Shades of Darkness

by A. R. Kahler

  My toes were perfectly toasty in my boots. I just needed to start walking, to get somewhere closer to people and civilization because I needed an excuse not to talk.

  “Sure thing,” he said. My hand slipped from his arm, but we didn’t stop touching, not entirely. “Anywhere in particular?”

  “Writers’ House,” I suggested. “I could use some hot chocolate.”

  Hands just brushing, we walked out of the woods.

  It felt like a metaphor. The crows watching us from the boughs didn’t help.

  • • •

  Even though it was barely tilting into afternoon, the sky above was heavy and gray when we stepped into the Writers’ House. A few students were already in the foyer, reading or typing away on computers. In the kitchen, I filled the electric kettle with water and began rummaging around in the cabinets for hot cocoa.

  Something felt different between us now, and as I looked at him I realized what it was: He was no longer just a pretty face and a quirky sense of fashion. He was human. And some part of me ached to connect with that. To lay down my own fears and demons and be seen as a human too. As much as I could be.

  Trouble was, I’d spent too many years in the dark, too many years pretending being alone and unwanted didn’t hurt like hell. People didn’t want that me, the real me, the me who stared at shadows and didn’t know anything about her real family, the ones who gave her up to die. No one wanted that truth. So I had to create the image that I was wanted. That I was stronger.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, stepping up beside me. I ripped open the packets and poured them into the mugs. Handmade ceramics, probably from a graduate.

  “About chocolate,” I lied.

  “Uh huh,” he said.

  “Why is it,” I asked, pouring water in the second mug, “that I’ve only really known you for a few days, but feel more comfortable around you than I should?”

  And why doesn’t that scare me as much as it should?

  I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t even really mean to ask. But now that the words lingered in the air, I knew I couldn’t take them back. It felt like standing at the crossroads, waiting for direction.

  “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

  I set the kettle down.

  “I can’t fall for you,” I said.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because,” I whispered, suddenly aware that we were still in an open kitchen and people might be listening in. “Love is dangerous.”

  “That’s what makes it worth it.”

  I turned to him then, and looked him right in the eyes. He had shown me his very human past. Maybe I needed to show him mine. Even if there was nothing human about it.

  “The last time I was in love,” I said, “people got hurt. Bad.”

  “That’s a part of life,” he replied.

  Gods, his eyes. I couldn’t stop looking into those eyes.

  “No,” I whispered. “This wasn’t.” I wanted to look away. I didn’t want to say what was on my tongue, not while he was staring at me with so much intent.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I was hurt,” I replied. A flicker of truth. “And the guy . . . he died. His name was Brad. The first and only guy I ever dated. And he died.”

  He died because he hurt you, some shadowed voice in me whispered.

  He died because he deserved it.

  Chris didn’t push the subject, probably because I pushed a mug of hot chocolate into his hand before he had the chance. He didn’t say anything while I walked away, just followed me up the stairs, past the painting of a giant orchid, and into a little back alcove where Ethan and I set up shop when we weren’t doing art or out fishing.

  The room back here was often unused, just a couple of loveseats beside the window and a bookshelf containing the works of a few hundred poets I’d never heard of and would probably never read. That said, I had made a dent in the first shelf—poetry was a fantastic way to distract myself from my real homework. Especially when it was borderline erotic.

  Another perk of Islington: no stupid committees banning books. Here, they knew that knowledge really was power, and that we were all mature enough to read about the things we’d already been thinking since puberty.

  I pulled out a collection of Anne Sexton poems and flopped down on one of the chairs, setting my mug on the coffee table between them. Chris sat across from me as I opened the book and pretended to read.

  “You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?” he said after a while. I looked up from my book.

  “I don’t tell anyone what happened,” I said.

  “Not even Ethan?”

  “Especially not Ethan.”

  He took a sip from his hot chocolate, his eyes dipping to his mug for just a moment. I took that second to breathe and compose myself.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because I just don’t like talking about my past, okay? It’s not fun.”

  “But it’s still bothering you,” he said. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

  “Ethan wouldn’t look at me the same, that’s why. And neither would you.”

  “I told you about my sister,” he said.

  “That’s not how this works. This isn’t a you tell me your secrets, I’ll tell you mine equal exchange.” Shit, that came out harsher than I meant. But he was circling around one of my biggest buttons, and I didn’t know what I’d do if or when he hit it. I took a deep breath, inhaling the cocoa fumes and wishing they’d calm me down. I should have gone for chamomile tea. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a bitch. I really do feel bad about your sister.”

  “No, no, don’t do that,” he said. He leaned forward, holding his cup in both hands. “This isn’t about me.” His voice took on that soft tone, the one guys get when they’re trying to be comforting. Trouble was, he pulled it off perfectly.

  I leaned back farther in the chair and angled myself to look out the window. A crow watched us from the power line out front. It flapped its wings. My walls crept up higher. Who are you protecting? I wanted to scream. Who are you trying to warn?

  “I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. I barely know you.”

  “Maybe because you know you can trust me.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  He sighed.

  “I’m not trying to pry. I’m just trying to figure out how to keep you from hurting.”

