Ever
DARRIN SHADE
Ever
Copyright © 2015 by Darrin Shade
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.
eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
ISBN: 978-1512208511 (pbk)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1: The Outcast
2: The Third Eye
3: The First Day
4: Growing Confusion
5: Energy Smoke
6: Life of the Party…Not!
7: The Attunements
8: It’s Real
9: Meeting the Giant
10: Heat
11: Totem
12: The Tree
13: Campfire Stories
14: Lake of Mirrors
15: The Catalyst
16: The Crying Girl
17: Prelude to a Kiss
18: What Should We Do Now?
19: OMG
20: The Kiss Stealer
21: Dream a Little Dream
22: More Extra Credit
23: Always an Outcast?
24: Turn Down the Volume, Please!
25: The Blue Lotus
26: Seeds Are Meant to Be Planted
27: The Dreaming Stone
28: I Know Who the Crying Girl Is…
29: You’re My Kind of Girl, Ever
30: I Know What Happens on April Seventh
31: The Cemetery
32: Planting the Seed
33: It’s D-Day
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
The Outcast
I always knew I was a misfit. When I looked in the mirror, I could see it clearly…the unconventional nose, the odd-colored eyes…the too-full lips… It was no wonder everyone stared at me. You would think I’d be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. My sophomore year was just as lame as last year, and I still felt like I didn’t really belong.
I sighed as I pulled a wooden hairbrush through my long wavy hair. More like frizzy, I grumbled. If only my hair was straight, if only I was blond, if only I looked more like everyone else…maybe then I wouldn’t have such a deep longing to fit in. I wasn’t a Cheerleader, I wasn’t a Brain, I wasn’t an Athlete—I was just an outlier in the population of upper-middle-class teenagers I went to school with. Most of the kids I’d grown up with looked like they’d stepped out of an advertisement for a surf camp or something—and they had more cash than my entire family put together.
To say I had teen angst was a gross understatement.
When people met me, they asked the same question, “What are you?”
Emphasis was always placed on the word are. The question made me feel like I was from another planet—I was an alien, considered freakish and unusual by all who crossed my path. They never failed to ask The Question, and even with all the practice I got, I never knew how to respond. I began to dread those chance encounters with my mom’s friends, with my friends’ parents, with the new cashier at the local Rite Aid…
The Follow-Up Statement was also the same every time, “Oh, what an interesting mix.”
Interesting. Right. I knew what people were really thinking. At least they were too polite to point out that I looked like a freak. My mother had blond hair, sparkling green eyes and light skin that tended to tan in the sun. From what I could tell in the few pictures of him, I took after my father. Even though my parents were of average height and weight, I had managed to miss the boat on those traits as well. Shopping for clothing was painful for me. I was so small that I could still shop in the children’s department, which drowned in disgusting pinks, purples, hearts and teddy bears. It seemed as though all the girls in my grade were physically mature beyond their years, with their push-up bras, navel rings and low-riding jeans.
I had attempted to purchase clothes like that, once upon a time. The memory made me wince. I’d felt like a little kid playing dress-up because each sexy top gaped ridiculously in the front and each pair of size zero jeans slid down my narrow hips to crumple sadly on the dressing room floor. I was overjoyed when skinny jeans became trendy because I could finally fit into something that didn’t have little bears embroidered on the pockets. Even so, I still felt like I was the only member of my tribe, and this status rendered me an Outcast.
Most awkward teenagers would probably say that there was at least a brief time when they didn’t feel this way. I wracked my brain for even the tinge of such a memory. All I could recall was a distinct feeling of otherness. Once I started high school, the feeling became more obvious. I was a Loner in junior high, but ever since Valerie Seaver had decided to forgive me, I wasn’t alone anymore. I wasn’t sure how they perceived me, but I was somehow still isolated while in the midst of my small group of other Outcasts. They joined me for lunch on the stairs, texted me here and there, and regularly invited me to prowl the mall with them after school.
My mom had left a pile of donuts on the table. I grabbed a handful and slipped out of the house, still engrossed in my pondering. Things had changed the day I turned thirteen and I wasn’t sure why. I think a whole week went by that I was silent, and nobody seemed to notice. Whenever I closed my eyes, I had nightmares of people I didn’t know, places I had never been… It got so I was afraid to fall asleep. Night after night, I lay awake, suffering from horrible insomnia that finally ended when I got my first period. I was so ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know. I could still feel my cheeks burning as I stood in line at the local drugstore, my feminine contraband clutched in my sweaty palms.
After that, there was a lot of myself that I just kept…hidden. No one should have to know the scary, dark thoughts and images that flitted through my mind. I spent every second that I was home holed up in my room. It was hard to be around people sometimes. Maybe I just felt too much and everything hurt. I couldn’t even watch movies anymore, because I would end up huddled in my bed, buzzing from the emotions around me. No one understood, and as long as I kept my grades up, no one seemed to care. I guess I was fine as long as I maintained a B-average.
