Ignite the Shadows

by Ingrid Seymour

  “Mom?!” I don’t know why but the word is a sharp dagger right through my heart. I give a sad laugh, feeling strangely deflated, numb. I slump on the desk chair and stare at my bare feet.

  “Marci, I never had a mother.” I can feel Luke’s earnest eyes on me. I want them to turn away and take their accusation with them. “I just—”

  “It’s fine, Luke. You don’t have to explain. An addition is fine. Maybe, if you wait long enough, you may not even need one.”

  Luke slides across the foot of the bed, reaches the nearest corner and leans tentatively toward me, until I can’t bear the closeness. “What do you mean?”

  I don’t know where the thought came from or if I’d be allowed to do it, but suddenly, I’m considering moving into The Tank. They have bedrooms where Kristen, Aydan and Rheema spend the night most of the time. I could do the same and I probably wouldn’t even have to ask. There, among the other Symbiots, is where I belong—the only place where I don’t have to hide who I am. Mom doesn’t care what I do. I bet she’d actually be relieved if I leave.

  “Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “Just thinking out loud.”

  “If my presence here makes you want to leave, I’ll go.” Luke’s voice is quiet. Straight blond hair hides his eyes as his chin dips low. “I won’t be responsible for interfering between you and your mom. I couldn’t stand that.”

  Damn Luke! Now he’s got me feeling sorry for him and something tells me he’s just playing me. None of this can be for real. This is not the same boy I’ve known since kindergarten. He was never meek or touchy-feely. He’s faking it. He’s gotta be.

  Yet, I can’t bring myself to call him on it, because it’s possible the “Before Luke” was just a façade. And this—without the cool, cocky exterior—is really him. I know all too well about living different lives.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.” A short snort punctuates what feels like a lie. “I’ll stop causing trouble. You make yourself at home.” As hard as I try, I can’t leave the sarcasm out of my last few words. “Like you said, I’m hardly ever here, anyway.”

  Luke locks his gaze with mine. He looks deep into my eyes, as if he’s searching for something. A strange chill runs the length of my back, and having him here—in my room at this hour—suddenly feels way off.

  “Um, I need to catch some sleep or I’ll be worthless tomorrow.”

  “Me, too.” He smiles and walks to the door. Before leaving, he says, “Thanks, Marci. I know this isn’t easy for you. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to make this work out.”

  His hand rests on the door knob for a few seconds as he seems to ponder what else to say. I can tell there’s something else in his mind, but he doesn’t say it. He simply says good night and leaves me wrapped in shadows.

  Chapter 29

  A pit-bull barks at me, straining its chain to the breaking point. I ignore it, concentrating on the houses, trying to find the right one. They all look the same. Shabby lawns with more weeds than proper plants and grass, mildewed front steps, sagging window shutters and peeling paint. I don’t remember it looking like this ten years ago. Maybe it didn’t, but I guess it doesn’t take too long for a neighborhood to go to the dogs.

  A chill trickles down my spine. I shake it off and look up and down the street. There’s no one outside. I tell myself someone is watching me from behind one of the many windows. But I know that’s not the reason for my jumpiness. I’ve been like this since my failed meditation, seeing shadows in every corner, paranoid that something will come out of nowhere to snatch me away.

  At school, at home, in the very sanctuary of my bedroom, I feel threatened, helpless, with nowhere to hide. I had to do something, so I turned my fear and weakness into anger, an anger I plan to unleash on Mrs. Contreras, if she turns out to be responsible for infecting me.

  I’ve passed ten houses and I really haven’t the faintest idea which one’s the right one. I’m about to start looking in the opposite direction when I notice someone leaving one of the houses across the street. I jog to the other sidewalk and approach the woman.

  “Hi,” I say, staying several paces away. My face feels like a mask of fury, and I don’t want to scare her.

  The woman stops and gives me a hard glare. She looks to be in her late twenties. She says nothing.

  “Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me where Mrs. Contreras lives?”

