Ashes- originally titled "Luminous"

Started on April 4, 2014

Completed on August 28, 2014

Summary: "Maybe in the end we are all made up of nothing more than ashes and coals." Isaac/OC, begins just before Season 2.

Disclaimer: And this goes for the whole story- I don't own anything aside from Rebecca, Jade, and whatever else you don't recognize. Isaac, Scott, Stiles and the pack belong to Jeff Davis and MTV. I'm going to try to be delving a bit deeper into the TW mythology in this story, as well as adding some layers of my own, because I just find it so fascinating, so... gear up. I'll try to update as often as I can.

Extended Summary: In the middle of her sophomore year of high school, Rebecca Crosser's main concerns are getting ahead of her dyslexia, keeping up with her lively best friend, and taking care of her dysfunctional father. She never asked to meet a mysterious, fascinating boy named Isaac Lahey, she never asked to become wrapped up in a world where werewolves are real and lizard monsters stalk the streets at night, she never asked to discover old family secrets that are probably better off staying hidden. But she has, and now she knows there's no way out- so, all that she can really do is just keep swimming and hope that she doesn't end up dead.

I'm running, and even though I have no idea where I'm going, all I know is that I've got to save him. Smoke

clouds my vision, causing me to stumble over something I am unable to see. I feel the heat of the fire

pressing up behind me, causing the skin on my back to blister and burn, and desperately I call out his name once more. He has to hear me. I've got to find him. I have to.

I wonder suddenly if I'm the only one left- maybe it's just me. Are people dead? Of course they are; I don't

see any way for us all to have survived this. But he isn't dead. He can't be. Somehow, if he were dead then I

would know. I would be able to feel it.

Suddenly he's there, only about twenty feet away from me, and I feel my body inexplicably freeze up. I see

him scream my name, and he's running towards me but somehow he isn't getting any closer. The dull roar

in my ears turns into a full-on wail as the wall of fire seems to close in on me again, and then I can't see

him anymore.

I'm running again, but something smells bitter and sick, and my hands and arms and legs and face burn. I'm lit up like a Christmas tree, and I catch sight of one strand of my hair as I run. It's on fire. It's burning. I'm burning.

I'm burning.

I can't run any longer. My legs give out and I fall to the ground, a crumbling pillar of flame. I can hear

his voice echoing in my ears, screaming my name, and a wail like the howl of a wolf follows me into

darkness...

xXxXxXxXx

Or into light.

When I'm suddenly jolted awake from my nightmare, it's to find the fire alarms wailing. My first, half-awake instinct is to propel myself out of my bed, and I stumble towards to doorway to immediately be accosted by the sharp smell of smoke. Something is burning, alright, but it sure isn't me. Rushing out of my bedroom and descending down the stairs, the thick black smoke filling the hallway and kitchen quickly makes the issue evident.

"Dad!" I call up the stairway, pressing a dishtowel over my face as I tug open the door to the backyard in

order to allow the smothering smoke accumulating in the kitchen to escape. "Breakfast is burning!"

My dad thunders down the stairs in his usual rushed early-morning fashion. He's a comical sight if I ever saw one, standing in the doorway, his graying hair tousled and his face covered in white foam. He's still clutching his shaver in his hand as he surveys the mess that was our kitchen with a dismayed look on his face. "Breakfast is burning?" he echoes, sounding as if someone- namely me- had just kicked his puppy.

"Breakfast is charcoal," I correct myself, using the spatula to poke at the charred remains of what I have to

assume used to be pancakes. "A noble endeavor, but ultimately a failed one."

Dad sighs heavily, leaning against the doorframe. "Wonderful."

"It is for me, actually," I remark, shooing some more smoke out the door and placing the scorched pan in

the sink. The culprit quickly becomes evident- he hadn't greased the pan. No matter how often I remind

him to grease the pan- that is, at least once each time he steps near a stove- he hardly ever remembers to

actually do it. My dad really is not the best cook. He does try, much to his credit- he tries a lot. I know that

he feels bad about leaving me to make the meals so often, even though I really never mind it. It's fun for

me, making something out of almost nothing. I can usually manage to choke down whatever he makes me

without complaint, but something tells me that trying to eat this meal would be a virtual suicide attempt. Dad frowns at my words and I continue. "I had a dream that I was on fire this morning."

