Secondhand Shadow

by Elizabeth Belyeu

“You were already writing this when we met.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Read it to me! Since I can’t touch it right now.” He wiggled sticky fingers at me. “Tell me again why I want to cover myself in burned marshmallow?”

  “To make a s’more.”

  “Why do I want to make a s’more?”

  Laughing, I settled onto the hearth next to him and tried to help with the marshmallow. Mostly I succeeded in spreading the sticky. “Because they taste good. And they’re fun.”

  “They’re messy.”

  “That’s why they’re fun.” Déjà vu struck belatedly; I glanced into Damon’s face, saw the same realization there.

  “We’ll have to find else something else to dream about, I guess,” he said.

  I was tempted to start listing suggestions, but my body had already leaned forward to kiss him, and talking was very much not on the agenda after that. No talking, no worrying, no grieving or stressing or thinking. Just me and Damon and sticky-sweet marshmallow and firelight, and shadows dancing on the walls.

  About the Author

  Elizabeth Belyeu is 29 years old and lives in Alabama, where she supports herself, her cat, and her steadily growing TBR pile as a library assistant. She graduated from Troy University in 2008 with a bachelor's in English (Creative Writing minor). This is her first novel, but she has been writing since she could hold a pencil, and plans to continue until she is too senile to type. Feel free to check out her blog at elizabethbelyeu.wordpress.com.

  Also from Astraea Press

  Prologue

  6:51 p.m.

  I close my AP Calculus book and place it into my black book bag. I close my calculator and place that, too, carefully into the calculator slot. After inserting my pens and my pencils, I slide the silver zipper around my bag to close it.

  6:52 p.m.

  I take off my new sneakers and put them next to my book bag. Then I reach for my blue sweater and pull that over my head. A sudden rush of cool air engulfs my arms, my chest, my neck. I lightly place the sweater into my bamboo-styled hamper.

  6:53 p.m.

  My jeans are off and into the hamper as well. Now I’m in my boxers and socks. I pull off my socks and toss them into the bin with the others.

  6:54 p.m.

  I’m in my bathroom. I stare at my face. My ocean blue eyes. My dirty blond hair. My tan skin — acquired from this summer in Cabo, Mexico. I splash water on my face.

  6:55 p.m.

  I’m back in my room. I close my windows, pull the curtains, and close my closet door. I organize everything on my desk to make sure it will stay like that in the morning. It should stay like that by morning.

  6:56 p.m.

  My heart’s starting to beat faster. It always does at this time. I try to control my breathing as I continue to organize the already organized room. I feel my eyelids beginning to droop.

  6:57 p.m.

  I peek out the window. Olive is there. She’s sitting on her lawn chair, sipping what looks like lemonade. Her eyes are covered in large white-rimmed sunglasses, and she’s wearing an orange tank top. Her white shorts cling to her brown thighs.

  I wished she wouldn’t still be out there. She was always out there. I assumed she liked to watch the sun set or something.

  6:58 p.m.

  My heart beat slows. I crawl into my bed and pull the covers tightly around me, caging my body so it couldn’t flee. I breathe out of my mouth as my lids droop down, down, down.

  6:59 p.m.

  Everything goes black.

  Chapter One

  Cameron

  It was Tuesday morning, the second day of school. That morning, I managed to take a two-second shower, shove one of Dad’s awful French toasts into my mouth, jump into my new silver sports car, and speed to school in less than ten minutes.

  Because I only had ten minutes to spare.

  Yesterday morning was worse. I woke up at exactly seven o’clock like I always did, but for some reason, all of my things were out of place. I couldn’t find my book bag or my shoes or any of my stuff. I was late on my first day of school.

  I vowed I would never be that careless again.

  Now, as I opened my red locker, the one right next to the girls’ bathroom (thank you, school principal), I glanced at my watch for the fifth time since I got into school, making sure I wasn’t going to be late for first period — like yesterday. I hadn’t even had the chance to arrive to my AP English class. Great first impression, huh?

  It was time to get to class. I placed my books neatly onto their designated shelves, shut the locker, and headed to the English wing.

  As I walked down the hall, though, I heard a familiar voice. The voice that made my heart jump over and over again.

  Olive Ramos.

  I slowed my pace a little so she would see me walking in front of her. Discreetly, I popped a mint into my mouth and blew out the stinging, cool air. Then I put a smile on my face.

  “Cameron?” her voice called, as if on cue.

  I held on for a second before turning around, acting surprised. “Olive?” I asked. “Wow, hey, what’s up?” My voice was too exaggerated. I knew it had to be. And my smile was probably really lame. I wished I could turn back time and redo it.

  But Olive didn’t seem to notice the goofy smile. She walked up to me after saying goodbye to her friend. She had this huge smile on her face, one that made her big brown eyes squint. “Cameron! I haven’t seen you all summer!” she cried, wrapping her thin arms around my waist.

  I tried to keep my knees from buckling.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, returning the hug. “I was in Cabo this summer.”

  She pulled away and looked me up and down, an appreciative smirk grazing her face. “Hence the killer tan!” she said with a laugh. “It looks good, Cameron.”

  I couldn’t stop the blush from eating away at my cheeks. I hated when she gave me compliments. I always took them so idiotically. “Yeah… um… yeah…” Say something, please! “I peeled for, like, a whole month!” Great answer, Cameron. I wanted to stop myself and say something cooler but I just kept ramming my truck into the mud. “At one point in time, I looked like I had just gone through a blender or something — I was that shredded up!”