  She frowns and stares me up and down. “I’m Ms. Contreras. And you are?” She keeps walking toward a blue Sentra, her black heels clicking against the sidewalk in quick succession. She seems to be in a hurry. The skirt she wears is so tight around her shapely thighs and knees that each step is only a few inches apart.

  “Well, the Mrs. Contreras I’m looking for would be a lot older than you. She used to babysit me when I was four or five.”

  The woman relaxes a bit and searches my face with curiosity. “Did she?” She touches the corner of a red, glittery mouth with her tongue, squinting at me, then her eyes grow wide. “Marcela Guerrero, right?” she asks, but it’s more a statement than a question.

  “Yeah,” I say in surprise.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I shrug one shoulder, feeling guarded.

  She puts her hands out demonstratively. “I’m Consuelo.”

  I examine her face. “Chello?” I ask, remembering the pimply seventeen-year-old that used to help Mrs. Contreras when there were too many of us to handle. This woman looks nothing like that girl. Her curvaceous figure holds no trace of the chubby playmate that once gave me piggy-back rides. Her black hair cascades around a pretty face with flawless skin.

  “The one and only,” she responds. “I thought you meant me when you said Mrs. Contreras, but only my students call me that. All that babysitting was good for something,” she continues with a smile. “I’m an elementary school teacher now.”

  “Oh, that’s great.” My tone is flat.

  “What brings you around looking for my mama? You didn’t win the lottery and want to repay all the wonderful life lessons you learned under her care, did you?” Her eyes glint with mischief.

  Threatening to wash my mouth with soap and giving me nightmares about red-eyed monsters hardly count as wonderful life lessons.

  “No, I haven’t,” I respond.

  “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

  “I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by and say hello.”

  Chello unlocks the passenger door of her car and throws her purse inside. “Sorry to disappoint, chica. But my mother passed away three years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, suddenly interested in a patch of weeds.

  I thought your mom might be an Eklyptor and she bothered to babysit kids just so she could infect them with disgusting parasites. That’s what I want to say, but the whole idea seems ludicrous now. Chello is normal. My head isn’t droning in her presence. If Mrs. Contreras was an Eklyptor her daughter would be one as well, wouldn’t she?

  “Nothing to feel sorry about. She was old and she’s with Jesus now. Probably happier than you and I put together.” She gives me a genuine smile. “Well, it was good seeing you, kid. You’re still just as pretty as you were when you were five. I have to get going now. I have a date.” She wiggles one eyebrow and walks around to the driver seat.

  Before she gets in, she says, “Hey, do you remember Mickey Ricky?”

  I think about it until the cute face of a blond boy pops in my head. “Yeah, I remember him,” I say, feeling a bit lighter at the memory.

  “You had such a crush on him. Remember you used to chase him and give him kisses?” She laughs, throwing her head back.

  “I did?”

  “Yep. He hated it. It was the cutest thing. Anyway, he works at the convenience store, one mile down that way. In case you want to … finally catch up with him. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t run now.” Laughing at her own joke, Chello gets in the car and drives away.

 
; I walked back to where I parked my bike, staring at the ground and shaking my head about Chello’s bubbly personality. How would it be to feel that light-hearted? I always feel weighed down by so many things that ever being that way seems impossible.

  Looking back the way she left, I start wondering if perhaps Mrs. Contreras’s Eklyptor had a conscience and didn’t dare infect her own daughter. But what if she did infect Mickey Ricky and the rest of us? Maybe I should visit him just to make sure he’s not infected. Hell, for all I know, it was him who gave me this hellish case of the cooties.

  I straddle the bike and drive to the convenience store. I’ve no idea if it’s Mickey Ricky’s shift, but it’s worth a try. I wonder at the silly name and can’t remember how it came about. I doubt he goes by that still. Mike or Rick are more likely names.

  My hands are sweating by the time I reach the store. I park my bike next to one of the pumps and lower the kickstand. Maybe I shouldn’t go inside. What if my kindergarten crush is one of those mutated humans by now and he attacks me or something?

