The Color of Night Read online

The Color of Night

  by Jack Thomas

  Copyright 2011 by Jack Thomas

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my parents.

  ~~~~~

  Part One

  ~

  The Crow

  Chapter 1

  The students were the same age, the curriculum was practically identical, and everybody had access to the same internet and TV channels as the rest of America. But to Patrick, Hillward High was extremely different.

  In fact, almost every aspect of the town was in stark contrast to the city. Whereas Santa Casilda was a bustling metropolitan sprawl of skyscrapers and warehouse retail stores gathered around the intersection of two major freeways, Hillward was a sleepy town nestled about a one- or two-mile stretch of highway, woods and mountains to the north and open fields to the south. There were no buildings with more than two stories, and even the ones with two were rare. There were no furniture stores or electronics retailers or malls, and in fact not a single restaurant or shop that even belonged to a franchise or chain.

  But if Patrick had to choose one major difference between the two places, above all else it would be that Hillward was quiet. There was no rush of endless cars streaming from dozens of surrounding streets, no screaming road-ragers, no clanking and whirring machinery constantly worrying at some part of the road or constructing another new building… It was the only place Patrick had ever lived where there was any sort of true silence to be had. Even of the few wooded areas that his old city did house, not one was large enough to take you from the ever-present sound of the freeway—that inescapable, distant roaring sound much like that of the ocean.

  There were cars in Hillward, but when one departed from Deer Creek—the main road through town which reclaimed its status as a highway on either end—they were sparse. Screaming children were normally only found at the single joint elementary and middle school during recess and after classes dismissed for the day. And though the time Patrick had spent in this town had been very short, he was impressed by the fact that he had yet to see a single bulldozer or any sign of construction. There was a sort of hush that lay over the town like a blanket. The quiet seemed more of an actual presence than the constant sound of the city ever had.

  His old high school housed a student body of well over a thousand kids, and with such numbers it was only natural for a student to complete his senior year having only learned a small fraction of his fellow students’ names. Small cliques formed throughout the school, and unless some enterprising soul did something particularly attention-grabbing, you wouldn’t find much reason to learn the names of anyone outside your clique or your classes. The outcasts were especially isolated, and the rare ultra-populars attained near-celebrity status. It was hard to find a person who didn’t dress in their nicest and most fashionable clothes every single day. All the girls wore perfume and the boys cologne, perhaps to make their existence a little harder to ignore; it was easy to get lost in the sea of jabbering heads as they all clambered to their next class. Everyone cool listened to the same popular music, and anyone who didn’t were members of those especially quiet cliques who fiercely opposed the Populars, distancing themselves from the rest of the school as if it were a society in itself, the views and ideals of which they would not stand for. They all listened to the same “unpopular” music.

  One very interesting thing that Patrick noticed when he arrived at Hillward High was that even though school had only been in session for a few weeks, everyone already seemed to know each other. In the halls he heard kids who were obviously of different grades calling to one another and talking jovially. He supposed that in a town so small it must be much easier to get to know the students around you, but still it made for some odd sights; a sophomore even talking to a freshman was strange, and the two knowing each others’ names was downright bizarre.

  The room in which Patrick sat held about half of the entire junior class of Hillward High, and this was oddly unsettling. The large, chaotic, and impersonal world around him had been replaced by an environment in which the majority of the people had grown up together—a group almost small enough to be called a family. Somehow this made him feel more isolated than he had even felt during his freshman year at his old high school.

  It didn’t take long to begin noticing the differences in the students themselves. While there were still a handful of those who wore sports jerseys and terribly tight pants and freshly purchased sneakers or flats and had their hair bleached and highlighted or died black and slicked over at an odd angle, most of them dressed much more comfortably. Everywhere he looked he saw worn out skate shoes with duct tape holding them together, patched up hoodies, very “broken in” pairs of jeans, t-shirts that looked like hand-me-downs, and at least one pair of sweat pants. Patrick wore a new set of jeans, a green t-shirt and skate shoes in an attempt to look neutral during his first day in this foreign world, but somehow ended up feeling more out of place than he would have liked.

  Not that anyone was giving him much attention anyway. Everyone was caught up in their own conversations or worrying at last-minute changes to their homework. Two people, however, caught Patrick’s eye.

  The first was a guy sitting a few seats to his right and one row up. He stood out at first because he wasn’t talking to anyone. He sat slumped in his chair, staring at the front of the room with disinterested, half-lidded eyes, as if these first few minutes in the classroom had already proven much too boring to handle. The other feature that made him stand out significantly was his size; when Patrick got a good enough look at him, he guessed the guy would probably stand close to a head above everyone else were he to rise from his seat. He looked old enough to be out of high school and well on his way in a career of college football. He sported broad shoulders and huge arms, as well as somewhat of a barrel-neck. If Patrick’s grandfather were still alive, he would have said the boy was built like an ox, or at least could clobber one.

