Downcast

by Cait Reynolds

  DOWNCAST

  CAIT REYNOLDS

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2015 CAIT REYNOLDS

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: info@booktrope.com

  Cover Design by Shari Ryan

  Edited by Toni Michelle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-954-5

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-985-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906900

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  For Dad, who believed in this book from the beginning, even though he never got to see the end.

  And for Mom, who taught me how to make wings from words so that I could fly free.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I ALWAYS LOVED taking the trash to the dumpster.

  In an over-careful, over-clean, over-safe life, it was a mean, gritty chore. It was real. It was freedom.

  For five whole minutes, I would be out of sight of my mother, who ran the organic produce department of our local high-end grocery store. I wouldn't have to feel her eyes flicking over to me every time I spoke to a customer, checking to make sure it wasn't someone "inappropriate" trying to get to know me. I wouldn't have to smile back at the clingy, sappy "I love you" smiles she gave me every time I accidentally caught her eye.

  For five whole minutes, I could just be me and maybe explore what else could be me as well.

  I slung a trash bag into the dumpster, enjoying the feeling of torque and momentum as it spun my body and lifted me slightly off my feet. It was as close to a roller coaster ride as I'd ever get. (Did I know how many people died every year because of roller coasters? No, Mom. No, I didn't know.)

  A little giddy and dizzy, but smiling, I glanced across the street at the old abandoned graveyard, seeing the glorious red brilliance of the dahlias I had secretly planted there in the spring. Old in Darbyfield, Massachusetts, meant really old. Some of the graves were from the 1600's and had the strange winged skulls engraved on the headstones. Some of the headstones were broken. Some leaned like they were about to fall over. All of them had names on them, and I knew every one of them.

  In a way, I felt this was my graveyard. It was just a little clearing, encircled by a thick wall of trees that bled into one of the many forests that crept down the sides of the Berkshire Mountains and encroached leaf-by-leaf and root-by-root on the town. There were maybe fifteen graves in all. Small and abandoned as it was, it was my little kingdom.

  Ever since I had started working at the grocery store when I was fifteen, I had secretly weeded, planted and tended a kind of wild garden among the graves. I had a green thumb when it came to flowers and plants, which is why (duh) I ended up working in the floral department. Often, I snuck flowers from the graveyard into my bouquets for special customers, and I liked to think that there was a kind of good spiritual energy I could pass on to them from these buds that bloomed between life and death.

  I had never been scared of the dead, and I was never scared to go check on the graveyard when it got dark early in the fall and winter. It was my domain, and you can't fear the things you rule.

  Besides, the dead weren't there. Their bodies were dust by now, part of the soil that grew and gave life to the flowers I planted. Their spirits had rejoined the great cosmic oneness, or so Mom had taught me, trying to raise me according to her new age spirituality.

  In the flat blue light that happens just after sunset, I swung the last bag into the dumpster and wiped my hands on my apron. I looked over one more time at the dahlias, when a jolt of absolute terror cut its jagged way through my body.

  I blinked hard to clear my vision of the tall black shadow standing next to the dahlias. My eyes must have been playing tricks on me because when I looked again, it wasn't a ghostly shadow. It was just a guy, standing with his back to me.

  He was tall and lean, with shaggy black hair, and was wearing a long-sleeve grey shirt and jeans. Mesmerized, I watched as he carefully stepped between the headstones. He reached out with a pale, long-fingered hand to brush his fingertips against the stones. The motion was slow and deliberate, somewhere between a reverent caress and a royal blessing.

  I studied the shift and play of his muscles as he gracefully wove his way among the graves, touching nothing but the headstones. He paused by each one, his body going completely still as he ran his fingers over the carvings.

  Suddenly, he stiffened, and I felt my body try to do the same, but already, every muscle I had was wound tight and taut. I braced myself for him to turn around, to show me his face.

  His hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist by his side, and slowly, he began to turn toward me.

  My thoughts were drowned out between my wild heartbeat and jagged breathing, time standing still while also running too fast in an unstoppable rush.

  "Stephanie!" My mother called from the back door. "Are you alright?"

  I blinked hard again, my brain ricocheting from the whiplash of the broken moment back to the insistent present.

  And he was gone.

  So were my blood red dahlias.

  "Fine, Mom," I forced myself to reply as fast and cheerfully as I could. "Just looking at the woods."

  And the flowers that were no longer there.

  ***

  It was the first day of my senior year of high school, and as I got out of Mom's used Prius, I reminded myself not to expect too much. It was pretty much a guarantee that my senior year wouldn't be the magical bonding experience that most teenagers had.

