Authors: Saundra Mitchell
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #Social Issues, #Emotions & Feelings, #Friendship
Shadowed Summer
shadowed summer
Contents
For Jason and Wendi—
You make all things possible.
In memory of Matt and Braden—
Nothing gold can stay.
chapter one
N
othing ever happened in Ondine, Louisiana, not even the summer Elijah Landry disappeared. That was an incident; and being specific, it was “The Incident with the Landry Boy.”
Since he never was found, it gave me and my best friend, Collette, something to wonder about, and in Ondine, wondering was about all we had to do.
According to the sign out by the highway, Ondine was home to
346 GOOD PEOPLE AND 3 CRANKY OLD COOTS
and was a good place to live, but that was a lie.
Ben Duvall’s daddy hung the sign out during the evacuation. Ondine was on the way to Baton Rouge, and people seemed to think if we touched up our paint, some of New Orleans’s storm refugees would stay and make this home.
Nobody stayed longer than it took to get supper, and why would they?
We had a gas station and a Red Stripe grocery store that rented DVDs for three dollars a night—they didn’t have anything good.
Collette’s mama regularly lost her temper over the broken grill at the diner. And Father Rey was brimstone enough that even our Baptists would sit in his pews instead of driving a town over to worship, especially if he trotted out the sermons about loving the sinner and hating the sin.
That was entertainment, and that was all we had.
When school was in, there was maybe ten of us, and we rode a bus forty minutes to St. Amant. That was different, at least, but come summer, all we had was stale movies from the Red Stripe, extra Masses, and making stuff up.
Since we couldn’t drive yet, me and Collette did a whole lot of making stuff up.
Well, we used to, anyway.
Sometimes we’d be knights. It didn’t matter that knights were supposed to be boys; we could ride horses and swing swords if we wanted to. Sometimes we’d be witches, or elementals, or whatever good thing we thought up or got from our library books.
We found magic everywhere, in the trees and the wind, in teacups and rainstorms. We were bigger than Ondine, better than the ordinary people who came and went and never stopped to wonder what lay underneath the church’s tiger lilies to give them such bloodred hearts.
Nobody but us seemed to wonder or bother or ask about anything, and we felt strangled being the only ones. When we were twelve, Collette pricked her finger to make a vow that she’d get us out of Ondine as soon as she got her license. It made me a little dizzy to see the red beading up on her skin, but I let her poke me, too. Anybody could make a promise; we had to bind ours with a spell.
But that was used-to-be, back when we had a New Orleans to run away to, before the storm, before we turned fourteen. Fourteen changed everything.
Collette was first; she was born in February. She developed first, too. She wanted everybody to think she was embarrassed when her bra strap kept slipping down her arm, but I knew her better than that. Every time, her dark eyes darted, looking to see who’d noticed.
I turned fourteen in May, and I was just fine with the way things were. I didn’t need a bra, or want one, either. Ondine wasn’t any bigger, we still couldn’t go anywhere, and driving was two years out yet. Our games suited me fine.
Collette, though, rewrote them some. We never played
only
witches anymore; somebody had to have a sweetheart. Or we had to taint apples with twisted love spells. Most important, though, we couldn’t play out where the boys could see us and throw rocks.
We
used
to throw rocks back. But making up imaginary worlds was more important to me than arguing with Collette about her being boy-crazy, so I just went along.
After Mass, we invaded the cemetery row by row, back to the old side of the yard.
“Where y’at?” Collette asked, and helped me onto Jules Claiborne’s crypt.
It was just a grayish slab box, maybe six feet long. Its top was pocked from rain, rough and nubbly, and it made our jeans catch on the surface.
Folding my legs up, I settled on the stone. “I’m fine. How are you?”
Collette looked down to make her dark curls fall in her eyes. She had good hair. There was a springy kind of coil to it that made me want to reach out and tug it, just to watch it bounce back. I always wanted hair like that, even though she said I didn’t—too much trouble. I’d argue about it, though. She’d never had to suffer straight and stringy dishwater blond.
“I’m all right. But listen.”
Collette had a new spell to cast; she glared and threw her hands out to catch lightning, her hair rising like a midnight halo around her head as she tried to call the spirits of the dead.
I cupped my hands behind my ears and closed my eyes. At first, I smelled more than I heard. Water and stone, over-perfumed magnolias ripening with the heat. A bite of bitter cypress swirled around under that, and my stomach turned before I managed to pay attention with my ears.
To be honest, I didn’t hear anything unusual: a little bit of wind, some birds, a couple of spring peepers confused about the time of day, and cicadas. Those rattled and hummed, ticking like a windup clock, then exploding with a maraca burst before starting over again.
But Collette wouldn’t make a point of listening to them. Since I didn’t hear anything new, I faked it. Trying to sound spooky, I barely whispered, “What is that?”
“They’re trying to talk to us,” Collette said, stroking the crypt top with both hands. “We’re the only ones who can hear them, Iris.”
I nodded, getting into the feel of something mystical, even if I didn’t know what it was. Possibility prickled at the back of my neck; it made my heart beat fast in anticipation.
A copper tang spread on my tongue, a taste that made me go all tight inside, waiting for something to happen.
Still low, I just breathed out, “Ohhh . . .”
“Can you hear them?” She always insisted that winds shifted for
us
, winds the rest of Ondine never felt at all.
“Uh-huh,” I lied.
Collette pushed up suddenly. Turning like a weather vane, she pointed at the next crypt over and fell into her best spell-casting voice. “We have to cover their bones. You go lay over there.”
In a second, I’d hopped down from Jules Claiborne’s granite death-bed, and grunted my way onto his wife Cecily’s. My pants caught on the frills edging her slab, but I didn’t even wince when I felt the denim tear. My jeans were already short by a half an inch; a hole in the knee wouldn’t matter much. Besides, the dead were talking; I wanted to listen.
Spreading myself out, I closed my eyes. “What now?”
Collette hummed, low and mysterious. “Breathe real slow, only as much as you have to, and wait. You have to feel kind of dead, so they aren’t too scared to come close.”
My heartbeat rattled in time with the cicada calls, and I could hardly hold still. Those old souls, out of their skins and not quite to heaven, seemed to swarm around us. I didn’t have to work hard to control my breath; fear and excitement did that for me.
Cecily was coming into my body. She’d use my legs to stand on, run my hands through my hair, and walk off—probably into the bayou. I’d turn up missing, not even a drop of me left on my pillow. It’d be “The Incident with the Rhame Girl.” I’d be trapped forever, screaming where nobody could hear me, right inside my own self.
The air felt hot and wet but far away, like the warmth thrown off a campfire. Laid out on Cecily’s slab, I should have been sweating and ready for some lemonade, but all I had in me was cold.
Voices scratched and rattled in my ears; it wasn’t a pretty magic running through my veins just then. It tasted storm-dark. Rain tears wet my skin.
I managed to turn my head, but Collette didn’t see me. She looked peaceful, floating on a stone that was as still as her body. For a moment, I was sure she was dead. My chest ached, bound with a scream I couldn’t get out, and that was when someone touched my hair.
A creamy flash passed in front of me, leaving the shadow of a face made up mostly of dark eyes. Wind kissed my ear, cool and soft, and I heard a voice. It sounded like clover tastes, green and new and sweet.
“Where y’at, Iris?”
chapter two
Q
uick as that, I wasn’t afraid of Cecily Claiborne anymore; she was just a fairy scare, one I conjured up all by myself, but that boy’s voice whispering in my ear—that was
real.