Casting Shadows

Old Cemetery

A dusty photo album on the second shelf. I had always pushed it back in the corner when Nick and I were growing up. I had hated his braces and perky ears, and my balayage caramelblond hair that hung to the shoul der. Now, it was like opening the door to the past and sliding into a booth to enjoy the slideshow. Pictures of who we were and where we came from. I laughed as I turned the pages of the photo album, of the little notes we left to each other, of the letters we exchanged in summers. Not one of them was a love letter... and look where we had ended up. I thought our friendship would beat all the odds. I truly believed it.

Nick stopped by to pick up some history books and disap peared for the rest of the day. He had certain days that he wished to spend in solitude and the absence of intrusion. I respected his decision.

I organized the closet and called Dad. He said he was traveling to London for work this weekend, but he and Alice would be visiting for Christmas. I waited until Grams went to pick up her dry cleaning before I brought the diary out of the closet. Each time I had seen it unlatch, its pages had rustled, shoving the air with them. They all remained empty, like a storebought, freshly printed notebook.

This time that wasn't the case; this time, I saw pencil sketches and inscriptions resembling instructions or a guide, drawings of tree bark and tree rings, luminescent symbols and names I didn't recognize. I couldn't take a good look at them because as soon as a car entered a driveway, or a bird sat on the roof, or a mailman came into view, the book shut itself, hiding away the story .

When night came to the small town of Harpers Ferry, I heard the motorcycle engine hum outside. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was so wavy I had to pin it to the side. I wore jeans and a colorful tunic, a more comfortable clothing choice than on the last motorcycle ride with Derek.

I popped my head out of the window; the night was quiet, and the roads were empty. There was a single star shimmering like a gem over the house. I could have sworn I heard a motor cycle running. Then there came a loud bang from the rooftop as if someone were hammering on it.

I looked toward the chimney and spotted a metal machine parked on top of the roof. Derek had gotten o the bike. His helmet was swinging in his hand. He climbed into my bedroom window .

"Derek... I'm glad you came to pay a visit. Guests usually park in the driveway," I said numbly. It didn't take him much to look polished: his hair fell in waves on his forehead, and his cheeks had an autumn color tint to them. The five o'clock beard was shaved neatly. I was set on behaving as coldly as he had been to me the night before.

"I thought the ride would be more scenic if I used an alternative route," he explained, running his eyes across my entire attire. Then there was a smile. "You look... refreshed."

"More like taken aback. I didn't know you had a motorcycle that could fly."

"It can't," Derek whispered. "It converts the moonlight into energy waves. They carry the bike like a surfboard."

"Do phases of the moon aect the way the motorcycle operates, then?" I asked, picking up my fishscale purse from the vanity. It was surreal to hear that nature played such an element in the bike's mobility .

"When the moon is full, the waves are at their peak, strong and colorful. It's the only time it's possible for me to travel. And it happens about fourteen days a year," he said and glanced at the beautiful silver moon hidden by the clouds.

"And traveling on rooftops trumps your dislike of heights?" I asked, catching his greeneyed gaze.

"I associate the heights with the position of the enemy. No place to hide, no place to run, like a target in a field that has no escape but every chance to catch a bullet," he said.