  After all, there was a long list of reasons that I was part of the Snub Club.

  Socially-awkward, extreme environmentalist, overbearing, over-protective mother. Check.

  No known father. Check.

  Forced to wear overly modest, baggy clothing (eco-friendly cotton, of course) by said mother. Check. />
  Not allowed to drive. Check.

  Not allowed to go to the mall. Check.

  Not allowed to sleep over. Check.

  Not allowed to listen to rock music or read books unless approved by Mom. Check.

  Nutritional, whole-grain, high-fiber, tofu-laden, packed lunches amid the PB&J and pizza crowd. Check.

  Limited computer time and supervised internet access. Check.

  Intelligence. Check.

  Yeah, so as a result, I was going into my senior year of high school with no dates, no favorite top 40 songs, not even an R-rated movie under my belt. I only managed to eke out enough popular culture references by listening hard and observing harder.

  "Have a good day, Stephanie," Mom chirped. "Did you know thinking positive thoughts can actually change your brainwaves if you do it consistently? Think positive thoughts today!"

  "Thanks, have a good day at work," I replied not-so-chirpily, eyeing the unseasonably icy rain.

  My tights were nicely soaked by the time I got inside the 1960's monument to ugliness known as Darbyfield High School, the embarrassing relative of the other newer, higher-ranked high schools in the Berkshires. The red bricks of the long two-story building were dark from the rain, and the badly-sealed windows were steamed up.

  ***

  I went up the half-flight of stairs, from the gym to the main level, where I would see the same people I had seen every year since elementary school, though my view of them had always been from the bottom of the social totem pole.

  The main hallway was just a lovely regurgitation of taupe walls, faded orange lockers, and brown linoleum floors. Despite its hideousness, it was the most prestigious hallway in the school because it was home to the senior class. Freshmen and juniors had the hospital green hallway, one floor up, and sophomores were stuck in the blue basement corridor where all the science classes were held, and things forever smelled like formaldehyde.

  I couldn't help but feel a small thrill as I finally got to walk this hallway as a senior, despite knowing I'd never see a homecoming bonfire, or a football game, or dance at a prom. I fumbled in my backpack for the piece of paper that had my locker number and combination on it. After several frustrating tries, I finally got my locker open. I slung my wet jacket in there, pulled out my recycled canvas lunch bag and shoved it on the top shelf.

  "Hey."

  I looked over to my right to see Jeremy Sterling opening his locker. Jeremy had been my locker neighbor since junior high, as no one had ever managed to get between us in the alphabet. Since the age of 11, the order had been Mary Sarlls, Stephanie Starr, and Jeremy Sterling.

  "Hey," I replied. There wasn't need for much else, for despite seven years of being locker neighbors, we'd never really gotten past the "Hey," "See ya," stage. I glanced to my left to see if freckled Mary Sarlls was there yet. She was, but two lockers down from mine.

  I frowned slightly, surprised. Was it a mistake or was there someone new? Well, whatever, I decided. There were still ten minutes before the first bell, and I wanted to see Helen Jenkins, my best friend in this hellhole.

  Squirming my way through the crowd of students was easy. The popular kids shifted instinctively, just enough to let me pass without actually having to speak to me or touch me. Kind of like the real reason the Red Sea parted was because Moses wasn't part of the "in" crowd.

  Helen was putting up her notepad and mirror in her locker as I came up.

  "Hey," I said.

  She turned and grinned at me. "Hey back. Did you see Jordan Laughlin's hair?"

  "No, why?"

  "She cut it totally short and went blonde."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah."

  "How does it look?"

  Helen rolled her eyes, and I giggled. She looked at my long, shapeless, linen dress.

  "Eileen Fisher have a sale again?" she asked wryly.

  "Yeah. Mom wanted to 'celebrate' my senior year."

  Helen snorted delicately. She suffered from almost the exact opposite style of parenting from mine. Her parents barely noticed her. Her father was a doctor who preferred the hospital to the hospitality of his own home, and her mother liked gin. Helen took most of the responsibility for her little brother, who was a surly sixth-grader.

  In a lot of ways, she was my exact opposite. She had curly white-blonde hair and china-doll blue eyes, but she was as tough and practical as they came. I had brown hair and drab, hazel eyes, and I tended to lose myself in my thoughts.

  "Oh," Helen exclaimed. "I forgot to mention. New students. Two brothers."

  "Really?"

  "Both seniors, I think."

  "How's that?"

  "Twins, maybe?"

  "Huh. Kinda interesting."