The casual way I state this makes Dad raise his eyebrows in what I could nearly call amusement. "That

sounds fun."

"Extremely," I retort, opening up the wooden cabinet above the sink as Dad sits himself down at the kitchen

table. "Especially the part where I'm pretty sure I died." I specifically choose to omit the part about Dream- Me's frantic efforts to save the strange boy who, apparently, I was madly in love with. I figure that if it's

bizarre to me, then there isn't any point in sharing it with Dad. "So, what'll it be?" I ask, reaching up to

finger the familiar box. "Cereal, cereal, or cereal?"

Dad smirks, and I can tell that he knows exactly what I was trying to do. I can never stand seeing him upset. "Is there anything else available?"

"Yes," I reply, gesturing to the burnt pan. "That."

"Well, Madame Chef, in that case, I'm going to have to go with cereal."

I smile as I grab two bowls from the dish rack and pour the colorful flakes in the bowl. This cereal's dad's

favorite more than mine, so I make sure that I give him a bit extra. I add the milk and turn to the silverware

drawer only to find, to my dismay, that most of our cutlery is sitting in the sink, unwashed. "Okay," I say,

shutting the drawers. "We're out of spoons today, so we're going to have to improvise. Free for all."

He sighs as I set his bowl in front of him and take the seat adjacent to him. "I really am sorry, Becca. I just

wanted to make you a nice breakfast for once."

I roll my eyes, raising my bowl to my lips and swallowing a mouthful before I speak. "Dad, come on.

It's really okay. I leave the house without breakfast often enough anyway, I really don't care. Besides," I

grin, "I kind of like eating cereal like this. It's like... it's like..." I trail off, my smile turning into a grimace as

I realize I really have no idea what I can compare this to. I wince slightly, but I'm distracted by dad patting my hand.

"And you don't have to try and make me feel better about it. I screwed up, and now I'm going to make you

late for school."

I raise my eyebrows. "Dad. Seriously. It's only six-thirty. I don't have to get out the door until at least seven

if I want to catch the bus, and I very frequently leave five minutes after that. I'm not going to be late for

school."

We don't talk much after that; even with the early excitement of this morning, as the adrenaline begins to

go down, my body starts to really realize the hour- and I'm sure the fact that I stayed up until one in the

morning last night finishing a paper for English isn't helping matters much either. By the end of breakfast,

I'm slumped over the table, my eyes boring into the faded wallpaper in an attempt to stay awake.

Dad taps my hand, and I jump about a foot. "Go get dressed," he says, nodding to the clock, and I nod

dazedly before rising to my feet.

Upstairs, I begin my normal morning routine- clothes first, my trusty pair of jeans and a purple top my best

friend Jade got me for my birthday last month. My pajamas are folded in less than a minute and replaced neatly in my drawer, because I absolutely cannot stand a messy room. My hair takes a bit more effort; not that I can ever actually do anything with it, that is. Gazing blankly into the mirror, I study my reflection. My skin, as usual, is pale, and my round face still holds my typical early-morning zombie expression, while about half of my hair has fallen out of its messy bedtime-bun and arranged itself wildly around my face. The only thing different here from most mornings are my eyes. They're still the typical cloudy blue-grey they've

always been, but this morning they're framed by dark circles- a clear sign on my lack of sleep. Jade is going

to throw a fit when she sees me; she can't stand it when she looks anything less than perfect, and apparently

that goes for me as well.

I pull my hair out of my bun and grab a comb from the table, haphazardly dragging it through my dark

blonde hair. Of course, this doesn't do much- my hair is unmanageable on my best days, and this definitely

isn't one of my best days. With a sigh, I pull back my hair into a lazy ponytail and study my reflection in

the mirror. Ugh.

Well, taking into account the fact that I don't look too much like I slept in these clothes last night, I decide

that I look acceptable enough to be seen in public. I take a quick minute to brush my teeth and then, with one last mournful glance at my bed, I'm thundering down the stairs again.