  I glanced out the window. The crow perching there ruffled its feathers.

  “It’s not your place to protect me,” I said. “I’m sorry, Chris. I just can’t do this right now.”

  And I was sorry. I really, really was. I hadn’t been lying in the kitchen—he was the one straight guy I’d been around who didn’t make my skin crawl. He was genuine and cute and talented and he didn’t push when he wasn’t supposed to. And all of that made it so much worse. He and Jane and Mandy and now the fucking crows; it was too much.

  I just wanted a normal senior year. I wanted to graduate and go to college with my best friend and pretend the other shit didn’t exist. No occult whisperings, no murders, and no crows.

  “It’s also not your place to protect me,” he said after a while. I glanced back at him. I’d forgotten I’d even said anything.

  I didn’t retort though. I knew from the set of his eyes that we’d just go around in circles if I opened my mouth again. Instead, I turned back to the book in my hands and tried to lose myself in poetry.

  It worked, for the most part. Chris started reading his own book and we sat there in silence. Not that I could focus on poems. My brain was spinning at a sickening pace and the entire time I was keenly aware of just how far away Chris was from me. His presence was like static, impossible to see and impossible to ignore.

  Maybe he wasn’t like Brad. Maybe he never would lift a finger to try to hurt me. Maybe he wouldn’t push me to do something I didn
’t want. Hell, maybe we could date and everything would be fine, just like the books and movies I once thought I could live. The fact was, it didn’t matter. I was tainted goods. And not because of what Brad had done to me.

  I was damned for what I’d done to him in return.

  We stayed in that little alcove for a few more hours, both of us reading poetry in silence, occasionally sharing our favorite lines. The heaviness between us dissipated as the snow outside accumulated. It wasn’t that I was falling for him or warming up to his presence; I was just too tired to keep my walls up. Chris didn’t try to force me to talk. For that, I was grateful. When I stopped freaking out about it, he was actually pretty easy to be around. Which, I suppose, was the problem in the first place.

  Somehow we both missed the fact that lunch had come and gone. After a while my stomach’s rumblings were too loud to ignore any longer.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Pretty certain my stomach is eating itself,” I said with a small grin. “Ready to brave the cold?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. He pushed himself to standing and held out a hand to help me up. I took it. Something hit the window, causing both of us to jump. It sounded like a snowball, but I caught a glimpse of black feathers. I dropped his hand immediately.

  I’m not falling for him, I muttered to Munin. You can lay off on the warnings.

  I turned my attention back to the room, back to a moment free of ravens.

  “You’re sure about this,” I said. “About tonight?”

  “What about it?”

  “You know exactly what.” Even though we were alone, I wasn’t about to say anything aloud about Jane or sneaking around.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “She was my friend. I want to know what happened. And I think Elisa was right—there’s something the school isn’t telling us. I think we deserve to know the truth.”

  The truth. Such a difficult premise. If he ever found out about me, would he think I’d lied about my past? Or would he see that my greatest truth was in trying to protect him?

  “Okay then,” I said. I forced myself back into witty banter mode; it was a coping mechanism that kept me from going under. “Just remember it was your choice when the FBI takes you in for questioning.”

  He laughed. “Trust me, the FBI is nothing compared to my parents.”

  • • •

  We stepped into the Dark Note and Chris ordered a round of cheese-stuffed breadsticks, two vanilla frozen yogurt shakes, and a veggie burger with fries.

  “Is that all for you?” I asked as Ike rang up the total.

  “Nope. We’re sharing this. I expect a total Lady and the Tramp moment when we eat one of those breadsticks.”

  I couldn’t help it; all the stress of the last few days and the last few hours in particular just . . . cracked. I burst out laughing and couldn’t stop myself until I started snorting, and had to cover my mouth with my hand.

  “Wow, I didn’t realize I was that funny,” Chris said.

  “You’re not,” I said. “And thanks.”

  He handed me a milkshake and picked up the tray of deliciously greasy food.

  “You’re welcome. And also, ouch.”

  I nudged him with my shoulder as we walked over to a little table by the window. Outside, a couple of underclassmen—and a few seniors—were knee deep in a snowball fight.

  “It’s weird,” I said, watching the kids duck and throw and generally reinforce the idea that art kids aren’t good at sports.

  “What? Their technique? Because you’re one hundred percent correct.”

  “No, this.” I gestured to the caf and the store with its couple of students looking at books and hoodies and the kids outside playing war. “It’s like there’s this gut-deep human need to gloss things over and move on.”

  “I don’t think it’s glossing things over,” he said. “I think it’s honoring the dead. I mean, what better way to celebrate the life they lived than live a life yourself?”

  I glanced at him.

  “ ‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’ ” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Antonio Machado,” he said. He winked. “What, you think you’re the only one who reads poetry?”

  I grinned, half tempted to ask him to recite the rest of it, when the door opened and Ethan and Oliver walked in.

  “There you are!” Ethan called out, bounding over. “See, Oliver? I told you my stomach always knows best.”

  “You just wanted cheese sticks,” Oliver muttered, only a few steps behind his boy.