Keeping my grades up wasn’t going to be easy. I had Mr. MacFarlane for math and he had it in for me. I checked my phone and realized that I was going to be late if I didn’t hurry. A cool blast of coastal fog stung my face as I rushed out to my car. Ugh, I had some wicked cramps today. It seemed like they got worse every month. I flew down the hill, steering with my knee as I lit my cigarette. Usually, a cigarette took my mind off the pain. I crammed my little gray Civic into a spot on the steep hill reserved for those of us who couldn’t afford a parking pass. I took a final drag and flicked my cigarette butt into a trashcan as I walked past the Lexus, Mercedes and BMW-laden student lot. That the students drove more expensive cars than the teachers escaped no one.
Eyes downcast, I ducked past the sea of Cheerleaders, Jocks, Brains and Candy Girls. I jerked open my rusty brown locker and retrieved my textbooks. As I stood in front of my zero-period algebra class, I fought the same internal battle that I had engaged in since the first day of school. God, I hated Mr. MacFarlane. I knew I was in trouble the moment he set his beady eyes on me. On that fateful day, he called on five unlucky girls to compute the very complicated equations he had scrawled on the blackboard. He told us that when we solved them, we could sit down. Never one to volunteer in class, I was riddled with panic as I approached the looming symbols. The feel of the chalk on my sweaty
palms was dry and aversive. Cheeks flaming, I stood frozen as the minutes dragged on. The last girl standing, I was finally allowed to return to my seat, my equation untouched, trying valiantly to ignore the smirks and the whispers.
After that, Mr. MacFarlane droned on about how some students lack the foundational skills necessary to pass the course. I had pasted a slightly interested look on my face and stared through him, pretending I was elsewhere. When the bell rang, I fled. Now, as I considered the urge to ditch, I could feel my anxiety rising. My heart pounded so hard, I had to double check that it was not visible through the fabric of the black tank top I always wore. I took down my hair and let it wrap around my face, like a velvet curtain hiding me from potential shame.
My desk was the last one in the row closest to the door. This location was convenient because it allowed me to slip in last and run out first. Unfortunately, the chair was slightly cracked and occasionally pinched me in a very delicate area as I feigned interest in the midterm review. I pulled out my text, my beat up black notebook, and my mechanical pencil. Mr. MacFarlane paced the aisles, waiting to pounce on some poor unsuspecting soul who had the bad luck to make a mistake under his watch.
MacFarlane paused for a moment but then moved on. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had dodged another bullet of public humiliation. When the bell rang, I was out of that room so fast the theme song from Speedy Gonzalez went through my head. A series of boring classes followed. Finally, I reached the eye of the storm—lunch period.
Our spot at the top of the stairs was a good vantage point. I studied my peers as though they comprised the chimpanzee exhibit at the zoo. Someone was always trying to groom up the hierarchy. Val and two other girls had recently taken to joining me for lunch, which confused me at first, but I didn’t mind. After all, being part of an Outcast group was better than being a Loner. Still, I was kind of amazed that Val wanted to be anywhere near me after what had happened between us.
During her parents’ divorce, Val’s behavior became erratic. And scary. I had pinky sworn not to tell anyone about the cutting. But when I saw Val’s wrists, I was so worried that I told our school guidance counselor. What ensued was a very public screaming match after school that day. Well, match wasn’t the correct term because it implied that there was an exchange. No, I just stood there, tears streaming down my face, as my best friend called me a liar and a traitor in front of a captive audience. Welcome to Outcast-hood. For both of us.
When Val came back from some kind of in-patient therapy center, she wouldn’t return my calls, texts or letters of apology. It hurt. She befriended Dara and Naomi and completely ignored me at school. Then out of the blue, a couple of years later, she plopped herself down on the stairs like she and her two friends had been eating there for years. Things had seemed shaky, but I thought things were on the mend.
At first.
Val had changed. Really changed. I felt like I was walking on eggshells around her, but I figured that an awkward friendship was better than nothing. Whenever we hung out, Val talked about progressively morbid topics. It was like a contest. Whoever could be the most negative or depressing, achieved some sort of intangible status among us. I tried not to play. Sometimes, I got sucked in and, even though I found that I could easily dominate the conversation, being good at this game just felt wrong. Something grew inside me, causing my confidence to soar until it suddenly lost momentum and shrank inside me, like a deflated balloon.
Today, I feigned interest in my sandwich, even though, as usual, it was squashed. My sandwich has been squashed every day since I can remember, I mused, tuning out the conversation. I took a reluctant bite. Eventually, something else caught Val’s attention.
“Oh my god… There he is!”
She was, of course, talking about Jaren Wilder. By virtue of his long blond hair and flip-flops, he appeared to belong to the Surfer crowd. I noticed, however, that he didn’t hang with them. He used to hang with his brother a lot, but Slade had graduated a couple of years back and moved to college. Jaren kept to himself, or sometimes we saw him talking to the Populars—girls, mainly. He wasn’t an Outcast, because he was Popular. What did that make him? I guess he was some sort of Super Sexy Untouchable or something. Not that I was intentionally trying to keep track of Jaren, but my eyes always went to him of their own accord. I wasn’t the only one.