  When Patrick’s eye began to wander nervously once again, he noticed a girl sitting in the front row, close to the door. Like the barrel-necked guy, she stood out because she was sitting quietly by herself. She didn’t seem unhappy to be in class however, and waited patiently for the teacher to arrive, occasionally flipping through her binder and checking some note or making a scribble on what seemed a random page.

  And while he was hesitant to admit it, Patrick also found her to be kind of pretty. She had very straight long, blonde hair, and wore plain small-rimmed glasses. Her dress was blue with flowers on it, and it was complimented by a long white blouse. She was dressed like someone much older than she was, and he supposed that this was what he found so refreshing about her look.

  While he was thinking this, she turned and met his eyes. Reacting on an instinct developed over so many years at a large and very impersonal school, Patrick immediately looked away as if it had been an accident. But in the very last split instant before he turned he saw her mouth stretch into a big smile. By the time this image had registered in his mind he had already turned. He considered looking again and smiling back at her, but too soon the moment had passed and he was left staring at the front of the room, feeling very awkward and not daring to turn back in her direction.

  Hardly a minute later the teacher walked through the door. She was an older woman, very homely and friendly looking. She had curly grey hair and wore a blue button-up shirt with a matching skirt. Her small, round glasses gave her the perfect grandmotherly look, especially when perched in front of her round cheeks and small, cheery eyes. Patrick had learned earlier that her name was Mrs. Spotts.

  The cl
ass didn’t begin to quiet down until she had walked to her desk and begun taking her teaching materials out of her bag. When she started talking the few remaining students who were chatting finally fell silent.

  “Good morning, everybody,” she said with a voice that was very cheerful and seemed much smaller than she was. “I hope you all had a good weekend.” She took one final book out of her bag and moved in front of her desk, folding her hands in front of her.

  “Before we start our lesson today, I think the most important order of business is to introduce our new friend, Patrick Reed.”

  Everyone turned to look at Patrick—some smiling, most rather neutral. He didn’t look to see if the girl in the dress was smiling.

  “Patrick just moved here yesterday from Santa Casilda. His father is Hillward’s new Irrigation Supervisor, so the next time you enjoy any locally-grown produce from the grocery store, be sure to have Patrick relay your thanks to him.”

  No one reacted to this, but Patrick gave a light chuckle and a smile for her sake. Everyone then looked back to the front of the room and the lesson began.

  Mrs. Spotts seemed like she would be better off teaching elementary school; she spoke very simply and her lesson was on some very basic principles of English. Patrick decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she would be a little more in-depth once she was confident that all her students were refreshed in the subject. Summer did have a tendency to cause one’s brain to atrophy, he supposed.

  When the bell rang the students filed out of the class hurriedly. Patrick gave Mrs. Spotts one more smile in passing, which she returned, and followed the majority of his class to a room across the quad, next to the single basketball court.

  He had already met Mr. Poulton—a balding, bearded middle-aged man with thick black-rimmed glasses. He gave Patrick a nod and started his biology lesson before everyone had even been seated. He was a stern man with a voice that was exceptionally easy to tune out, but Patrick paid attention for fear of being called on. (He had learned throughout his academic career that those in the very front row were always the most likely to be called on randomly, and unfortunately had arrived to class at the tail end of the crowd and had secured a perfectly rotten front-and-center seat.)

  The class was uneventful, and afterward the students were given a fifteen-minute break. Patrick found a bench to sit on (a rare luxury in his mind) and began rooting through his backpack in search of the piece of paper which instructed him where to go for each of his classes. He started to get a little nervous when it seemed to have disappeared, but he assured himself that it was a simple matter of asking someone who was in one of his first classes if they knew where the next one was. But when the bell rang the students scattered, and before he could find anyone who looked familiar almost everyone had left the quad.

  Finally he saw the older-looking guy from English strolling slowly down the covered sidewalk to the hall doors with his hands in his pockets. As Patrick fell in step his assessment of the guy’s height was proven to be startlingly accurate.

  “I think I’m supposed to be going to history,” Patrick said, more than a little nervous. “Where are you headed?”

  The guy glanced down at him for about a second, then looked away as if Patrick had said nothing at all, appearing as disinterested as ever. After a moment of awkward silence the hulk reached the door and flung it open. As he walked into the hall Patrick stopped and watched him go, a little dumbfounded. But before the door could close all the way he grabbed the handle and made his way inside. He just barely caught sight of Andre the Giant disappearing into a classroom and he followed. When he got to the door and saw the number, something in his memory clicked and he knew he had found the correct room.

  As Patrick walked inside he saw that the teacher had arrived and that everyone was still settling. There were a few extra chairs this time around and he managed to nab a seat near the back where he was most comfortable. As everyone found their seats the teacher began to speak.

  “Hello, everyone,” he said, leaning against his desk and folding his hands in his lap. “I sincerely hope the day is treating you well. I trust most of you have met Patrick, way back there.” He motioned toward the back. The few classmates who hadn’t shared a class with Patrick yet turned to look, and a few others did as well out of impulse.