  The only people who ever transferred in to Darbyfield were either expelled from another high school or had to move out here because of their parents taking a job. Nobody really wanted to go here.

  "Must be tough for them, transferring during their senior year," Helen mused.

  Just then, the first bell rang, and we split up to go to our respective classes. Helen was going heavy on the sciences, taking every honors math and science class she could. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with it all, but she preferred biology and bugs to history and literature.

  At least we would have Honors English together. As far as academics were concerned, I was actually looking forward to my schedule. I had packed it with literature, social studies, and history courses.

  As I thought about Helen's schedule, I realized for all that my mother fanatically tried to manage every other aspect of my life, she didn't give a crap about my grades. She never looked at my report card and barely remembered what classes I took every semester. Why hadn't I noticed before? It was hard not to wonder what else I hadn't noticed in my life.

  Pondering this, I made my way to Ms. Collins' classroom on the second floor and got myself ready for European History. I took a “safe seat” in the middle. I was too good a student to hang out in the back, but I refused to completely live up to my nerdy reputation and sit in the front.

  Pulling out my multi-subject notebook and pen, I marked the date on the page, then stared off into space as the rest of the students came in. Finally, I glanced around to see exactly who was in my class.

  I was just thrilled to see Jordan Laughlin seat herself near the front. Rob Furlong, the senior quarterback for our football team and my junior year unrequited crush, came in and sat down next to her. I hoped Jordan would ignore me. Even though I was pretty much over my crush on Rob, I still didn't relish the idea of being humiliated in front of him, especially by her.

  I studied Jordan for a moment. Last year, her hair had been shoulder-length, bushy and ashy brown. Now, it was cut in an odd, bushy pageboy that came to her chin and was cheap-yellow-mustard blonde. It did nothing for her snub nose, but her teeth were as big and white as ever as she smiled at Rob, like a queen smiling at her doting king.

  A guy took the desk on my right. I glanced at him and guessed he must be one of the new brothers, given this was a class for seniors, and he was the only person I didn't know in the room.

  It wasn't polite to stare, and I felt bad for the guy, knowing that everyone else in the classroom would be staring at him. I resolutely looked down at my notebook and started doodling in the margins.

  "Hey."

  The low, gravelly voice startled me, as it seemed to be directed at me. I ignored it, not wanting to look stupid and hopeful that someone was actually talking to me.

  "Um, hey."

  This time, the guy had turned toward me and was actually leaning in my direction a little.

  He really was talking to me. Huh. Go figure.

  Warily, I looked up at him. He was really, really good-looking. I mean really good-looking, but not in your usual all-American good boy way. No, he looked...dark. My heart yo-yo'ed from my throat to the pit of my stomach and back.

  He was tall and lanky, very pale, with black eyes and shaggy black hair that f
ell into his eyes. His features were narrow, almost sharp–with narrow eyes, cut cheekbones, thin lips, and a pointed chin.

  He looked smart and way too sophisticated for Darbyfield. His black button down shirt, carefully shredded jeans, and black shoes would have instantly labeled him a pretentious Euro douchebag, except for the fact that he looked absolutely right in them.

  And I couldn't get over the feeling that I had seen him before.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I WAS PRETTY SURE my jaw had just dropped open in completely inappropriate admiration of this wickedly handsome boy, but then I noticed the weirdest thing.

  He was looking at me with an equally stunned expression on his face. His shock melted into a toe-curling smile, and his eyes refused to let mine go.

  "You're beautiful," he breathed. "More than I..."

  Well, that snapped me out of my haze. I scrunched up my face in a grimace of disapproval and silently swiveled in my seat to face front, determined to ignore him. New guy or not, he clearly had already learned that I was an acceptable target for mockery.

  "Wait," he murmured, reaching out and touching my forearm. "Please, I meant no offense."

  I frowned harder because the way he spoke was so weirdly formal. Risking a glance at him, I was sucked right back into the heated black of his gaze. Were black holes hot? I'd have to ask Helen.

  He drew in a deep breath and leaned toward me, his hand cool and heavy on my arm. A tiny part of my brain wracked itself to remember if this was the first time a boy had ever touched me.

  "I'm Haley," he said. "Haley Smith."

  "Stephanie Starr," I replied reluctantly.

  "Stephanie," he repeated my name slowly, as if he was testing the sound of it on his tongue. He smirked at me and said, "It's a pretty name, but not quite you, I think."

  Could seventeen-year-old's have heart attacks? It was a legitimate question because my heart was jackhammering in my chest, and I felt a rush of blood move up to my cheeks...and unfortunately, my ears, too. Stupid, burning ears.