The Pentrals Read Free

different.”
    “Different? Like what? How?” Birdy is bouncing off non-existent walls.
    “She used to be such a ball of energy. Running next to her in the 30-yard dash was pure exhilaration. When we left for school, I couldn’t wait to show off our skills. But she started missing practice, and we were not given as many starts in races. I don’t know what changed but—” Before she can finish, a light switches on in Emily and Bridget’s house. In a millisecond they vanish, zipping back to the sides of their Persons in case they have woken. It’s probably for the best, as I should get back to Violet anyway. I scoot past the Class Ones, faithfully outlining the same shapes for all eternity, sliding under the front door and back up the steps to her dark room. Violet remains unchanged and I sigh with relief.
    I think about my conversation with Dash and Birdy as the hours of night tick by. It’s not often I interact with other Shadows by my own choosing; not because I’m unfriendly, it’s just logistically problematic. My duty is to Violet, not to my fellow Pentrals. Still, I can’t help but think about the shift in Dash’s presence. I don’t know her too well, but I know she is a very ambitious Shadow, pushing herself to know every line and angle of her Person’s sport. Tonight she lay on the pavement with no energy, no discernible outline. She was drained of her essence. I don’t know what changed but—
    I know what it is like to worry. Spending so much time with one Person, it makes it difficult not to constantly evaluate her actions. Is she happy? Working hard enough to reach her goals? Enjoying the beauty of life? A content Person is certainly more enjoyable to shadow than one who is unfulfilled. Yet even if Shadows notice a shift in behavior, there is nothing we can do about it. We observe and do not react. Whatever happens, we have no choice but to stand idly by.
    I look to the window and pray for a glimmer of dawn. I hate the night. It gives me too much time to think.
     

* * 3 * *
     
    S omehow I make it through the night without driving myself crazy. Now that it is morning, I will be too busy shadowing Violet to think about last night’s conversation. How a girl and her Shadow, so previously full of life, went from being sparks of frenetic energy to lifeless blobs on the street. From the sounds of it, Emily has lost her drive, a condition that happens too often as people age. I have noticed this apathetic feeling amongst many adults, Violet’s mom in particular. Even though today is a school and work day, Mrs. Rayne has yet to peel herself out of bed, leaving Violet to fend for herself once again. When Violet was younger, her mother was always falling over herself to help Violet pick out her outfit, braid her hair, or make her breakfast. These days, their interaction is limited to simple exchanges.
    Violet thumbs through her clothes, deciding what to wear. It has become a much more involved process these past few months. She used to throw anything on, not giving too much thought as to how it looked or felt, but now she takes forever searching for the perfect outfit. A tight-fitting purple top is selected, and she pulls off her shirt from yesterday. As she moves, her eye catches the mirrored wall opposite her bed. In perfect synchronization, I move along the floor as Violet runs her left hand over her abdomen. I assume there is a trace of dirt left behind from last night’s trip to the cliff, but instead of her fingers brushing, they are grabbing fistfuls of tissue across her stomach. Over and over, she grabs at her waist, leaving pink marks up and down her skin. I can’t imagine the action would feel pleasant, especially since Violet’s face is tightly winced. Why then would she do it? I have spent my whole existence predicting her movements, but this action surprises me.
    She shakes her head and quickly finishes getting dressed. For the rest of the morning, she appears to be working extra hard to