  “Unfortunately, Patrick,” he continued, “you missed the ‘What I Did Over the Summer’ essay, but you’re just in time to begin your research for the ‘What I Want for Christmas’ essay.”

  The joke got a brief but good laugh out of the class, Patrick included.

  “And that will be in APA format. Picking up where we left off yesterday on the most painfully interesting subject of early prehistory, it is my honor to speak to you a little about what I like to call—nay, love to call—the Last Glacial Maximum.”

  A few minutes into the class Patrick remembered finally where he had put the paper that held all of his class info and retrieved it from his binder to find that this teacher’s name was Mr. Vincent.

  While he presented the material in a way that was rather interesting, inserting witticisms and pop culture references where appropriate, nothing Mr. Vincent said was nearly as interesting as the man himself. It was soon apparent that he was merely in his thirties, though upon first glance he looked at least ten years older. He had deep lines around his eyes as if he did a lot of smiling or sleeping—or both. And despite the bags under each one, his eyes held a certain brightness. His thick hair was probably kept just within the lowest standards of professionalism, with several locks sticking up from the rest of the brown mass which was probably supposed to look somewhat neat. When he turned Patrick could even spot small patches of grey. It reminded him of a friend he had once whose father’s hair started turning grey when he was in his twenties—a concept which he had always found fascinating.

  Mr. Vincent wore a black button-up shirt which he clearly wanted nothing to do with judging by its wrinkles and slightly upturned collar. His slacks and shoes were acceptable but had clearly seen quite a bit of use, which very much opposed the philosophies of the freshly pressed and packaged teachers of the city.

  His speech was quiet and deliberate, and his voice was very low. When he had to move he did it slowly, but he mostly resolved to sitting at or on his desk. If Patrick had to make an immediate judgment about him, he’d say that Mr. Vincent was a generally lively man who woke up far too early for his liking on this particular day. Patrick wondered if a regular lack of sleep could turn your hair grey.

  The period was soon over and Patrick shuffled out of the room with the rest of the class, exchanging a nod and a smile with Mr. Vincent. The rest of the day was as uneventful as biology had been. He had an algebra class with a short, slightly senile yet fairly nice older gentleman named Mr. Baker who insisted upon being called Fred; political science with an entirely unpleasant and rather heavyset middle-aged woman named Mrs. Gomes; a hilariously cliché PE teacher named Mr. Rolls whose qualifications obviously included watching way too many sports movies; and a boring lunch on a bench in the quad to top it all off.

  *****

  The day seemed to last for two or three, and Patrick was extremely relieved to walk home. His house was only a short way down the road from school, and the slow walks were a nice change of pace from the mad rush his mom had to make daily to get him through traffic to a school fifteen miles across town. This gave him time to reflect and to further take in the quiet that he was quickly growing to appreciate. The neighborhood was calm, with maybe a dozen or so small, peaceful houses on the right side of the road. Only a handful of kids were walking home this way, most of them heading the other direction up the street or taking the bus to their homes on the farther outskirts of town.

  The street was paved but very cracked, and the dotted yellow line had faded to nearly nothing. On either side were dusty shoulders, with grass and weeds a few feet further than that. Patrick’s s
hoes were covered in white dust after only a minute, but it was certainly worth the change of pace. He had never even thought about it before, but he now reflected that he could go the rest of his life without seeing another boring sidewalk and be quite happy.

  He looked up at the trees that peppered the neighborhood. The first thing he had noticed about the town was that the trees were surprisingly tall. They grew in peoples’ shaggy lawns, between their houses, and on the side of the street, all swaying gently in the breeze, looking as if they could easily be as old as the town itself. They granted Deer Creek with a pleasant amount of shade, making the area seem cozy and tucked away. It was comforting somehow…

  Patrick let his gaze fall back to the road, and up ahead on the other side he immediately spotted the girl in the dress. Her book bag was slung over her shoulder and she was walking at a leisurely pace along a yellowing fence. Hardly a moment after he noticed she was there, she turned right onto the next street and disappeared behind a house.

  At this Patrick stopped walking and stared at the spot where she left his view. He was experiencing an odd sort of attraction toward this girl, and he didn’t fully understand it. He knew it wasn’t the beginnings a crush; much observation had taught him that they led to nothing but fighting and crying… Yet somehow he found himself looking, thinking about the big smile that had been directed at him and not returned. A small flush of remembered embarrassment passed over his face.

  His attention was caught suddenly by a car driving down the street from behind him. He turned to see Andre the Giant glancing at him casually from the driver’s window of some sort of beat-up classic car. Just as the guy passed he flicked a cigarette butt out the window. It landed a few feet in front of Patrick, and he looked up from it to watch the car disappear down the road. He stood for a few more moments, trying to make sense of this gesture but finding no answer. Then he continued walking the few remaining blocks to his house.