My dad is still at the kitchen table when I get down there, and he watches in mild amusement as I run

around like a headless chicken for about two minutes before I finally locate my old Converse sneakers

under the kitchen table. They're ratty and practically falling apart by now, but these sneakers have been

with me ever since freshman year (I've somehow never managed to outgrow them) and I do not leave the

house without them. My bag on my shoulder, I kiss Dad goodbye and am just about to step out the back door when his quiet voice stops me.

"It's today, you know."

Oh.

It hits me like a truck. Dad's melancholy, his quietness, the way he's seemed so distracted all morning- it's

all because of today. Of course it is, how could I have missed it before?

Today is the day we go to see Mom.

"Oh," I say quietly, suddenly ashamed at how easily I had allowed myself to forget. "Right.

What time are we leaving?"

I definitely don't expect Dad to sigh, running his hand over his face. "That's the thing, sweetie," he says. "I

can't go today. I have to stay late at work, and I won't be home until eight."

"Eight?" I exclaim, a hollow sort of feeling settling in the pit of my stomach as I stare at my dad. "Are you

kidding? You- you can't just not go visit Mom! I mean, Dad, it's her birthday! How can you not..."I trail off as it slowly dawns on me what I'm going to have to do. "Oh. You want me to go alone."

Dad nods, looking regretful, and a frown flickers across my face before I quickly push it away, replacing it

with a blank expression. "Sure. No problem."

Dad raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure? I hate to leave you out there all alone-"

"Dad, I'll be fine," I say firmly, shaking my head. Mister Lahey, the caretaker of the cemetery, sort of gives

me the creeps, but I know from experience that you hardly ever see him. A half an hour, sitting by Mom's grave- yeah, I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I don't hate cemeteries as much as a lot of people do. After all, they're just corpses. Corpses are one of the few things in this world that can't hurt you.

He sighs again. "If you're sure..."

"Of course I am." I run back, giving him one last kiss on the cheek. "Now, I understand how much you love

my company, but I have to catch the bus, or else I am going to be late."

As I head out the door, I swear I can hear Dad sigh again, but even though I want to I don't turn around.

Okay, at this point I think I ought to explain something about my dad. I love him to death, seriously. He's

raised me on his own since I was eight, and we couldn't be closer. My dad is a very... focused individual,

and in his life he mainly throws himself into two things; his work and me.

My dad is the way he is. It's the way he always has been, and the way he always will be. I still think he's a bit depressed about Mom, to be honest. He just sort of... hasn't ever let her go. I can't understand the way he feels, not really- my mom and I were close, but she and Dad were high school sweethearts. Their romance was legendary- like out of an old Hollywood movie. Mom was the love of Dad's life...

So, yeah, I guess Dad is kind of... out there when it comes to Mom. I don't blame him, though. At all. I

think that when you love someone- like really, really love someone, like Dad did Mom- they never leave

you, ever.

The bus ride to school is as short and chaotic as it's ever been, and like everyday I manage to slam my head

on the seat in front of me more than once. I take the bus because it's easy, and that's the only reason. While I technically have my license, I rarely, if ever, drive- both because my Dad's jeep is way too hard to manage, and also because I hate it. So, for me, the bus is the way to go. That, of course, isn't to say it's always- or ever- a pleasant ride. By the time I step off the bus I already have a headache, and it isn't helped when Jade immediately seizes me by the hand, and drags me through the doors of the school with a terrifying flavor of pure glee lighting up her face.

Jade and I have been best friends since we were kids, and as the top of her class in English I can't even

begin to describe what a major help she's always been to me. She is really and truly my best friend. My...

extremely hyper, overly fashion conscious and slightly bewildering best friend.

"Happy Valentine's day, Bec!" she beams as soon as we get to our lockers, and I blink in surprise.

Valentine's Day? Today? It takes me a minute to realize- right, it's February fourteenth. My mom's birthday. That's Valentine's Day. Jade, of course, notices the look on my face and her expression shifts to one of incredulity. "You're kidding," she says slowly. "You actually forgot."

I shrug helplessly. "Hey, I got precisely four and a half hours of sleep last night, and I also kind of forgot my Mom's birthday. You'll have to forgive me on this one."

Jade studies me a moment, her face blank, before she sighs slowly. "Oh my god, you are just absolutely

impossible sometimes. Seriously, if you didn't have me, you'd just run right off a cliff."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, and you'd probably just dive off of one for kicks."

