Shift (The Pandorma Adventures Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 2

My social life was over—no, destroyed, when the blame for something I didn’t do was pinned on me. My friends deserted me. I was disregarded and everyone
looked at me with disgust. They shied away from coming into contact with me and always stayed as far away as possible. It hurt so much; it felt like someone dug my heart out with a knife then oh-so-slowly cut it up, making sure I felt every single slice the blade made.

It happened almost two years ago. We all filed out of the bus and into the school. I was near the back, talking with another girl. I knew something was wrong when the happy chatter died down, then went silent.

Plastered all over billboards, taped on lockers and on the front of classroom doors, were papers. The papers were clearly printed copies from a book. A journal—my journal to be specific. It’s all white with the pink-colored word
Secrets
scrawled across the front. It wasn’t like my other two journals because this one just held secrets. Secrets that weren’t mine. I don’t know what it is with people, but they just told me things sometimes—things that could range from very personal to just random stuff.

At times it felt overwhelming—if they told me their problem then I couldn’t help feel like it was my problem too. I couldn’t talk about any of it to anyone so I decided to write things down to get them off my chest. I guess that was a giant mistake on my part.

I raced down hallways tearing down and ripping up papers, feeling horrid and like something else terrible was just around the corner. I tried to think how my diary’s pages got here. And in a split second, I remembered.

About a week ago, Lexi had slept over at my house. She found my journal and asked about it. I told her that people just kept telling me stuff. She seemed pretty interested in it and kept asking questions about the stuff I write down. I answered as vaguely as I could. Once she seemed to get what she was looking for we changed the subject. That same week I went to write down something and couldn’t find the journal. I wasn’t too worried; I’ve had a habit of misplacing things and having them turn up later. But here at school where they’re subject to everyone’s scrutiny? Last place I would ever expect.

I stormed down the hall looking for my alleged best friend. “Lexi!” I yelled angrily when I caught sight of her.

“Lissa Fleming!” boomed a voice and my shoulders sank and my heart dropped. I shuffled my way to the principal's office and stepped inside. He slammed the door behind me and then glowered down at me, a paper angrily clenched.

“Yes?” I asked, hoping I sounded innocent and oblivious to what the papers were. The principal's glower deepened.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“I—”

“You decide to break into the school in the middle of night and hang up everyone’s private matters all over the school?” he yelled so thunderously that I flinched. “This calls for suspension—no expulsion!” More quietly he asked, “Do you know how many people you’ve hurt? Three have already come to me and asked if they could have a day or more out of school.”

I bit my lip hard to keep from crying but it didn't work. The principal had to call in my dad and I waited in his office for him to get there. By the time he got to the school I had stopped crying but I hadn’t stopped hurting and my father’s look of disapproval cut me deeper. Dad convinced the principal to let me stay but part of me wished he hadn’t. Dad said I couldn’t just leave. He wanted me to make amends and such but I knew I’d never be forgiven so I kept to myself and went along with the kids’ . . . creative ways of punishing me. One way included Lexi’s publicizing of my own private things I’d told her.

I angrily shove my books in my locker, keeping the ones I’ll need out. Two years later, I still wish he had let me get expelled.

“Hey.”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the greeting I’m so deep in angry thoughts. It’s my friend Fawn; an outcast like me—being regularly berated by Lexi. Mostly because of her name and her ubiquitous apparel of baggy clothes.

Fawn is a couple inches taller than me with wispy, light brown hair and large, expressive hazel eyes. Although Fawn always wears baggy clothing, I know that it’s just to hide her dangerously curvy body.

I appraise her baggy clothing today: a purple shirt and long brown skirt. I shake my head. I might not have a great sense of fashion, but even I know enough to dress in a way that’ll avoid mockery. Admittedly my own modest dressing has garnered its own collection of unique nicknames. Despite the teasing I have kept to my ways. Yes, my shorts and skirts have hiked higher up my leg, but not so much that I can’t call it un-modest.

“You’ll never get your first kiss if you keep dressing like that. And I bet they’ll give you the title of Worst Dressed in our yearbooks,” I tell Fawn jokingly.

Fawn rolls her eyes. “Rather that than Least Dressed. I’m not changing just to be classified as a Lexi.”

I snort. “No. But guys won’t look at you twice if you’re dressed like that.” I only bring this up because more than once I’ve watched her watch couples longingly.

“How many times have I told you? If a guy really likes you he shouldn’t care how you’re dressed or what you look like on the outside.” Fawn is adamant that her logic is sound. Unfortunately history disagrees.

I smile at her and poke her shoulder playfully. “If you insist. When it finally works, you’ll have to let me know.”

Fawn sighs and heads to her class. “Will do. I’ll see you after school!” she yells over the sound of students hurrying to their classes.

