The Pentrals (5 page)

“Mr. West gave this to me in class yesterday. I only glanced at the first few pages. I hope that’s okay. I don’t think I’m smart enough to read through the theorems.” She gives a small smile. “But, maybe after a few more weeks in class, I’ll be able to figure things out.”

Although it is sad, the bedside confession gives me hope. Hope that yesterday’s
Lift!
was a one-time occurrence, a lapse in judgment. Hope that seeing her best friend’s face will give her some perspective. Hope that I will never have to go through that experience again.

But when we arrive at school, I see my hopes are unfounded. Violet’s demeanor has quickly deteriorated. The peace she found with Mary is replaced with tension. We find Samantha, surrounded by her fellow lifters, and engage in small talk. The lifters’ faces are foreign, their Shadows’ thoughts disturbing. Yet Violet embraces the strangers and takes another little white pill. And another. I am pulled into darkness, the place I dread.

The waking hours have become lifting hours. Every time she swallows a pill, I try to cling to the world as it slips away. When she starts I am one place; when it is over, I am somewhere else completely. Do I live up to my duties in-between? I don’t know. I think of Blue, whose sanity was stolen by a freightpod—an incident beyond her control. Will mine be dissolved by a pill? Will the Class Fours take pity on me, knowing I have no sway over what my Person does, or will they execute judgment regardless of circumstance? They certainly showed no mercy for Blue. Why should I be different?

I fight. Slowly, I work to build a resistance to the
Lifts!
. Whenever a white pill enters my sight, I think of something positive and keep it in my mind’s eye for as long as possible. Once I know what to expect, I do my best to defy it, holding on to myself. Instead of completely disappearing, I start pushing my way through the haze.
You must do this Antares
, I think.
Don’t fade away
. It is not easy. It takes all the energy I can muster, leaving me little more than a gray puddle when Violet falls into bed at day’s end. But I continue fighting for my consciousness.

One afternoon in school, after pulling the orange tin from her backpack, I brace myself for the fog. But it doesn’t come. I watch, with a sound mind, as Violet’s eyes go from sharp and clear to unfocused and dazed. Her body becomes light but I do not float away.

I did it
, I think.
I have triumphed over the Lifts!.
But what have I truly won? Because I will always be with Violet, whether she’s high or low, here or gone. Is this how I’ll spend the rest of my days, bound to a Person throwing hers away? Passively watching, unable to shift direction? No matter what, I’m stuck with her. The ghost of a girl I once knew.

I may have escaped the
Lifts!
but I’m still trapped.

* * 7 * *

V
iolet and I are sitting alone in the art room. School has let out, but Mrs. Greenwald, the art instructor, has left the room open for additional studio time. It is the first time in days — or has it been weeks? — she has taken time to sketch. I have been so on edge, fighting to keep a hold of myself as we’ve dipped in and out of lifter oblivion. I am reluctant to let down my guard. But there is something so soothing about Violet’s artistic process. And today is a special day. Every once in a while, Mrs. Greenwald pulls out her limited stash of traditional materials for open studio time, meaning that Violet can sketch outside of a screen. I cherish these rare occurrences, and cannot help being captivated and letting myself go.

Violet sits on a stool, red hair tangled into a bun on top of her head. A few stray strands lay at her temples, highlighting the stark contrast between her electric mane and pale skin. The light hits her easel just so, allowing me to follow her hand as she moves dark charcoal across the page. Her art is so different from mine; I create shapes based on the tendencies of another, but Violet produces forms from her own free will. Pencil markings smudge and images come to life. No matter how hard I try, I will never create such beauty. But when I am able to follow her hand, it's like I'm part of the artistic process. Even though I know her body’s actions so well, her imagination is one thing locked away from me. I never know what she will create next.

Her right hand covered in black dust, she meticulously moves across the page. She moves quickly, I do not have much time to glance at what she’s ultimately creating, but I know it is different from her usual aesthetic. Violet is usually drawn to bright, vivid colors, but today she chooses only dark blacks and grays.

“Much darker than what I’m used to seeing,” says a voice behind us. Startled, Violet and I both whip around to see Thomas standing in the doorway. He is in his sweatpants and a grass-stained sweatshirt, fresh out of soccer practice.

