The Pentrals (2 page)

Almost immediately I detect two other Pentrals, Shadows like me, who have left their Persons’ sides. Two separate splotches of gray move across the glittery pavement toward me. Even the streets shine in Talline due to crushed glass mixed in with the concrete. The Shadows stop frequently to merge their outlines together. Being away from their Persons leaves Shadows an opportunity to take any form they wish, but this causes many of us identity confusion. When we are not actively Shadowing, we usually take the shape of something familiar.

A small dot, no bigger than a baby’s fist, rushes toward me. The shape is bouncing excitedly and I recognize it at once. She calls herself Birdy and belongs to Violet’s twelve-year-old neighbor, Bridget. Violet occasionally looks after Bridget on the weekends. The girl is a tornado of energy—it’s no wonder her Shadow currently flits around like a hummingbird. Birdy reaches out to touch me, and while I do not feel her physically, I know we are connected when I am able to hear her thoughts.

“Hi Antares! I haven’t seen you in awhile!” Birdy says in rapid fire. Antares is the name I gave myself after visiting a botanical garden with Violet and her mother more than a decade ago. An antares flower blooms only at night, revealing layers of bright red petals when the sun goes down. Being a creature of darkness myself, I liked the idea of something beautiful finding its place in the night. The floral moniker and fiery red petals connect me to my Person, yet the name helps give me a piece of identity that is my own. At least, I like to believe that it does.

“Birdy, what are you doing out here? Does Bridget actually sleep?” I ask.

She chuckles. “Yes! Sometimes. This afternoon we were rock climbing at the cliff. She’s pretty tired after all that exercise!”

“We were at the cliff today too. I didn’t see you there.”

“Oh! Well, you know, we were all over the place. Plus, it’s hard to really pay attention when you’re working, you know?” Birdy replies. This is true. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in replicating Violet’s movements, I forget about my surroundings. It takes complete concentration to match someone else’s movements. Every wave of the hand, every turn of the head, every single tiny jiggle has to be captured and copied in real time. It’s gotten easier over the years, knowing what to expect from my Person’s body, but there is always the chance for surprises, and you can’t be caught unaware.

Another Shadow hangs back, not joining our conversation. The soft gray form sits very still, and would be practically imperceptible to the human eye. Shadows may not be able to feel, but our sense of sight is incredibly heightened. Our observation skills mean little escapes our focus.

I slide closer and realize the other Shadow is Dash, who belongs to Bridget’s older sister Emily. Like Bridget, Emily is a girl always on the move, and was awarded a college scholarship for her sprinting abilities. She left for college one year ago, yet recently moved back home for reasons I have yet to learn.

I reach out to touch Dash, who has resisted any formal shape and looks rather like a blob. “Hey Dash,” I say.

“Hey,” she responds without much enthusiasm.

“How are things with Emily? It must be exciting to move to a new place.”

“Yeah. I mean, it was…,” Dash replies, quietly adding “Before.”

“Before what?” Birdy chimes in.

“I don’t know exactly,” Dash answers. “Things with Emily are just… different.”

“Different? Like what? How?” Birdy is bouncing off non-existent walls.

“She used to be such a ball of energy. Running next to her in the 30-yard dash was pure exhilaration. When we left for school, I couldn’t wait to show off our skills. But she started missing practice, and we were not given as many starts in races. I don’t know what changed but—” Before she can finish, a light switches on in Emily and Bridget’s house. In a millisecond they vanish, zipping back to the sides of their Persons in case they have woken. It’s probably for the best, as I should get back to Violet anyway. I scoot past the Class Ones, faithfully outlining the same shapes for all eternity, sliding under the front door and back up the steps to her dark room. Violet remains unchanged and I sigh with relief.