* * * *

I slip into a desk at the back left corner of the room. It didn’t take me long to find that this small square of space in every class, is where I’ll most likely be left in peace. History, my final class of the day and the only class I’m not partially lost in or don’t feel daydreams calling me. Out of all my classes, history is my favorite. Our teacher Mr. McBride is the unrivaled most interesting teacher in the school. When he talks, you listen. He often tells us amusing stories—some relating to the material at hand, some not. I’ve had many conversations with him while cleaning off the chalkboard, and I walk away a little smarter every time.

After everyone is seated, Lexi sashays through the door. Last, as usual. She’s always the last one in because she loves being watched as she takes her seat.

Mr. McBride’s voice, which has always had a lightness and energy to it, now says, “Before we begin today, I’d like us to welcome a new student.”

A boy standing by the doorway walks to Mr. McBride’s side. My focus sharpens as I take him in. He has tousled, dark brown hair and doesn’t look much taller than me, but he has an athletic build. His backpack is swung casually over his shoulder and his eyes, which are a mix of light green and light gray, are friendly but alert. He’s been the new student one too many times and knows what to expect. When his eyes meet mine my heart starts beating rapidly. A thumping fills my ears and I don’t hear the teacher introduce him.

“Okay, take a seat so we can begin. There’s an empty chair in the back,” Mr. McBride says, eager to get into today’s lesson.

I look down at my book and search for the correct page. The boy walks to the back and takes a seat a couple chairs over from mine. I keep my eyes fixated on the blackboard, resisting the urge to turn and look at him. No, stare at him until I’ve memorized every inch of him. I force myself to breathe normally.

As the lesson begins I have to make myself concentrate on the teacher’s words but it’s difficult. Eventually my beating heart returns to a normal, but jumpy, pulse and I begin to think of how odd it is that someone should be starting now. There’s only a week or so left of school.

A small wad of paper hits my cheek. I turn in the direction it came from and purse my lips. Lexi gives me a puppy dog look then mouths,
don’t be stupid.
I frown and narrow my eyes, understanding the meaning of her sharp words. Why would a guy like him go out or even look at a loser like me? I crush the urge to throw back a sharp retort. Lexi could never handle what she dishes out. I know from experience. A few perfectly placed words and she’ll break like a wineglass.

Lexi turns and gives the new boy an approving look. I shake my head in disgust. I’d bet my life that he was looking, why else would she do it? Lexi only does things when they’ll be seen.

* * * *

I find a spot on the scorching concrete stairs as far as possible from the leaving students. I shift a few inches, the heat burning my skin. I move again, but don’t get up; refusing to move so my thighs will soak up the heat and the concrete will settle down to a more bearable temperature.
I might as well do something useful while I wait.
Fawn is notorious for showing up twelve to fifteen minutes—I have timed her—late. I pull out my history book and begin the wait.

Where is she?
Twenty minutes have passed and Fawn still hasn’t come out. Everyone else left the building long ago and I’ve finished half of my homework. I shove my books in my bag and stand up, almost running smack into him.

Chapter 3

“Waiting for someone?”

I stare up into the midnight blue eyes of Trevor, who seems to find my being startled funny. My heart flutters and a lonely longing tugs at my belly. I lost Trevor as well, not long after I lost Lexi. He had already been drifting away from me though, so when he stopped seeing me altogether it didn’t come as a surprise.

Once upon a time Trevor had also been one of my best friends. We’d been friends forever and the nature of our friendship never changed, even when we went from child to teen. We were always bickering about something, always getting each other in trouble, always putting each other’s limbs at stake just for fun.

When Trevor turned sixteen he closed everyone off. Quit football and every other after school activity. To see Trevor outside is like your chances of spotting Bigfoot. Very slim.

Trevor has blond-brown hair, broad shoulders and height—in other words he’s much taller than me. Despite his magnetic looks there’s anger in his eyes and I can see the sadness of surrender. It reminds me of moments when I’ve just given up completely because I’m tired of fighting.

I move my eyes down. “Yeah. I’m waiting for Fawn.”

“You don’t say.”

I look back up at Trevor and don’t respond, just hold his cool gaze.
You can’t just shut down on people like that. How do you think it makes them feel? How do you think it makes me feel?
I’d lost so much over time, like a tree dropping its leaves as they wither. Trevor wasn’t there to catch me as I crumbled into a gazillion pieces, nor was he there when I attempted to piece myself back together. He’s always been like a brother, a sibling I’ve never had, so when he shunned me it felt like I lost a leg or some other important part of me.

Fawn finally clomps down the stairs. She gives us a quick look then says, “Lissa are you ready?”

I blink and attempt to steady my insides, which have been rigorously shaken for the second time today. Trevor gives me one last, indecipherable look before walking away.

Fawn watches him go, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’m so glad he graduated last year. The hallways are less scary when he’s not lurking around.”

