As she watched the slight movement of his body as he sketched, Luce’s insides felt like they were burning, like she’d swallowed something hot. She couldn’t figure out why, against all reason, she had this wild premonition that Daniel was drawing her.
She shouldn’t go to him. After all, she didn’t even know him, had never actually spoken to him. Their only communication so far had included one middle finger and a couple of dirty looks. Yet for some reason, it felt very important to her that she find out what was on that sketchpad.
Then it hit her. The dream she’d had the night before. The briefest flash of it came back to her all of a sudden. In the dream, it had been late at night—damp and chilly, and she’d been dressed in something long and flowing. She leaned up against a curtained window in an unfamiliar room. The only other person there was a man … or a boy—she never got to see his face. He was sketching her likeness on a thick pad of paper. Her hair. Her neck. The precise outline of her profile. She stood behind him, too afraid to let him know she was watching, too intrigued to turn away.
Luce jerked forward as she felt something pinch the back of her shoulder, then float over her head. The shadow had resurfaced. It was black and as thick as a curtain.
The pounding of her heart grew so loud that it filled her ears, blocking out the dark rustle of the shadow, blocking out the sound of her footsteps. Daniel glanced up from his work and seemed to raise his eyes to exactly where the shadow hovered, but he didn’t start the way she had.
Of course, he couldn’t see them. His focus settled calmly outside the window.
The heat inside her grew stronger. She was close enough now that she felt like he must be able to feel it coming off her skin.
As quietly as she could, Luce tried to peer over his shoulder at his sketchpad. For just a second, her mind saw the curve of her own bare neck sketched in pencil on the page. But then she blinked, and when her eyes settled back on the paper, she had to swallow hard.
It was a landscape. Daniel was drawing the view of the cemetery out the window in almost perfect detail. Luce had never seen anything that made her quite so sad.
She didn’t know why. It was crazy—even for her—to have expected her bizarre intuition to come true. There was no reason for Daniel to draw her. She knew that. Just like she knew he’d had no reason to flip her off this morning. But he had.
“What are you doing over here?” he asked. He’d closed his sketchbook and was looking at her solemnly. His full lips were set in a straight line and his gray eyes looked dull. He didn’t look angry, for a change; he looked exhausted.
“I came to check out a book from Special Collections,” she said in a wobbly voice. But as she looked around, she quickly realized her mistake. Special Collections wasn’t a section of books—it was an open area in the library for an art display about the Civil War. She and Daniel were standing in a tiny gallery of bronze busts of war heroes, glass cases filled with old promissory notes and Confederate maps. It was the only section of the library where there wasn’t a single book to check out.
“Good luck with that,” Daniel said, opening up his sketchbook again, as if to say, preemptively, goodbye.
Luce was tongue-tied and embarrassed and what she would have liked to do was escape. But then, there were the shadows, still lurking nearby, and for some reason Luce felt better about them when she was next to Daniel. It made no sense—like there was anything he could do to protect her from them.
She was stuck, rooted to her spot. He glanced up at her and sighed.
“Let me ask you, do you like being sneaked up on?”
Luce thought about the shadows and what they were doing to her right now. Without thinking, she shook her head roughly.
“Okay, that makes two of us.” He cleared his throat and stared at her, driving home the point that she was the intruder.
Maybe she could explain that she was feeling a little light-headed and just needed to sit down for a minute. She started to say, “Look, can I—”
But Daniel picked up his sketchbook and got to his feet. “I came here to get away,” he said, cutting her off. “If you’re not going to leave, I will.”
He shoved his sketchbook into his backpack. When he pushed past, his shoulder brushed hers. Even as brief as the touch was, even through their layers of clothes, Luce felt a shock of static.
For a second, Daniel stood still, too. They turned their heads to look back at each other, and Luce opened her mouth. But before she could speak, Daniel had turned on his heel and was walking quickly toward the door. Luce watched as the shadows crept over his head, swirled in a circle, then rushed out the window into the night.
She shivered in the chill of their wake, and for a long time after that, stood in the special collections area, touching her shoulder where Daniel had, feeling the heat cool down.
FOUR
GRAVEYARD SHIFT
Ahhh, Tuesday. Waffle day. For as long as Luce could remember, summer Tuesdays meant fresh coffee, brimming bowls of raspberries and whipped cream, and an unending stack of crispy golden brown waffles. Even this summer, when her parents started acting a little scared of her, waffle day was one thing she could count on. She could roll over in bed on a Tuesday morning, and before she was aware of anything else, she knew instinctively what day it was.
Luce sniffed, slowly coming to her senses, then sniffed again with a little more gusto. No, there was no buttermilk batter, nothing but the vinegary smell of peeling paint. She rubbed the sleep away and took in her cramped dorm room. It looked like the “before” shot on a home renovation show. The long nightmare that had been Monday came back to her: the surrender of her cell phone, the meat loaf incident and Molly’s flashing eyes in the lunchroom, Daniel brushing her off in the library. What it was that made him so spiteful, Luce didn’t have a clue.
She sat up to look out the window. It was still dark; the sun hadn’t even peeked over the horizon yet. She never woke up this early. If pressed, she didn’t actually think she could remember ever having seen the sunrise. Truthfully, something about sunrise-watching as an activity had always made her nervous. It was the waiting moments, the just-before-the-sun-snapped-over-the-horizon moments, sitting in the darkness looking out across a tree line. Prime shadow time.
Luce sighed an audibly homesick, lonely sigh, which made her even more homesick and lonely. What was she going to do with herself for the three hours between the crack of dawn and her first class? Crack of dawn—why did the words ring in her ears? Oh. Crap. She was supposed to be at detention.
She scrambled out of bed, tripping over her still-packed duffel bag, and yanked another boring black sweater from the top of a stack of boring black sweaters. She tugged on yesterday’s black jeans, winced as she caught a glimpse of her disastrous bed head, and tried to run her fingers through her hair as she dashed out the door.
She was out of breath when she reached the waist-high, intricately sculpted wrought iron gates of the cemetery. She was choking on the overwhelming smell of skunk cabbage and feeling far too alone with her thoughts. Where was everyone else? Was their definition of “crack of dawn” different from hers? She glanced down at her watch. It was already six-fifteen.
All they’d told her was to meet at the cemetery, and Luce was pretty sure this was the only entrance. She stood at the threshold, where the gritty asphalt of the parking lot gave way to a mangled lot full of weeds. She spotted a lone dandelion, and it crossed her mind that a younger Luce would have pounced on it and then made a wish and blown. But this Luce’s wishes felt too heavy for something so light.