The Pentrals

by Mack, Crystal

  “I don’t understand why this Reflection and I would be so different. I mean, we’ve never officially met, but technically we’re part of the same team, with the same mission. To portray you as you are,” I say.

  “Maybe because Shadows are limited to darkness, they are allowed to see Persons in their best possible light,” Violet proposes. “Maybe Shadows are the ones with the wrong view.”

  What? Can this be true? No, it’s impossible. My whole life, my identity as a Shadow, is based upon knowing my Person’s form. I have memorized the shape of her hands, the length of her legs, the wave of her hair. There is no way everything I have worked so hard to understand is a lie. And yet, every time I see the Reflection, it projects the same frightening sight back at me. It is consistent, the placement of dark splotchy scabs across her face, the protruding skin around her cheeks. These are not randomly chosen disfigurements meant to shock me, but the work of careful and repeated replication. Whether out in public or in the privacy of this bedroom, this Reflection is laboring to project the same image over and over.

  And Violet is right. Why would a Reflection risk being sent to Class One just for the quick thrill of terrifying her Person? Surely, Reflections must be protective of their Persons the way Shadows are. Creating a false vision would be so completely unnerving. And unneeded at that.

  Violet’s Reflection is showing me something different from what I know, but does that necessarily mean it’s wrong? Maybe Shadows do see something different than Reflections. Or maybe I have just built Violet up, pretending she is something she is not. If she is capable of pushing away her friends, sliding into madness, and submitting to a life of lifting, maybe the Reflection is revealing Violet’s true self. Maybe I just don’t want to admit that my chance of redemption is being spent on a selfish, undeserving Person. If this is the case, then only one thing is true.

  My whole life is a lie.

  * * 14 * *

  I am beyond discouraged. I am an observer, a collector of details—it’s my one strength, my only skill. Take that away, and what am I? Just a mass of dark particles, fumbling through life. How can a simple pane of glass obliterate my self-worth? My sense of what’s true? I hang my head, and watch my Reflection do the same. No, I cannot wallow in this revelation all day. I cannot look at Violet. I cannot look in the mirror. The only thing left to do is go to school.

  The walk is not a pleasant one. I used to always enjoy walks with Violet, trying out new shapes as we passed the scenery. It helped me feel better about who I am and what I do as I showed off my skills. But today I’m so wrapped up in my own head, not even the fresh air helps. I decide to take a breather, sit down on a bench and people watch for a bit before getting to school. Maybe focusing on others for a few minutes will help put my problems in perspective.

  It’s something I’ve never done before: people watch. I’ve been a lifelong Person watcher, but the comings and goings of multiple strangers is a mystery to me. I may have caught little snippets here and there—ends of conversations, furtive glances—but never complete narratives. The lives of others have never been my concern. All my efforts, all my focus, have been on the habits of one, so it’s quite different observing the traits of many.

  I’ve walked a bit off course, and find myself in downtown Talline. If I was smart, I would have avoided this overly mirrored spot, but I guess it does provide the highest population of passersby. I take a seat on an empty glass bench, carefully tucking my feet under my bottom so as not to accidently brush against the rectangular Class One Shadow splayed on the glittering concrete. I’m already in a fairly dark mental space, and don’t see how my interaction would do that Class One any good, no matter how starved for attention it may be. I certainly wouldn’t want to inflict any more anguish, and besides, I’m trying to let a little light shine in.

  As far as that goes, I’ve come to the right place. I’m sitting on the edge of Talline’s town square, which is properly named Lumon Square. From what I’ve picked up over the years, George Lumon was Talline’s founder, and came from a long line of coal miners. Coal was some sort of energy source from generations ago, before people learned how to harness the power of the sun. Mining coal was a very treacherous task, forcing Persons into underground caves for long stretches of time. George Lumon grew weary of such a dark life, and left his family to create a brighter existence. He set out to build a city of glass, where no trace of sunlight would ever be lost.