Val sought to be the first one to locate him during the lunch period. Over time, I had deduced the rules of this weird game. The first girl to say she “liked” a guy could talk about him as though she was dating him. Anyone else expressing interest risked some kind of social retaliation.
From day one, Val had made it clear that she was the only one who could talk about Jaren. The rest of us could volunteer information as long as it was innocuous, or we risked her wrath. Tentatively, we offered comments like, “I heard Jaren was absent today,” or “Jaren is wearing that blue Volcom shirt you like so much today.” Studying him out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t fault Val’s taste. The guy was gorgeous. He was also older, aloof and unaware of our very existence. What was the point of lusting after Jaren? It could only lead to heartache.
“Everleigh! Are you even listening to me?” Val’s tone communicated that I was hanging onto my participation in their circle by a very short thread. Do I care? I guess in a weird way, I did.
“Sorry, I was mentally murdering Mr. MacFarlane,” I said, trying to recall what she had asked me moments earlier. My comment obviously met with approval, as the three of them tittered in agreement.
“He is such an asshole.” Dara watched me tear open a Snickers bar.
Dara was so thin, her socks hardly stayed up, yet she chose to live on Diet Coke and celery sticks, convinced she was a behemoth and afraid of gaining an ounce. I was addicted to sugar. Part of me rationalized my sweet tooth as a fruitless attempt to put on the weight necessary to develop boobs. Not sure why I wanted them, anyway. I guess I figured I would stand out less if I resembled the other girls in my grade, rather than a pre-pubescent boy. In any case, I needed sugar and I needed it often.
“Yeah, MacFarlane is an ass,” Val agreed as she smoothed a shimmery gloss onto her lips. Her black doctor-like purse always contained an assortment of products that she routinely stole from the grocery store across the street. Val always had her mom’s credit card and cash in her pocket. I think she stole stuff for the rush.
I watched her rub her lips together, admiring the way the color looked on her lips. My own mouth looked to be permanently stained with a hint of blackberry juice, making it seem like I was wearing an odd-colored shade of lipstick—yet another thing that I hated about myself.
“Anyway, I asked you if you wanted to come with us to the Third Eye after school.”
The Third Eye Bookshop—the ultimate gathering place for misfits. The prominent 18 and Older sign that hung on the door made this idea all the more attractive. I considered my options. I could study all afternoon for my math midterm or break up the day by checking out the bookstore first.
“Sounds good,” I said, unaware that after that fateful afternoon, I would never be the same again.
CHAPTER TWO
The Third Eye
The rest of the school day could not end quickly enough. My tie-dyed P.E. shorts did not go over well with Mr. Bynner, who made me run an extra lap around the track as the rest of the class snickered. When the final bell rang, the four of us piled into Val’s car. Val kept careful track of the Populars. She knew who they talked to between classes, what they were wearing every day, who they sat with at lunch, and who they partied with on the weekends.
“Madison thinks she’s so hot, but her ass is huge.” Val snorted.
Dara and Naomi were quick to agree. Why did it make us feel better about ourselves when we talked smack about the Populars? It was almost like some weird biological phenomenon.
“Just look cool,” Val instructed as arrived at our destination—a small building constructed to resemble a cottage.
&nbs
p; Whatever, Val. Again, I wondered why we were hanging out again. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten, but at least Val seemed like she had forgiven me, and it was easier now, masquerading as friends.
The door opened with a creak and the cloying aroma of Nag Champa incense greeted us. Thin ribbons of smoke trailed through the dim interior. The walls were lined with black shelves housing books and all kinds of other things. At the front of the store, tables were littered with trays of loose stones, oils and other items. The scene jolted my memory. Gram had been really into stuff like this. In fact, there was a trunk of stuff in the garage that she had left for me. I just wasn’t ready to look inside it yet. We waltzed in past the cashier, who didn’t even bother to look up from whatever he was reading. So much for looking old enough to get into the place.
“Look, they have books about magic!” Val headed toward the section labeled Wicca, and Dara and Naomi followed her. I tagged along a few steps behind them, my mind wandering back to the trials of the day. I guess I wasn’t paying attention when I brushed against a shelf containing a bunch of jars. One jar swayed, dangerously close to falling. I reached to catch it, and of course, the cap was loose.
I managed to save the jar, but the cap fell to the carpeted ground with a muffled thud. Some contents inside the cap spilled out as I retrieved it, smearing my hand. I replaced the cap and shoved the jar back onto the shelf, hoping no one had seen my near accident. I rubbed my hands on my jeans. Could I be any more awkward? I never failed to break a plastic hanger while checking out the underwear selection at Marshall’s, I tripped over my own feet at the most inopportune times, and I dropped books and other things so often that being a dork was probably just expected of me at this point.
As I mused over my tendency to publicly humiliate myself, I passed several long narrow aisles of books, incense, candles and aromatic oils. I reached the back of the store. Against the back wall, a thin rope stretched horizontally across a simple red velvet background to display a collection of necklaces. I went up on my tiptoes to look at the prices and, horror of horrors, I began to lose my balance.
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