“Yes, well, life can’t be all about pretty scenery,” Violet replies, dropping the charcoal back on the easel’s ledge.

“That’s true,” Thomas answers. He enters the room uninvited, though Violet makes no effort to stop him. She returns her gaze to the easel, knowing Thomas’ blue eyes are scanning the creation before him. I take a moment to look for myself but it is hard to know exactly what I’m seeing. The basic shape is human, and yet no Person has ever looked this way. Intense black lines jut out from the head, creating horns, or perhaps they are snakes. The face is twisted in a terrified expression; I almost expect a scream to leap from the canvas. An unnerving energy permeates the page, and I am surprised something so foreboding has come from Violet’s hand. Thomas’ expression seems confused as well, but he does not offer further commentary.

“I’ve seen you walking around with some lifters lately,” he says eventually.

“So?” Violet responds nonchalantly, still refusing to peel her eyes from her work.

Thomas turns to face her. “That’s just not you, Violet,” he says standing firm.“And you know everything about me?”

“I’d like to think I know a lot, yes.”

“Well, things are different now.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, as if hearing those words are almost more exhausting than living their reality. “They don’t have to be—“

“Yes!” Violet suddenly jumps off her stool, knocking it back on top of me. “Yes they do! Everything is different! Nothing can be the way it was!”

“Why, Violet? Why not?” Thomas tries not to show his anger, but his voice is rising. “Why do you have to keep punishing yourself for what happened? You loved Mary more than anyone. What happened to her wasn’t your fault!”

Violet glares at him, face full of disgust, as if she never spent a moment of her life loving the boy who caught her windswept pinwheel. “You’re right,” she answers. “It’s your fault.”

I know I hear the words but they are unbelievable. She stands firm, waiting to see how her blow will affect him.

Thomas shakes his head. “What? How can you say that?” His mouth gapes open as if he was punched in the face.

“You… every time I looked at you, it was like nothing else mattered. I could never see straight. I stayed with you that night when I should have been with her!”

Finally, the words she’s been holding on to for months are out in the open. I sense a small weight released from her body, though she is so upset that not much relief comes.

Her words register on Thomas’ face. They sting, but it seems he was expecting this reaction all along, just waiting for it her to admit it. “And you want me to what—apologize for being with you? For loving you?” Despite her attack, he refuses to back down, inching closer to her. “I’m sorry, Violet, that’s not going to happen. You can blame me and blame yourself for Mary all you want but we both know that’s ridiculous.”

Violet is crying. The resolve she held at the beginning of the conversation breaks down, and Thomas takes the opportunity to put his arms around her. She does not resist, and he holds her for a moment, stroking her hair. From my angle she looks so safe, wrapped in comfort. If anyone can help reestablish Violet’s peace, it is Thomas. But maybe I am misinterpreting the feeling, as Violet suddenly looks suffocated.

“You can’t keep pushing me away,” Thomas whispers. And yet that’s exactly what she does.

Violet shoves him back with all her strength, propelling him toward the door. “Stop it, Thomas! Stop! Just go! Leave me alone!” Black chalky fingerprints are left on his sweatshirt across his heart. They take one last look at each other—Violet’s cheeks splotched with tears and regret, Thomas’ face tightened to keep from crying—before he disappears down the hall.

She stands frozen in the realization of what she has done. I want to take off, run after Thomas, and drag him back to her. Make him understand she does not know what she says. That she loves him, she needs him. It isn’t until Violet starts rummaging through her backpack and I hear the now familiar clink of the
Lifts!
tin that I realize I cannot do this anymore.

We are alone, yet something is creeping into the quiet. A force pulsates inward, rapidly multiplying, flooding my thoughts. I dart my glance around, looking for the source of the pounding growing all around me, but see nothing. It is deafening, so loud that I feel the sound is everywhere including inside me, yet Violet does not react, likely far away in a
Lift!
haze. The room is filled with a terrible throbbing, like a heart beating red-hot. And then all at once I know what is happening.