  For being so central to the town’s construction, George does not receive much recognition. I only remember learning about him when Violet was in elementary school. At the Festival of Light, the annual town celebration, there are no dedication speeches or acknowledgments of his accomplishments. Even this square, which bears his name, makes no tangible mention. I seem to recall hovering under a bronze statue of his form, but it was removed at least a decade ago. Maybe the metallic material just didn’t fit in with the scene.

  Now, the center of Lumon Square holds a fountain, shaped like an enormous, angular sun bursting out from the ground. The water flowing through it is the only natural element within viewing distance. The further one gets from Lumon Square, the more earthly elements begin to seep in: the red dirt of the canyon, the prickly cacti, the occasional plot of planted grass struggling to survive in the desert heat. But here, everything is uniformly transparent and bright.

  All this light is not reflected on the faces I see before me. It appears I’m not the only one dealing with a certain level of self-loathing today. I watch as a veritable fashion show of extremes passes before me. Some have squeezed themselves into clothing two sizes too small, trying to fit into a mold that will never be, while others take the opposite approach, dressed in oversized, drooping fabrics that do the wearer no favors. Tight or baggy, strained or voluminous: whether they care too much or too little, everyone looks uncomfortable in his or her own skin.

  Unfortunately, I know the feeling all too well. I’ve tried on everything in Violet’s closet, but nothing seems to fit this body right. Every piece of clothing pinches and constricts my flesh in unpleasant ways. When I look in the mirror, the Reflection almost mocks my effort to force my body into a more appealing shape. I guess clothes could be used to create a better appearance, but I’ve yet to see any good results. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just wear something loose and flowing. Maybe it wouldn’t make my body look better, but at least it would feel better.

  The variance in clothes is not the only bizarre behavior I see. The older citizens sure make pointed efforts to avoid looking at anything made of glass. Many Persons, especially the adults, keep their glance downward, only stopping to look up for traffic signals. Shoulders hunched, hair falling in their faces, men and women plod forward, as if they couldn’t care less if they ever make it to their final destinations. The mirrors are impossible to avoid, but they try as best they can. Some hide behind shiny silver sunglasses, while others actually use their hands to shade their eyes from the glass as they pass by. Some walk in pairs, making conversation, but most are alone, their melancholy thoughts their only companions. Every so often, a child passes by, looking carefree and ready to seize the day, making the adults’ downtrodden expressions all the more apparent.

  I can’t believe these are the same streets I’ve been walking through all my life. Following Violet, I always found a walk through town to be exciting and vibrant. All the light, all the sparkle: I never wanted to miss it. But I guess I was so focused on my stuff, I didn’t see struggle all around me. Maybe it’s always been this way, or maybe I’m just projecting my unhappiness on the faces of others. I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  I carry the gloom from the streets with me to school. Walking through the entrance to Talline High, I feel like an imposter. Even though I’ve spent the past several years roaming these halls with my Person, I have always been a bystander, not an active participant. Keeping Violet’s outline precise amongst a mass of other Shadows took
all my concentration, leaving little time to observe the school’s surroundings or student body. Now, rather than weaving through a cluster of footprints, I am meandering through the collections of cliques: jocks, musicians, academics, lifters. Everyone seems to have somewhere they belong. Then there’s me, awkwardly standing in two different realms. Surely someone will sniff out my intrusion. I should not be here, in this body. I still do not know why I am.

  It is interesting how you can feel so alone when surrounded by others. Every word, every look, every moment of connection not intended for me seems to cast me out further in isolation. The halls are filled with laughter, couples embracing, and friends discussing the finer details of their lives. I catch fragments of thought, wanting to piece them into something meaningful, just like when I was a Shadow. But it is all for naught. I search the crowd for a familiar face, but remember how Violet’s self-sabotage has left few options.

  The only comfort here is the school is relatively Reflection free. The hallways are covered in holopanes projecting student-curated artwork and announcements—hopeful signs of youthful enthusiasm so lacking throughout the rest of Talline. Everything in town is a testament to conformity, a unifying aesthetic of slick polish, leaving little room for personality and color. I admire the digital artwork and club advertisements as I walk, trying to fill my head with something positive. It is a struggle. I wanted to escape my Reflection for a few hours, but somehow not being noticed is just as painful as being watched by a monster.

