone jumped back. Mark tripped over himself and fell hard on his butt. Desks and chairs toppled over as people bolted away from me, and a couple of girls shrieked.

  A door swung open, and Mrs. Farrity’s voice barked, “What is going on here? I step out for one minute, and this is how you behave?”

  A hush fell over the classroom. Mrs. Farrity’s footsteps clicked over to where Mark stood. I heard her taking the paper from him.

  I slid back into my seat and stared at my desk.

  “Olivia,” Mrs. Farrity began quietly. “What is all this?”

  My hair slid forward, slipping over my eyes.

  “Please, Mrs. Farrity,” Joan burst out. It sounded like she might combust. “Olivia didn’t do anything wrong. Mark’s the one who took her paper, he just snatched it from her!”

  “Calm down, Joan.” Mrs. Farrity knelt by my desk. “Olivia? Olivia, I want you to look at me.”

  I did. Mrs. Farrity’s face was full of frowns. “Olivia, this is quite serious.”

  “Okay.” I wished that I’d worn long sleeves today, instead of my scarf. My burn felt completely exposed. Mrs. Farrity glanced at my scarf and frowned even m
ore deeply.

  “Is everything okay at home, Olivia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you push Mark? Why did you scream?”

  I didn’t say anything. If I opened my mouth, I’d get myself into even more trouble. Anger stewed in the back of my throat.

  Mrs. Farrity sighed.

  “You’re coming with me to Principal Cooper’s office.” She took my hand, her grip pinching my skin. “Mark, I’ll deal with you later. And don’t you think you can try something like that again. I’m sending over Mr. Hawthorne from next door. Do you hear me, everyone?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mrs. Farrity, please.” Joan actually stamped her foot. “Olivia was just defending herself. She’s well within her rights. This is completely unjust!”

  “All right, Joan. You’re coming too.”

  “Fine.” Joan put her arm around me stiffly. “I will come, and I’ll be her defendant. I witnessed everything. I know the truth.”

  In the principal’s office, Mrs. Farrity whispered some things to Ms. Renshaw, who had a cloud of blond hair and gave us pieces of chocolate when Mrs. Farrity’s back was turned. Then Mrs. Farrity filled out some papers and left, and Ms. Renshaw led us into Principal Cooper’s office.

  Principal Cooper watched me and Joan for a minute. We sat across from him in hard black plastic chairs. I don’t know about Joan, but I stared at the ceiling, refusing to look at him. I didn’t have anything to say to Principal Cooper. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “Well?” he said. “Why don’t one of you tell me what happened?”

  “Principal Cooper, my name is Joan Dawson,” Joan said, breathlessly, “and I witnessed the incident myself. I’m here to offer testimony on behalf of the accused.”

  “Miss Dawson,” said Principal Cooper. He rubbed his forehead. I got the feeling he and Joan had done this before. “Why don’t you let Miss Stellatella talk first?”

  Joan cleared her throat. “I, Joan Elizabeth Dawson, do solemnly swear—”

  “Miss Dawson, that’s quite enough.” Principal Cooper called Ms. Renshaw to take Joan into the other room.

  “Don’t let him pressure you, Olivia,” Joan hissed, digging in her heels at the door. “You’re innocent!”