  They were both bedecked in full winter apparel: puffy snowpants and coats, beanies, scarves, and—

  “Are you wearing matching mittens?” I asked.

  Ethan just grinned and held up his hands. Yup. Big purple mittens.

  “You two are adorable,” Chris said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem with gay couples: We straighties just don’t stand a chance in terms of matching adorableness.”

  “Truth,” I said, gesticulating the point with a breadstick. “I mean, have you seen Neil Patrick Harris and his family? Their Halloween costumes put us all to shame.”

  Ethan snagged a few fries while I was talking.

  “You better pay for those,” I said.

  “I’m sure Chris takes credit.”

  “What are you two lovebirds up to, anyway?” Oliver asked.

  Oliver sat down and Ethan went for another fry. I slapped his hand and he gave me an exaggerated pout. I just stuck out my tongue and then glared at Oliver—I hadn’t missed that “lovebirds” slip.

  “Just chilling,” Chris said. “Somewhat literally.”

  “I know, right?” Oliver said. “It’s amazing out there.”

  “Finally a man who appreciates good weather,” Chris said. “You deserve a fry.”

  “Oh sure,” Ethan said. “Playing favorites now are we?”

  “Yup,” Chris replied. “And your boyfriend’s winning.” He tossed a fry at Ethan, who chuckled and threw one back. They were going to get us banned for life.

  • • •

  I wandered back to my room alone, leaving the boys to chat. Elisa wasn’t in, which I felt bad for being a little relieved about. She would have asked me about Chris, no question, and that wasn’t a conversation I looked forward to, mainly because I knew she wouldn’t let me live it down.

  It was only when taking off my coat and feeling a familiar rustle in my pocket that I remembered the note Jonathan had left for me. Shit. Not that I’d really intended on going to the tutorial, but I felt guilty for forgetting. It was clear it was important to Jonathan, and I really did appreciate him as a teacher. But I just couldn’t handle anything else right now. My plate overfloweth.

  Besides, I was trying to stay away from talk of gods and the supernatural. A study group devoted to just that would be my downfall. So I grabbed a book and started my reading for American Civ. Spending the day with Chris had been a nice diversion, but it didn’t actually accomplish any of the work I’d set out to do. Not that I could really focus; all I could think about was the sketchbook crammed under my bed and the sketch of Jane, and whether or not the art studio would confirm my growing fears.

  When it was five, I put on my coat and left for what was easily the most stilted dinner I’d had at Islington. My stomach turned with the thought of what we were about to do and how difficult it was to act normal with Elisa at the table. I tried to focus on making idle chatter about the upcoming production of Marat/Sade. It didn’t work—the play was filled with sex and death and revolution, which really didn’t take my mind off things.

  At five fifteen Ethan and Oliver excused themselves. At five twenty, Chris left to “get some work done.” Which left Elisa and me alone for a few minutes while I waited for enough time to pass before I could leave without being suspicious.

  “He’s really cute,” Elisa said. I nearly choked on my fry.

  “Who?” I asked, though of course I knew who she
was talking about. It’s not like Islington had gotten any fresh meat in the last twenty-four hours.

  “Chris,” she said. “I can tell he likes you.”

  “Oh yeah? What gives you that opinion?” Not that there was any doubt in my mind that he was crushing. I was just trying to play it cool.

  “The way he looks at you. There’s chemistry between you.” There wasn’t a hint of her usual joking demeanor, and all color had left her—she was in all black, and the somber clothes reflected in her voice. The way she spoke . . . it didn’t sound like she was excited—it sounded like she was delivering another eulogy.

  “What, are you psychic now?”

  She shrugged and poked at her Caesar salad, not looking at me.

  “It’s pretty obvious. You guys start leaning toward each other when no one’s watching.” She tapped the side of her head. “But Elisa is always watching. Elisa always knows.”

  I shook my head and laughed, grateful for that one small crack in her dreary facade. I knew it was an act, but hey, that’s what she was good at. That’s what we both were good at.

  “Wow, okay, I’m going to go talk to Maria about switching roommates now. Apparently mine just turned into a creeper.”

  She giggled slightly and took a bite of salad.

  “He is cute,” I admitted. That was the only admission she’d get, too.

  “Mmhmmm.” I glanced at the clock and tried to think of an excuse to leave, but I felt bad leaving her there by herself.

  And then, almost like clockwork, Cassie came over. She sat down with a mug of hot chocolate and a cookie and proceeded to cry on Elisa’s shoulder. I excused myself a few seconds later.

  • • •

  Islington had a lot of secrets. That’s what happens when you put four hundred teenagers in a small area with no real escape. It wasn’t just the students, though—the very grounds were steeped in their own histories. Cabins in the woods with unlocked doors where the potheads would go and smoke, practice rooms that were definitely used for more than practicing . . . come to think of it, most of Islington’s secrets had to do with getting wasted or getting laid, or, if we’re being honest, both at the same time. The campus was our prison, but it was also our secret benefactor: Ask nicely, and you might find your way around some of the administration’s more stifling rules.