  I watch a 3D clip showcasing the school’s soccer team as a digitized Fighting Firefly, the school’s mascot, buzzes around my head. It flits about in an irregular pattern, leaving behind an electronic trail of yellow and black, the school’s colors. I try to swat the bug away, but it passes through my fingers undeterred. A tap on my shoulder ends its humming flight. I spin around in excitement only to be immediately disappointed. It is Samantha, with perfectly traced lips grinning from ear to ear.

  “Hi!” she says as bright as sunshine. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me tighter than expected. “Where were you yesterday?”

  “Oh, um, wasn’t feeling well,” I choke out. I know I wanted someone to talk to, but Sam would be my last choice. The same girl who offered Violet her first Lift! and sent me grasping for reality. This girl, acting like she cares but who had no trouble pulling someone else into her oblivion. No, I do not want to talk to this girl.

  “I called your holopane last night but you didn’t pick up,” she says.

  “I, uh, had to get some fresh air.”

  “What about your mom? Wasn’t she taking care of you?”

  Reflexively I let out a little snort. As if. Mrs. Rayne would be the last person to notice if something was wrong. “She’s not very maternal these days.”

  “God, I know what you mean. My mom hardly acknowledges my existence anymore,” Sam replies.

  It’s sad to hear, but of course I know it all too well. Maybe Mrs. Rayne isn’t the only parent who has given up on her child. Still, this won’t make me feel sorry for Sam.

  Viewing her for the first time from an upright position, I notice how much effort she has put into her appearance. Not only is her dress belted two notches beyond comfortable breathing limits, but her sleek brunette bob has been sprayed so stiff I doubt a monsoon could disturb it. Even from the floor I could tell she wears a lot of makeup, but now that we’re face to face, the multiple layers of powders and creams is almost shocking. It must have taken her hours to camouflage her skin in such detail; if I were to touch her cheek, my fingers would be instantly coated in cosmetics. It’s almost as if she’s applied war paint just to go to class.

  I need an escape route from this girl. One nice thing about being a Shadow was no one noticed my reactions, but now I am having trouble hiding my disdain. I wish the bell would ring or something would catch on fire or—

  “Hello ladies.” Ben swoops in out of nowhere.

  “Hey,” I reply gratefully.

  “Samantha,” he says, nodding her way. Her expression grows hard.

  “Benjamin,” she replies, through clenched teeth.

  Sensing tension, he turns his attention to me. “So Violet, are you and Thomas coming over—“

  “Um, excuse me!” Sam interrupts. “We were talking here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Sam, didn’t realize you found time to function in between Lifts!,” he retorts.

  “Bite me, Ben,” she snaps back.

  “Hmm, no thanks, I’d rather avoid a contact high.” I struggle not to laugh. Of course his comment was rude, but it does not mean it was not true. Sam murmurs something offensive under her breath then turns to me, “See you in physics, Violet.”

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing a thin smile. Once she is out of earshot, I turn to Ben. “Thanks for playing hero back there. I needed an out.”

  “Hero, huh?” Ben says, clearly pleased. “I thought only super-powered Thomas got to save the day. Isn’t Samantha your new best friend anyway?”

  Honestly, I cannot say for sure what Sam is to Violet. For most of their interactions, I was trapped in a blur, unable to see clearly. Maybe the two had forged a relationship, but in my opinion, any person who would knowingly drag someone down like that is not a real friend. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. We start walking together.

  “Well, she’s not that bad. I know her a bit. Still, I like to give her a hard time,” he says.

  “As you do.”

  “As I do.” He gives a mischievous little half smile. I cannot remember a time when he and Violet talked just the two of them. Surely there must have been opportunities—they have known each other so long—but usually Thomas or Mary hung around as well. I have lingering frustration with Ben for freezing Violet out before, but things have begun to thaw a bit. He is not completely revolting, after all. In fact, before this summer, I always appreciated Ben for his snarky sense of humor and ability to play peacemaker.

  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 a
ctually 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.