PENUMBRA

Chapter 1

Six months after the road accident that nearly took my life, my mom decided it was for the best for me to move with my father. She took me to the airport with the air-condition on. It was 32 degrees in Downtown Miami, perfect blue sky, with no clouds next to the bright sun. I had on my favorite blouse – sleeveless and green; I wore it as a parting gesture. Not that I would miss the warm weather that much.

In the northwest region of the state of Oregon, at the mouth of the Siuslaw River on the Oregon Coast there is a small cloudy town named Florence, almost constantly under rain. It was in this city that I ran away ten years ago, when I was six. Since then, I have never set foot in Florence again. For the past ten years, my dad, Peter, has vacationed with me during summer break in Miami, much to his dislike of warm weather.

Six months ago, in a dark rainy night, Marcos, at the time my stepdad and I were leaving a hip hop dance rehearsal, hoping to arrive home in time before my mom decided to call the cops on us for disappearing for hours, she hated how much I love to dance, well, not anymore. The road was slippery, and next thing I saw was a shadow of man in front of us, making Marcos turn the wheel to avoid, but the rainy road made us crash into the tress. Marcos was produced dead before arriving at the hospital, while me being the only survival, had to explain how there was a man on the road that no one else saw. No trace of him at all. Since Marcos death, I refused to dance again, and became lonely, leaving all my friends, all the clubs that I was once a part of, behind me for good. Everyone though I was crazy, and maybe I could be the reason behind his death.

But now, six months later, it was in Florence that I exiled myself – an attitude I assumed with dread. I don't love Florence, but I hate way more the intense sun and heat, and because my mom decided to marry again, Harold Bryton, a famous lawyer in Miami, who much to my own dislike loved the intense sun and heat and wants to travel the world with my mom, me not included of course.

"Evelyn," my mom said, for the hundredth time, before I got on the plane, "you don't have to do this."

My mom is not much like me, expect for our body length and expression lines. Her short curly hair and wrinkles, and her olive tank skin made everybody think we could never be mom and daughter. As if I was adopted, they always think of this option. But I'm like Peter, besides of the hair color.

I felt a spam of horror and panic as I stared into her wide eyes. Should I feel guilty of leaving her alone? Of course not, now she has Harold, so the bills would be pay off, and she wouldn't be alone to travel the world, like she always wanted. There would be food in the fridge, gas in the car, but still ...

"I want to go," I lied. I've always been a bad liar, but lately I've been telling that lie so often that now it seems almost convincing.

"Tell Peter I say hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon", she insisted, "You can come home whenever you want, I'll cancel the trips for you and come right back"

But I could see, in her eyes, the lies of a lovely mother.

"Don't worry about me," I insisted. "It will be great. I love you mom." She hugged me tight for a minute and then I got on the plane, and she was gone.

From Downtown Miami to Florence Municipal Airport, it's a six house and seven-minutes flight, and then a few more minutes to Peter's house. Flying doesn't bother me that much compared to the minutes in the car with Peter, that on the other hand was a little worrying.

Peter was really kind of about it all. He seemed pleased that I, for the first time, would be going to live with him for a longer period. He already enrolled in Siuslaw High School, and was going to help me buy a car, after he found out Marcos was teaching me how to drive before I got my driver's license. He was concern about me driving after the accident, but I had to assure him the accident only made become more self-aware of my surroundings. But no doubt it would be awkward living with Peter. We weren't close like my, and I were, even thou we fight a lot, we understand each other. But different than my mom, I made no secret of that I detested Miami, too much sun, too much heat.