She considers this a moment, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come on, give me some credit here. As if I would ever be so recklessly irresponsible- oh my god, you actually wore the top I got you!"

Jade takes a moment to spaz out over the shirt I'm wearing, and I take the opportunity to survey exactly

what she's wearing in return. Jade, as usual, looks like she just stepped off the cover of Vogue or Covergirl-

those are fashion magazines, right? She, as opposed to me, always takes great care to put a huge amount

of actual effort into her appearance before stepping out of the house every morning. Today she's chosen a

pretty blue dress which shows off a fair amount of her legs, and a blue stone hanging on a golden necklace

stands out starkly against her dark skin. In short, we basically look like polar opposites. Jade's a bit

obsessed with how she looks, but she has a right to be- she's gorgeous, and I'm not shy about admitting it.

She's all smooth midnight brown skin and sharp curves, as opposed to my... umm... well, my not would be

putting it a bit too gently.

"Admit it," she grins, leaning against her locker. "I was right. It looks good on you."

I turn my head to the side, shrugging my shoulders. "I'm not saying a word."

"Admit it!"

Quite frankly I have no idea whether it looks good on me or not. But Jade is the resident fashion expert, so

if she says that it looks good, then it more than likely does. "Okay. It looks good."

She grins. "Yes, it does, and I knew it would. That is exactly why I picked it out for you."

"Sure, darling," I smirk at her, and she huffs in annoyance. "Anyway, how was your big Valentine's Day

date with Daniel last night?"

"It's a date with Daniel, how do you think it went?"

I snort, nearly dropping my history textbook. Quickly glancing around to make sure that no one noticed,

I slip my book into my bag before nodding. "Okay, fair enough. Hey, guess what went up in smoke at my

house today?"

Jade sighs. "Again?"

"Yeah. However, it got me out of a bad dream, so I'm not complaining."

Her eyebrows rise. "Ooh, you had a bad dream? Me too. What was yours about?"

I shrug. "Some boy, I guess."

Jade's eyes narrow, and she grins wickedly. "Don't tell me, you have a crush on a dream boy now? How

fascinating."

Instead of arguing, I simply shove her lightly and slam my locker shut. "Okay princess, homeroom." Jade

pouts, crossing her arms in front of her chest like an unhappy child. The only classes that Jade and I have

together this year, besides gym, are English and Algebra, and this is a point of endless anguish for the both

of us. Jade gets lonely without me to constantly pass notes to, and having my best friend in all my classes

would definitely help me out a lot. But there really isn't any point arguing with the school over something

so trivial, so we leave it at that.

"Remember," Jade whispers just as we're parting ways, "that top looks great on you. Flaunt it." Instead of

asking her exactly how in hell you're supposed to flaunt a top without sticking out your chest and looking

like you're about to fold over backwards- something which I know for a fact Jade knows nothing about for despite all her beauty she is agonizingly flat-chested- I simply nod and smile. Sometimes, with the more... fashion conscious, nodding and smiling is the best thing you can do.

The rest of the day pretty much proceeds as normally as can be expected. Algebra is hell, English is hell,

History is hell, Biology is hell- so, yeah, not much new.

In Chemistry we take notes, which is particularly awful for me. Mr. Harris is writing things down on the

board, and I feel like I'm drowning the entire class.

At one point- where I'm squinting at the board and, admittedly, nearly running my notebook through with

my pen- Danny has to nudge me to bring me back to earth. "Hey," he whispers. "You okay?"

I blink to clear my head. "Uhh... yeah, I'm fine."

Danny's brow knits in concern. "Are you sure? I could take notes for you for a bit, if you want..." He casts a

glance towards my own notebook, the entire page covered in barely legible writing, and I self-consciously

cover it up with my sleeve.

I shake my head. "No, it- it's okay. Thanks, though."

Danny's really, really nice. He doesn't quite understand- not like Jade does- but he at least tries, which is

more than I can say for most kids at this school- and lots of the teachers, for that matter. But he doesn't

realize that I've got to do this myself. If I don't work my way through it, I'll never improve.