I think about my conversation with Dash and Birdy as the hours of night tick by. It’s not often I interact with other Shadows by my own choosing; not because I’m unfriendly, it’s just logistically problematic. My duty is to Violet, not to my fellow Pentrals. Still, I can’t help but think about the shift in Dash’s presence. I don’t know her too well, but I know she is a very ambitious Shadow, pushing herself to know every line and angle of her Person’s sport. Tonight she lay on the pavement with no energy, no discernible outline. She was drained of her essence.
I don’t know what changed but—

I know what it is like to worry. Spending so much time with one Person, it makes it difficult not to constantly evaluate her actions. Is she happy? Working hard enough to reach her goals? Enjoying the beauty of life? A content Person is certainly more enjoyable to shadow than one who is unfulfilled. Yet even if Shadows notice a shift in behavior, there is nothing we can do about it. We observe and do not react. Whatever happens, we have no choice but to stand idly by.

I look to the window and pray for a glimmer of dawn. I hate the night. It gives me too much time to think.

* * 3 * *

S
omehow I make it through the night without driving myself crazy. Now that it is morning, I will be too busy shadowing Violet to think about last night’s conversation. How a girl and her Shadow, so previously full of life, went from being sparks of frenetic energy to lifeless blobs on the street. From the sounds of it, Emily has lost her drive, a condition that happens too often as people age. I have noticed this apathetic feeling amongst many adults, Violet’s mom in particular. Even though today is a school and work day, Mrs. Rayne has yet to peel herself out of bed, leaving Violet to fend for herself once again. When Violet was younger, her mother was always falling over herself to help Violet pick out her outfit, braid her hair, or make her breakfast. These days, their interaction is limited to simple exchanges.

Violet thumbs through her clothes, deciding what to wear. It has become a much more involved process these past few months. She used to throw anything on, not giving too much thought as to how it looked or felt, but now she takes forever searching for the perfect outfit. A tight-fitting purple top is selected, and she pulls off her shirt from yesterday. As she moves, her eye catches the mirrored wall opposite her bed. In perfect synchronization, I move along the floor as Violet runs her left hand over her abdomen. I assume there is a trace of dirt left behind from last night’s trip to the cliff, but instead of her fingers brushing, they are grabbing fistfuls of tissue across her stomach. Over and over, she grabs at her waist, leaving pink marks up and down her skin. I can’t imagine the action would feel pleasant, especially since Violet’s face is tightly winced. Why then would she do it? I have spent my whole existence predicting her movements, but this action surprises me.

She shakes her head and quickly finishes getting dressed. For the rest of the morning, she appears to be working extra hard to avoid looking at the mirrors around her house. It’s not an easy task; the refrigerator, countertops, and doorways are all reflective. I do not mind the mirrors. All those reflective surfaces make my work much more interesting, as light playfully bounces across the room. But today, Violet is not sharing my enthusiasm.

Because she lives so close to her high school, Violet walks every morning. I much prefer traveling by foot than by carpod; the silver bean-shaped vehicles give me no choice but to lay motionless on the floor. Being outside allows me time to flex my artistic abilities as I trace the wind patterns in Violet’s hair or weave in and out of terrain. It is easy enough to duplicate images on flat, smooth surfaces, but becomes more challenging when the environment throws hurdles in the way. Things like bushes and trees are expected and easy enough to deal with, but quickly darting between the slats of a picket fence is more advanced. I welcome obstacles; anything that helps me hone my craft.

The walk is slow today, as Violet stops to kick rocks out of her path or pull a leaf from a tree. As I shadowed her packing up her book bag, I did not get a chance to view her schedule on her holopane. It takes a beat to remember whether or not she has art class today. Ever since school started a few weeks ago, I’ve had trouble mastering her senior year schedule. Once Violet passes through the doors of Talline High, my day is a blur of confusion. With so many Persons packed into such a tight space, it is absolute hysteria on the floor. The Shadows become one undulating mess, smashed into each other as we try to maintain the shape of the one we follow. Persons step on us, left and right, and while we cannot physically feel pain, it is annoying to have someone’s foot in your face when you’re working. Not to mention how once our gray forms touch, we become privy to each other’s thoughts. Small bits of consciousness float into mine, whether I want them or not:

“Ugh, last night was exhausting.”

“Who is this guy she’s kissing?”

“I cannot sit through another algebra class.”