Inwardly I flinch slightly. Fawn isn’t the only person who had been glad Trevor graduated—I hadn’t been, school was the only place where I could see him and know he was okay. But other kids who found him “off” were happy to see him go.

“I wonder what he was doing back here,” she muses disapprovingly. I shrug. “Well, I can’t hang out today. I’ve got a lot of work to do, my dad is really piling it on this week,” Fawn rushes. She moves her backpack to her other shoulder. She’s hiding something but I don’t feel like prodding her to find out what it is.

“Kay.”

Fawn heads across the street to her father’s store, Lumber Plus, the only hardware store in town. All the stores in Abandon are individual in their function: one grocery store, one restaurant, one hardware store, one pet store, one clothing store and one police station that shares the building with a so-called newspaper.

* * * *

I drop my bike in the grass and go inside. I quietly head to the kitchen, set my backpack on the counter and grab a peach from the fridge. I walk to the French doors and stare out at the forest made of vast hills that tumble into the mountains that are the backbone of our town. I take a bite of the succulent peach. The woods begin fewer than ten feet from our terrace so sometimes we get to see things most don’t. Like a cougar stalking a small herd of deer that had been grazing close by. I saw it catch one that had been limping. It had been incredible to witness but that isn’t something I want to see again.

Today the forest whispers of peace. And I’ve never been one to ignore its calling. I rush back to the fridge, snatch another peach, and then race out the door. If there’s one thing that always takes the edge off a rough or confusing day it’s hiking to my favorite spot.

An hour later I arrive there. The forest ends several feet from a crescent shaped plateau. The view is always gorgeous from here. In summer the forest is packed with greens of every shade one could imagine. The trees rise and fall with every contour of the mountainous ground. From so high up I can see most of our town plus a good way on both sides beyond it.

Today the forest is vibrant with life and the smell of freshness, the earlier rain having bathed my small world. All around me birdsong fills the air, along with a teasing gentle breeze and the gurgle of a nearby stream. My forest. I’ve explored this forest—within the four mile radius my dad set—so many times; I know it better than my own house. Out here I’m alone and happy—for the most part. I’m often overcome with a yearning to go drag Trevor out of his hole and show him the forest and the miniature crystal-clear lake just outside my boundary, and every other incredible thing here. When the stream is running well, the water is amazingly clear and inviting, especially in the summer, but in the winter the water is dreadfully numbing and its happy gurgle muted by layers of ice.

As far as I know I’m the only one in town who knows the location of this plateau so I’m always careful not to leave a path for others to follow. Resting dangerously on the lip of the plateau is a large gray rock that has hundreds of little crystals in it. Above the rock is a thick branch dipping low over the left side, like its weight has become too much to bear and eventually it’ll come to rest on the rock. When I was younger I practiced scrambling up and down that branch many times. Pretending I was under attack or that there was some wild animal prowling around and I needed to escape to the safety of the high branches.

I climb atop the rock, lie on my back and gaze up at the sky. I close my eyes and let my thoughts sink into the rock, my mind going blank. If I could stay here forever it’d be heaven on earth. Almost. The only thing missing would be a box of cookies, or M&M’s, anything sweet to chase away the sorrow.

But the sun doesn’t accede to my wishes and continues setting, so that a few hours after I arrive, I have to leave. I’m not allowed in the woods after dark. Dad’s rule. If Mom had set the rule I might consider disobeying, not that she’d notice anyway. But she didn’t, Dad did. And I’ll never go against him, even in his weak state of mind.

I begin dragging my feet down the hill; cross the stepping-stones that create a bridge for me over the water. On the other side my shoes squish into the soft muddy bank.

The sound of steady lapping and the flick of water makes me turn back around. An animal is crouching at the lip of the stream a few feet down. Shock floods through me and I feel my jaw go slack. It’s a large jet-black panther with white spots scattered over its front and back paws, stopping at the joints.

A scream burns my throat but doesn’t escape. The panther freezes in its crouched position; only its tongue moves to lick water crystals dripping from its snout and whiskers. Its eyes, a striking emerald green, pin me like prey. But it looks observant, curious. Unable to look away I watch as it turns and pads into the undergrowth, leaving me speechless.

* * * *

When I get back home the sun is just a flake on the horizon. Dad is sitting at the dinner table pouring orange juice into a glass.

“See any Bigfoots?” Dad asks. His voice is steady; his gray-blue eyes clear and I breathe an inaudible sigh of relief.

Bigfoots are a joke between us. One day when I was twelve I asked Dad if I could go explore the woods. He said yes, but warned me not to wander far. Dad handed me orange ribbons and told me to mark the trail so I could find my way back home. I quickly agreed then raced into the woods that were chanting of adventure. After roaming for some time I had spotted an interesting rock beside the root of a large tree and bent down to get a better look.