Here's the thing about dyslexia- it isn't a disease. You can't cure it, and this is something I've always

accepted ever since I was diagnosed when I was nine. But it doesn't have to hold me back, either. If I

constantly work hard, then I can improve. I can maybe one day even read and write just as well as any

of my other classmates, if I just work at it. I do work at it; every single day, every chance I get I work on

pushing myself, improving my mind- and I'm not going to let a little headache hold me back.

I push through the rest of Chemistry, and manage to make it out with almost two full pages of just-legible

notes and only a minor headache- a pretty firm achievement in my book.

All day long, anytime I see her, Jade can't keep her mouth shut about the upcoming formal. She already

has a date, of course- and a dress, and the perfect hairstyle. I'm happy to hear her so excited about it, but so

much talk does make me a bit uncomfortable- mainly because I'm not going. Even though Dad is usually

dead tired when he gets home from work, he promised that on Friday we would actually do something

together- spend a night in, just me and him. I can't remember the last time that we've really done that, not

since he started working overtime, and there is no way I'm cancelling on him to go to some stupid formal

that I probably won't even enjoy. This is something I haven't told Jade yet, because I'm pretty sure that if

I did she would physically attack me. I'm just... not a dance person. Besides, it isn't like anyone would ask

me anyway. Jade gets dates because she's pretty, fairly popular and super outgoing. And, like I said, I'm...

not.

Jade's Jade- she's perfect, she's funny and she's smart. Meanwhile, I'm just... Rebecca. I'm just average

me.

Between my classes and all the buzz about the formal, I don't actually get a chance to think about visiting

Mom until I'm on the bus heading home. The school bus is as chaotic as ever, and I hunch in my seat in

my usual effort to block out the noise. Chaos is not my strong suit. At all. That's the reason that I keep my

room, bag and locker so obsessively neat; I just cannot stand messes.

I don't really let myself fret over visiting Mom, although I'm pretty sure that this mostly stems from my

sheer stubbornness in being unwilling to admit to myself that I am a little uncertain about going to the

cemetery today. I've been visiting the cemetery with Dad ever since I was about ten, and for nearly all of

these visits it's just been him, me and Mom- that's it, that's the constant formula. That never changes. I've never gone to see Mom alone before.

By the time I get to the cemetery, a fresh bouquet of purple flowers under my arm, it's nearly four o'clock.

The cemetery is basically deserted, and I step through the gates slowly, glancing around me uneasily. Somehow it feels as if I'm being watched from all sides; that's no different from how I usually feel in the

cemetery, but it feels a lot different when I'm actually alone. I take a deep breath, steel my nerves, and

resolve to hopefully get this visit done with as soon as possible. A half hour. No big deal.

You know how earlier, I said that I didn't hate cemeteries? Well, I don't, but that doesn't make me a big

fan of them. Actually, I don't like cemeteries much. At all. Don't get me wrong, Beacon Hills Cemetery is

a pretty nice place, if one disregards all the dead bodies everywhere. I mean, it's always really clean, and

it's actually kind of a pleasant place to just sit and think for a while, as I've learned from my numerous

visits here- it's nice and quiet. But every time I come here it always makes me feel sort of uneasy; almost

as if I'm trespassing on ground that doesn't belong to me. This land belongs to the dead, and every time I

visit here I can't help but feel like I'm violating that a bit.

This unease, combined with the fact that the dark clouds hanging over the late-afternoon sky seem to

indicate a serious storm pretty soon in the future, only serves to persuade me further to keep the visit with

Mom short.

I weave my way through the rows of gravestones, almost effortlessly following a path ingrained in my head

from years of visits. I don't stop until I come upon the one grave that I don't feel any anxiety standing over,

and I sink to my knees, my smile serving as a wordless greeting in case somewhere, somehow, she might

be watching.

"Happy birthday, Mom," I murmur, running my fingers over the letters that have been carved in the cool, smooth marble of my mother's headstone. The words are more than familiar to me, but I force myself to read them out anyway: Jennifer Crosser. Died age twenty-seven. 1974-2002. Beloved daughter, wife, mother.

That's my mom. Except no one ever called her Jennifer. She was always Jennie.

Silently, I sit back on the dirt ground and face the headstone. Mom's headstone is simple- she wanted it that

way. It's just a simple, thick marble slab with the top rounded off, sticking proudly up from the ground.