  I come away from the bike, dismissing my ridiculous fear. Before I knew what the buzzing in my head was, I ran into many Eklyptors. They gave me knowing glances that I didn’t understand, but they never attacked me. It should be harmless to go in and out of the store. He’s probably not even in there anyway.

  I move forward. My steps aren’t as firm as I’d like to pretend. My thoughts jump.

  Twinkies. Yellow Skittles.

  And cherry sodas.

  I swallow hard.

  Accompanied by an electronic ding-dong, I enter the store and step right up to the counter.

  “Five bucks on pump three,” I say, holding out a ten-dollar bill. The kid manning the register is blond. I look down at his name tag. It reads “Michael R. Buckley.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking my change.

  “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks, pointing at me and holding his head at an angle. His forehead is sprinkled with acne and his nose is a red knob.

  “I don’t think so.” I walk outside.

  Two things I know, Mickey Ricky is not cute anymore and he’s not an Eklyptor. I’m oddly relieved by the discovery, but now a gnawing uncertainty builds inside me. If neither Mrs. Contreras nor this guy turned me into a monster, then who did?

  Chapter 30

  After the failed search for answers, I drive to my training appointment with James. I step out of the elevator expecting to find him waiting again, but he isn’t there. I go downstairs and find Aydan at the foot of the steps. He’s wearing his medical lab coat over black jeans and t-shirt.

  “What’s with the coat? Aspiring to be a lab technician?” I snicker.

  “You’re late,” he says, ignoring my question. He looks paler than ever. He seriously needs some sun.

  “Where’s James?” I try to ignore the buzzing that started inside my head as soon as I saw Aydan.

  “He had to go out of town, so you’re stuck with me.” He exhales with discontent and I’m sure he means he’s stuck with me. “Anyway, James said we should try meditation again.” He starts walking toward the gym pod, looking as if he’d rather be headed to the dentist. His jet-black hair is a mess in the back. It looks funny.

  “After the way it turned out yesterday? You must be kidding.”

  He glares at me over his shoulder. “Look, I’ve got better things to do than listen to you whine. So if you think you’ve got nothing to learn, why don’t you do us both a favor and go home?”

  What is wrong with this guy? One minute he’s defending me from Blare, the next he’s ready to kick me out on the street. What is he trying to prove? That I’m weak? Whatever it is, I won’t give him the satisfaction. I swallow my anger and follow him. His lab coat swings from side to side.

  As soon as we enter the gym pod, he kicks off his shoes and sits on a yoga mat. “Okay, let’s get started. And if I hear any complaints or snide comments I’ll go back to doing real work.”

  Cursing inwardly, I take off my shoes and sit in front of Aydan.

  “Let’s start with some breathing,” he instructs.

  His clipped tone puts me on edge. This isn’t going to work. To be able to meditate successfully, peace is indispensable. Aydan makes me want to go to war. Besides I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of him. I have my pride to consider.

  “Um, I don’t really think this whole meditation thing is gonna work for me. Thought-jumping and exercise work, but I’m not on board with this whole New Age approach. It’s counter-intuitive.”

  “It’ll work,” Aydan says with irritation as he watches me with unnerving, dark eyes. “You just have to practice.”

  “Do you do it?”

  “Every. Day,” he says, pronouncing each word with emphasis. “We all do. That is how James, Kristen and Rheema control their agents.”

  I take it he doesn’t have his own agent under control yet, but I don’t ask.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of it because it’s new,” he mocks.

  “I’m not afraid.” My voice cracks with the lie.

  Aydan’s unwavering eyes soften a little, showing me a glimpse of that other side of him, the side that defended me from Blare, the side that knows too well what I’m going through.

  I clear my throat. “I realize new things might help. I mean, James showed me that ring trick. And, even though I didn’t care much for it, pain worked when nothing else would.”