It is a lot to take in. But for now, on our walk, I soak in the sunlight, my outline dark and steady on the pavement, trying not to worry about what the school day will bring.

We stop at the intersection across from school and wait for the streetlight to change. There’s a lot to see at this time of day, from shiny carpods whirring by on their way to work to reflective bus benches mirroring the hustle and bustle. Occasionally I catch another Person’s face, tilted downward, trying to avoid all the mirrored commotion, but I don’t have much time to register their presence. From my angle, I can’t help but look up past Violet’s head to the giant billboard-sized holopane above. Besides the red rock of the towering canyon encircling the city, the extra-large monitor is one of the few non-reflective surfaces in the square, making it impossible to miss.

A three-dimensional projection shows a picture of Talline itself, with people dancing and laughing in the streets. It’s a packed scene, as if every resident in the city is smashed into one image, yet one face stands out amongst the crowd. It is Celestia Sky, the unofficial spokesperson of Talline. With so much white light engulfing the streets, she is a standout vision. An image of her raven hair and flawless ebony skin slinks across the sky, working every angle of the 3D medium. You can’t miss her, nor would you want to; Celestia is a Person who demands to be seen.

“Show your appreciation for the most beautiful city in the world!” she coos. Celestia gracefully gestures to the scene behind her, discussing the details of the Festival of Light, an upcoming town celebration. The party is thrown annually in honor of the city’s radiant beauty. Naturally, I’ve attended every year, though in a limited capacity. The day usually begins with a trip around Lake Clarion on the Kellys’ yacht, and then I spend the rest of the time crushed under everyone’s feet and converging with fellow Pentrals. People always seem to have a lot of fun, though I’ve never understood why, as the day is not much different from most. For a town-wide gathering, I would expect much more than a few food vendors and street performers to entertain the crowd. Still, watching Celestia smiling and enjoying the festivities on the screen makes the event seem so enticing that you wouldn’t want to be left out.

Then the holopane switches, swallowing up the images of Celestia, and spitting back out a group of ridiculously good-looking teenagers, laughing crazily and floating mid-air as if they’ve just jumped off a trampoline. In dazzling orange and blue letters, the slogan reads:

“LIFTS! For when life drags you down.”

I’ve seen variations of this advertisement for years, of course, but only recently has its message made any sort of impact. At school there is a group of kids referred to as lifters, who can use the product once they turn 17. Now that Violet is a senior and herself of age, the presence of
Lifts!
has become more prevalent than just bouncy holopane teens. Sometimes when I’m lying on the school’s floor, I catch a classmate reaching in her backpack for a small orange tin with
LIFTS!
imprinted on top. Inside are small, white, circular capsules that dissolve on the tongue.

I cannot decide whether
Lifts!
are mints, candy, or caffeine-delivery pills, but there must be a reason why you can only obtain them after age 17. Violet has yet to sample
Lifts!
despite their popularity, so my knowledge of their effect is limited. All I know is that lifters seem to hang together and whenever I come in contact with a Shadow of one who has just lifted, the thoughts I read are fraught with confusion.

The school parking lot is brimming with activity, as the student body takes its last few breaths of fresh air before the first bell rings. Violet stops to survey the crowd, as if trying to decide where to jump in. Last year, there would have been no question as to where she belongs, but things are a lot different now. She starts to cross through the mass of students, when suddenly a carpod screeches across the pavement.

I am not prepared when Violet lets out a scream.

* * 4 * *

I
keep my gaze focused on Violet, although I desperately want to scan the scene to see what happened. She is unharmed, but visually shaken, pressing her hands over her ears. I echo her quivers across the pavement. The carpod is nowhere near her body; it only squealed as it pulled in a nearby parking space. Several onlookers shoot Violet confused looks, which she doesn’t see through her squeezed eyelids. More and more students put distance between themselves and my shaking Person, all except one.

Thomas Brandt.

Slowly, he walks up and places his hands on top of hers. He is several inches taller than Violet, with golden skin and sandy hair. Though he spends a significant amount of time aggressively kicking a soccer ball, right now he is tender. She opens her eyes and stares deeply at his face; for a moment, neither of them moves.