The name Crosser is inscribed in bold letters at the center, just under the intricate carving of a rose. On one

side is my mom. The other side is reserved for my dad, whenever he elects to join her- not for a long, long

time.

"Dad can't come today," I whisper, my voice barely rising above the late-winter wind as it blows through

the graveyard, stirring the dead leaves on the ground. "He's working; you know him. Sorry, it's just, um,

me today..."

I sit in silence for a moment, suddenly unsure of what exactly to say. I have no idea what to say to fill the silence. We've never been the type of people who pray to our loved ones, Dad and I- even though I think he does that, too. Dad always talks to Mom whenever he comes here, and he encourages me to do the same. It's easy with Dad here, but without him…I'm not sure why I find this so hard. I think that, maybe, I just don't know exactly what to say to her. Or it could be that the whole idea of talking to a slab of granite just seems a bit… silly to me. I've never really been good at talking to things that can't answer back. I, quite frankly, don't even know if Mom can hear me right now; all I know is that if I died, I wouldn't spend my eternal afterlife hanging around my grave waiting for my family to come talk to me once a year or so. I'd never say so to Dad's face, though. I know exactly how much these visits mean to him.

I grit my teeth, silently cursing myself for being such an idiot. Why is it that when I need to find words the

most, I always seem to come up empty? It's almost humorous in a way, because when I'm at home with Dad it seems like I can never shut up- yet when words are really needed, my mind draws a complete blank.

The topic seems to spill out of my mouth- it's the first thing that pops into my head. "The, um, formal is

coming up this week. I don't think I'm going to go. Jade won't shut up about it. She just lives for events like these. Me… not so much." I laugh quietly. "I'd much rather hang out at home- practice my singing, or watch a movie… maybe work on my reading…" I'm quickly running dry, and I lapse into silence again after the final word. What else is there to say? Not much has really happened in a month.

Suddenly, I'm struck with an idea, and my face lights up as I dig around in my shoulder bag. After a

moment of pulling open different flaps, I pull out a slightly thick, hardcover book. A small smile stretches

itself across my face and I lean back against Mom's gravestone with a sigh. Of course. Why didn't I think

of it before? I'll just read to her.

I wasn't diagnosed with dyslexia until I was nine, a few years after Mom died. Even so, I can't even begin

to say how much she helped me during those early years- "crucial time", apparently, where I didn't even

understand what was wrong with me. All I knew was that I wasn't doing well in school; I couldn't spell, I

couldn't read, and I thought that I was a complete idiot. Dad didn't really know how to react. It was Mom

who understood back then, Mom who helped me, Mom who got me in the habit of working on my reading

every day. Mom pushed me in those early years to work hard and do better, and without her I know how

much harder it would have been for me. She was the one who convinced me that I wasn't just stupid or

lazy; she convinced me that I could improve. I like to read to her, sometimes, when I visit here. I know that

she would be proud of me.

"This is a new one," I say, keeping my voice quiet. "It's kind of advanced for me- I don't understand some

of it, but I work through it." I grin and pick up the book, examining the cover. "Pride and… Pre- preced-

Prejudice. Pride and Prejudice, by Jane… Jane Austen."

And I read. My soft, uncertain voice mixes with the wind to create an odd almost-song, and after a while,

the quiet hissing of the wind and the slow drone of my own words eventually lull me into a state of calm.

These are the times I actually like to be in the cemetery- these are the times when I just actually like to

be on my own in general. The times when I don't have to think about anything, when I'm allowed to just

sit and be myself to myself without worrying about having to take care of anyone, like with Dad, or be

the voice of reason, like with Jade. Especially when it's with Mom. Mom doesn't demand anything; she

doesn't ask, she doesn't order, and whether that's because she's really not there I don't know, but I still

cherish these moments "with my mom" anyway.

I'm so deep into the book that I probably wouldn't have noticed that I wasn't alone had I not gotten stuck

on this one word. This foolish, disagreeable, stupid little word that I've never heard in my life, and which

my brain scrambles to the point that I don't even have any idea what I'm looking at anymore. "Elizabeth

Bennet had been… obliged…" I read, "by the…. by the sare- by the sacare…. by the sca-ri-ticy…" Pausing

in my reading, my head tilted upwards, my brain is pulled from the book just enough for me to register the

presence of eyes on the back of my neck. Slowly, slowly I turn to look at the unwelcome newcomer. And

that's when I see him.