Fury. I feel it. Fiery, burning rage spreading to every inch of my being. Fury at Violet, for willingly dulling the emotions I so desperately want to feel. Anger at her for intentionally sabotaging a meaningful relationship when I have spent my entire life alone. Fury at her for thinking only of herself, a luxury I will never know.

I have spent every minute of my life watching Violet, watching her grow to be a strong, beautiful Person. I never thought she would turn into this, a selfish shell of herself. I look up at her, defenses weakened in her drug-induced state, and for the first time ever, I wish I could hurt her.

She sits above me, eyes out of focus in tiny slits, as my rage billows below her feet. When she finally moves to stand, I jut myself in the opposite direction rather than moving my black outline to follow her foot.

Suddenly, Violet is tumbling down, headed directly toward me. Even the haze of the
Lift!
cannot wipe away her startled expression as she loses her battle with gravity. I brace myself for her fall.

Her green eyes stare straight into me just before everything goes dark.

* * 8 * *

S
lowly, the world comes back into focus. I expect Violet to be lying on top of me, but she has already rolled off. Her fall must have knocked me out—unusual. Weeks of lifting have thrown me off my game.

I try to regain my bearings when Mrs. Greenwald enters the studio. “Oh dear!” she calls out, hurrying over. “Let me help you.” I turn to look for Violet’s position, but before I can find her, the teacher is peering directly down at me. She reaches her hand out to touch where my arm would be, and oddly enough, I actually feel her weathered fingertips brush up against me. It startles me and I jerk back, but she is relentless. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” She slides her hand under my arm, and I feel pressure as she attempts to peel me off the ground. I am so unprepared for this kind of interaction, my instincts tell me to just go with it—it is my job to willingly participate in extreme situations even if I find them objectionable. And this is certainly an extreme situation. Somehow, this teacher has accomplished something I have never known to happen:
she is physically touching a Shadow.

Mrs. Greenwald pulls me up off the ground and I stand upward. It is the first time I have ever been completely vertical. The change in perspective catches me off guard, and I stumble back.

“Careful dear, you must have hit your head,” the teacher says. She places a careful hand on my back, and guides me toward a chair. Getting there is surprisingly difficult. I feel unbearably heavy, like a crushing weight is on my shoulders. The fall seems to have robbed me of any sense of balance. She helps me sit, and I tense up at feeling the cool metal back of the seat. But what is most remarkable is that I feel at all. Where are these sensations coming from? Why has my form suddenly become responsive to touch? Mrs. Greenwald bends down and takes a long look at me. It must be a strange sight to see, a Shadow with no Person attached. Only, that does not make sense. Without Violet, I should not be here. Shadows are not visible without their Person nearby. How can she even see me?

I stare back at her, unsure of how to act in such an unprecedented scenario, and realize it is the first time I have ever looked at a Person straight on. Even though I have stretched my Shadow self in many configurations, I do not get the chance to be evenly in line with Persons. I am always at least a little off to the side, causing me to see the world from a skewed point of view. I spend so much time looking up or down at Persons, it is fascinating to get this unobstructed, level view.

So many details of a Person’s face are not as visible when you are five feet below them. Mrs. Greenwald is a familiar presence, as Violet has logged years in the studio, but I have not spent much time cataloging her features. She is older, with soft gray hair framing her round face. Small wrinkles crinkle around her kind eyes as she examines me—a detail I never would have noticed before.

“How did you fall, Violet?” Mrs. Greenwald asks. Upon hearing my Person’s name, I whip myself around, eager to resume my post by her side. But Violet is nowhere to be seen. Where is she? Who is this lady talking to? It makes my head hurt. Actual hurt, as in real physical pain. There is a throbbing coming from the back of my head that is growing in intensity every second.

“Violet?” she repeats with concern in her voice. Her direct stare is too much, making me uncomfortable. I have never been paid this much attention. I look down, and almost fall off the chair when I see hands caked with charcoal resting gently on freckle-speckled legs. A pair of sneakers dangles just inches off the floor, and below them sits an unmoving mass of darkness. Hovering silently on the ground, it seems almost foreign to look at, yet I would know it anywhere. There is no mistaking it: I have a Shadow beneath me.