Downcast

DOWNCAST

C
AIT
R
EYNOLDS

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:
[email protected]

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

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.

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.