Behind a row of gravestones, probably just about seven feet away, some kid dressed all in black is standing

there and watching me.

It's freaky, to be sure, and I jump away with a muttered exclamation of "crap!" But it would be even

creepier if he were a total stranger. Here's the thing- he isn't. This isn't the first time I've ever seen him.

I've noticed him at the cemetery before- I'm pretty sure he works for Mr. Lahey or something. He's in my

some of my classes, too, Chemistry and French and probably more that I just don't remember. He's one of

those kids- the ones that sit at the back of the class, who hardly ever speak- you know the type.

I hadn't ever given him a second thought before, but looking at him now the only thing I can think is

how absurdly unsettling that is; some random kid watching you in the cemetery while you're sitting by a

gravestone reading. I'm lying there in the dirt, staring wide eyed up at him and thinking that he's a total

creeper, just as it occurs to me that he's probably thinking the exact same thing. For one second, my eyes

meet his- his face takes on a look of alarm- and he's gone.

To the kid's credit, he doesn't run. I know that if I had been caught creeping on someone in a graveyard,

I'd be hightailing it on out of there. And, he is… only doing it just slow enough as to maintain at least some

scrap of dignity. He's more power-walking, like the sort of walk you'd do in the hallways if you're trying

to avoid bumping in to someone you really don't want to talk to, and I watch him until he's well across the

other side of the graveyard before I finally feel safe enough to turn my attention back to what I was doing.

"Wow, that was shockingly creepy," I murmur, shaking my head in a derisive manner in an effort to

maintain the illusion of composure that I'm not even close to feeling. The hairs on the back of my neck are

standing up a bit, but other than being a bit shaken I'm otherwise fine, so with one wary glance back the

way the boy had vanished I simply turn my attention back to the novel and continue reading.

And, you know what? To hell with the word scarcity. Who uses that word, anyway? How am I supposed to

know how to read it, let alone pronounce it?

I ignore that one problem word and continue on with the story.

I'm not aware of anything for a long while after that; that is, at least until, while bent intently over my

book, I suddenly feel a large drop of rain splatter right on the back of my head. Then another. And then

another. I jump, and I'm suddenly scrambling around like an idiot to put my book in my bag before it really

begins to pour.

"Ah, crap!" I exclaim, fumbling with the zipper of my bag in order to conceal everything within from the

elements. It's then that, purely by chance, I look back over to where Lahey's lackey boy had been standing

just fifteen minutes before, and my eyes widen in surprise.

Because, in the exact same spot that the boy had been watching me now lies a navy blue umbrella.

Eyes wide, I hesitantly crawl over to where the umbrella is sitting, reach out and grab it, weighing it in my

hands as the rain continues to fall around me in a light drizzle. He must have dropped it when he made his

escape, I realize. He dropped it and now his umbrella- along with me- will be sitting out all alone in the

rain.

The umbrella, which up close I can now see is pretty old and beginning to rust a bit, is already coated with

a fair layer of mud. It will probably be ruined if I just leave it sitting in the dirt.

It's only then that I fully seem to realize that I'm sitting in a muddy cemetery while it's raining, holding a

closed umbrella in my hands like an idiot and getting soaked in the process. Slightly sheepish, I open up

the umbrella and use it to shield me from the weather just as it really begins to pour. My fingers graze my mother's name one final time; an unspoken farewell.

I feel a bit bad about simply abducting the boy's umbrella, but I quell my conscience with the promise that

I'll return it tomorrow at school. After all, he had simply left it there, and I, as a concerned citizen, had

picked up the umbrella and, upon recognizing the owner, resolved to bring it back to him tomorrow.

By the time I reach the cemetery gates, I feel more than confident that tomorrow I'll be able to simply

return the umbrella to it's rightful owner and leave that at that. It was an honest mistake after all, him

forgetting it. It could happen to anyone. I didn't steal it, and, I mean, it isn't like he left it on purpose- Did he?

No. He couldn't have. Why would he?

Shaking my head slightly, I leave the cemetery gates behind me and head off towards my house.