  Olive made a face, but it looked like she shook out the disgusting thoughts quickly. “Well all that trouble definitely paid off, that’s for sure.” She chuckled and pulled out her cleanly folded schedule. Her neatly-painted silver nail polish grazed the white paper.

  “Where are you headed?” I asked her, ending the crippling, awkward silence.

  Olive squinted her eyes and looked at the paper. “Well I missed first period for a Music Theory meeting yesterday, but it says here I have AP English with Mr. Teller,” she answered, looking back up at me. Her brown eyes gazed right into mine. “You?”

  It took all of my will not to just lean over and kiss her right there in the middle of the hallway with everyone watching. “AP English,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my schedule. When I saw the words listed at the top of the sheet, my huge goofy smile made its appearance once again. “With Mr. Teller, too,” I said coolly, even though I wanted to scream it at the top of my lungs.

  Olive smiled again, her eyes squinting once more. “Awesome!” she said, placing her schedule back into her snug shoulder bag. “I was freaking out because I didn’t know if I would have anyone to talk to and stuff, you know.”

  I did know. Olive was — to put it nicely — afraid of people. Well, that might’ve been a little harsh. Olive was just a really shy person. She was even worse than me when it came to talking to teachers. The only reason she talked so well with me was because I hadn’t always been like this. I used to be more quiet and nerdy than any kid you’d ever known. I was so bad with people that my school counselors thought I had anthropophobia for ten years of my life. But I wouldn’t blame them either.

  Half the time I wasn’t even myself.

  But back to Olive. She had lived across from m
e for my entire life. We went to the same elementary school, the same middle school, the same high school, and — hopefully — we would be going to the same college. But I hadn’t asked her about that yet. Her grandmother and my dad had us play with each other all day. Since we were both afraid of people, we kind of shared that bond, I guess.

  And now seventeen years later, we’re still friends.

  “We could sit by each other,” I suggested, using my cool voice. I even added a shy smile.

  Olive snorted and rolled her eyes. “How?” she asked, a smile touching her lips. “Would I sit underneath the table, or outside of the huge crowd that will be surrounding you?” She was being sarcastic, of course.

  I just laughed and shook my head. “I doubt there’d be a huge crowd in AP English,” I said, picturing the class, “but if there is, I promise you I’ll have a seat for you.” Then I looked at her with a sly smile. “Does the windowsill sound good to you?”

  She smacked me on the arm. “Oh, shut up,” she said, laughing and walking ahead of me. I smiled after her as I rubbed the part of my arm where her hand had been.

  ****

  There wasn’t as big of a crowd waiting for me in the classroom — just a few friends waiting to ask how my summer went. I answered them all politely and I thanked the girls for their compliments on my new tan. Olive stayed right behind me, probably because she didn’t want to be forgotten.

  I would never forget her.

  I made sure to find two open seats by the window — just the way she liked it. When the greetings finally diminished and people began to take their seats, Olive glanced at me again.

  “When did you get back from Cabo?” she asked. She pulled out her pencils and her notebooks. They were all neatly kept, just like I kept mine.

  “Um,” I said, tapping my pencil on the table casually, “a few days ago.”

  She nodded her head, her dark brown hair falling to the table. “Yeah, that makes sense,” she said, taking notes at the same time.

  I scribbled down a few words, and then ventured deeper into the conversation. “How do you mean?” I asked her, still using my casual voice. I avoided looking at her face so she wouldn’t see my bout of nervousness.

  Olive shrugged her shoulders, her purple cardigan sliding off her slender shoulders. “No reason,” she answered. “Just that I saw you jump out of your window Saturday night.” She slid the cardigan back up.

  I sat there, staring at my notebook. What? She saw me jump out of my window? When? How?

  “When?” I asked her, after we took down the notes on the next slide. I tried to keep my voice calm, but I couldn’t mask the uneasiness creeping through my veins.

  Olive bit the eraser of her pencil and then whispered, “Well, I was about to go to bed and as I was closing my window curtains, I saw you.” She tapped her pencil on her chin, “You were climbing out of your window. You threw your book bag out first and then you just jumped.”

  I couldn’t believe a word she was saying. How was it possible that she could have seen me jumping from my window? There was no way it could’ve been me. Not with this whole blackout thing.

  Olive went on. “You landed pretty smoothly for someone that just jumped down two flights. You rolled and picked up your bag at the same time. Then you ran away.”

  I scratched at my ear anxiously. Had there been a burglar in my home? Had he been the one that messed my whole room up Sunday night? Was he the one that had stolen my new jacket?

  I wanted to ask Olive all of these questions but how would she know? She thought the guy jumping out of the window was me.

  I just shrugged, scribbling into my notebook.

  The two of us were quiet for the next half of the period, taking notes, asking questions, reading passages. When it was time to pack up, Olive gazed at me. “But, the person looked just like you,” she said, slinging her book bag onto her shoulder.

  I rolled up the sleeves of my thermal sweater and slung my bag onto my shoulders. “It wasn’t me. I’m never up that late,” I answered her as I high-fived a friend walking down the hall.

  “How come?” she asked.

  My automatic answer spilled out. “You think this beauty comes from less than eight hours of sleep?” I joked, motioning to my face.

  Olive rolled her eyes and shrugged, a smile on her glossy, pink lips. “Oh, of course,” she said and walked away.