There was a loud crack of a branch breaking. I jumped up at the sound, my head snapping around to find the source of the sound. The silhouette of a large creature stood next to a massive pine, its nostrils flaring, eyes gleaming, and the sun glaring off long claws. Having watched an episode on Bigfoots just last night I instantly thought that’s what the creature was. I screamed and raced home, my heart pounding the whole way.

Dad was relaxing on the porch swing but stood when I came racing out of the forest. He caught me as I jumped into his arms. I cried hysterically into his shoulder, explaining with great sobbing breaths about how a Bigfoot had tried to eat me when I was only minding my own business.

Dad soothingly told me that it was okay over and over again. When I finally calmed down a little, he asked me what this creature looked like and if it had really
attacked
me, since the only scratches I displayed were those made by thorns and branches. I felt my cheeks flush and said that it didn’t attack
me exactly, but had scared the life out of me. Dad was silent for a minute and I studied his face. He was trying to suppress laughter. I glared at him, but that only seemed to make it worse.

Dad gently told me, “Now Licorice, I told you that there’s no such thing as Bigfoots. I think half a cookie is the perfect cure for a fright, don’t you think?”

“A whole cookie?” I pleaded, doe eyes included.

Dad chuckled. “Two candy canes.”

Sugar being my ultimate weakness I quickly agreed.

I smile at him now and respond, “No.” I think of the panther. Hesitating I ask, “Dad there are panthers here right?”

“Mountain lions? Yes,” he says after finishing off his orange juice.

I want to ask if a black one—if that’s even possible—has ever been spotted in the area but Dad is already getting that far away look in his eye that means he’s no longer here.

* * * *

The front door slams shut; signaling Mom has come home. I’m sitting on my bed, finishing homework.

“Lissa, I need you to come down here!” Mom barks.

I reluctantly get off my bed and go to the top of the stairs. Mom stares up at me, an impatient look on her face.

“Yes?”

“We're having guests for dinner so I need you to come set the table.”

My mind instantly thinks of the new boy’s family, but I quickly squash the thought—and my beating heart. That would be a good thing and with Mom, I’ve learned never to expect that.

“Who?”

Irritation flares in her eyes as she snaps, “Lissa just come do it for goodness sake! Sometimes you are just
so
spoiled! Would it kill you to do
one
simple thing for me without back talking all the time? There needs to be five places.”

Anger lights in my chest as I clomp down the stairs. I grab plates from the cupboard and forks from the drawer, piling them on top of the plates, then begin setting the table.

Mom’s father had been rich, so work was a pretty foreign concept to her. It always had been. But for me? Never. When I needed money I had to get a job. Mom says she can’t just
give
me money when I’ve done absolutely nothing. Though I agree that money earned is better spent; why couldn’t she just lend me a few dollars if I really needed it? The plates clatter.

“Be careful with those,” Mom snaps from her place on the couch, not even looking up from her magazine.

I suppress a retort and place the rest of the plates down soundlessly.

I flee back upstairs as soon as I’m finished and kneel down in front of my ten-gallon fish tank and watch my Gourami’s gracefully swim around. I’ve always wanted a cat or golden retriever; something I could hold and play with, but Mom didn’t leave me many options when it came to a pet. Absolutely no animals with hair or feathers; no reptiles or anything with more than four legs. And
I had to buy everything myself.

I wasn’t excited about having fish at first, but when I looked at the ones in the pet store I fell in love with the Dwarf Gourami’s.

I have four now: two three-spot blues, a yellow one with a spotted body like a cheetah’s, and a red one with dark blue strips zigzagging across its body. They’re ravenous eaters so I’m always sure to keep money set aside for food. I always watch curiously when they use their feelers—long thin ‘arms’ attached just below their fins. I wonder if they are like a cat’s whiskers or more like human arms.

I’m shaken out of my study by Mom’s voice greeting people. My heart speeds up. Again. I growl at myself to cut it out. If I go down three steps I’ll be able to see them without being seen myself.

I crawl to the top of the staircase. Anger rises in my throat at who I see. Lexi and her mom.
Of all the people it had to be Lexi.
Lexi’s mom, Kristen Langley, isn’t even remotely like her daughter. Mrs. Langley is the head of a foundation called Honest Action that helps disadvantaged kids around the world. She travels often, but mostly during winter. I’ve always loved visiting Lexi’s house because I enjoyed being around her mother, who gave me the motherly love and advice my own mom didn’t. Mrs. Langley has light brown hair that is graying and her face is beginning to wrinkle, but still has a youthful beauty—personally I think it’s because she adores the work she does—, she’s four inches below her daughter, and really kind. Since my friendship with Lexi ended I haven’t seen Mrs. Langley much except for on a few occasions.

I turn, intending to go back up, but my foot slips and I tumble down the stairs, feeling like I hit every carpeted step on the way.