  One of Aydan’s eyebrows makes a steep arch and he leans away from me slightly. He looks defensive, but maybe I’m misreading him. Maybe he’s passing judgment. Maybe the use of pain is considered shameful. I stare at the edge of my mat for a moment. It’s bright red. Perhaps he just finds me unimaginative. He makes me feel dumb.

  “What about you?” I challenge. “What did you used to do before James showed you meditation? Or did you figure that one out all on your own?” I can’t help the sarcasm in my voice. I don’t know if Symbiots have some sort of etiquette and this kind of question is rude, but I want to know why he’s judging me

  “No. I had never tried it before,” he responds with such honesty that I’m taken aback. “I was like you. It never occurred to me that something like meditation might work. How could it when thought-jumping did the trick most of the time? Meditation brings an absence of thought that couldn’t be farther away from that,” he says with dry amusement.

  “I also wrote code, tons of it,” he continues. “Hacking challenges are great brain exercises. It’s a form of thought-jumping on steroids, I guess. You know what I mean. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve been using coding, too.”

  “Yeah,” I say, thinking back to all the complex hacking routines I’ve written. “I guess I have.” Aydan’s expression is more open now. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought and he just takes time to warm up to people.

  Benefit of the doubt: granted.

  Aydan runs a hand across his forehead. For the first time, I look at him openly. The contrast between his pale skin and jet-black hair is startling. I wondered why I never noticed? His lips are full and pink, his nose almost perfect. There’s a certain sadness in his eyes that makes him look wise, somehow.

  “I also used pain when everything else failed,” he says, lifting his chin high as if waiting for me to disapprove of this method. He holds my gaze defiantly.

  As I try to understand his demeanor, it occurs to me that he wasn’t passing judgment on me for using the spiked ring. He was being defensive since I said I didn’t care for using that method, even if it worked. I suddenly wonder if Aydan is a cutter and feel embarrassed for the thought. It’s none of my business.

  “Yep, pain kicked my butt into shape,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

  Suddenly, his face looks old and tired. The circles under his eyes are darker than before and deep frown lines cross his forehead. I never stopped to wonder how old Aydan is. He can’t be that much older than me. Eighteen? Nineteen?

  “Can we start now?�
� he asks, looking so tired I want to invite him to nap on the mat.

  I grit my teeth, still skeptical the process will work. “No. I’m sorry, but I need more than vague explanations to buy into this. James is so … frustrating all the time. He hardly ever tells me anything. It’s like he’s feeding me tiny pieces of some huge secret that I’m ready to swallow whole. Like the whole Symbiot thing. I don’t believe this parasite is responsible for any of my skills. Who buys into that crap?”

  “Oh, I buy into it, all right. You will too, as soon as you see what James and Rheema can do.”

  “What can they do?” I ask, puzzled, trying not to let my imagination fly with it, especially if it’s anything like what I saw that guy do at Elliot’s mansion. At the thought of the man, an ice cube settles in the back of my neck. I roll my shoulders to dispel the chill.

  “That’s up to James and Rheema to divulge.”

  “O-key doke. I guess everyone around here subscribes to the cryptic club.” Aydan doesn’t laugh at my joke. Maybe the agent ate his sense of humor. I wonder if that’s possible. What if I’ve lost pieces of myself and I don’t even know it?

  “Look, Marci, James has been doing this longer than you and I. He’s lived with secrets for a while now. You know how that is, don’t you? It’s in his nature to be like that. Don’t think it’s anything personal.”

  I cross my arms. “You tell me then.”

  “I told James I don’t have patience for this,” he says, exasperated.

  “Okay, just answer me one question and I’ll get out of your way. I promise.”

  “I’ll answer anything,” he says, leaving no doubt as to how badly he wants to get rid of me.

  Good. His company is a thorn in my side, too.

  Benefit of the doubt: revoked.

  “If I’m to put myself through meditation again,” I begin, “I need to know how it’ll help me control the agent.”

  Aydan stands and reaches for his shoes. “I know it’s hard to believe. I didn’t believe it at first. But you’ll learn to take advantage of the agent. It is a symbiotic relationship.”