The Shadow Strike

Noah first noticed something was wrong on Tuesday morning, right in the middle of breakfast.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, eating his cereal and swinging his legs the way he always did, when he happened to glance down at the floor. His shadow was there, stretched out long and dark in the morning sunlight — but it wasn't swinging its legs.

Noah stopped chewing. He swung his legs again. His shadow just sat there, perfectly still, like a painting of a boy who was absolutely not swinging his legs.

"Huh," said Noah.

He lifted his spoon. His shadow didn't.

He waved his hand. Nothing.

He stood up, did a jumping jack, wiggled his ears — well, he tried to wiggle his ears — and even attempted a cartwheel, which knocked over the orange juice.

His shadow didn't move a single inch. It just sat there in its shadow-chair at its shadow-table, with its arms crossed.

"MOM!" Noah yelled. "My shadow is broken!"

His mom walked in, looked at the orange juice river flowing across the floor, and said, "Clean that up, please."

"But my shadow—"

"Shadows don't break, sweetheart. Grab some paper towels."

By the time Noah cleaned up the juice, the sun had shifted and his shadow was too faint to see. But he had a feeling. A bad feeling.

At school, things got worse.

It was recess, and Noah was playing tag with his friends Priya and Marcus on the blacktop. The sun was high and bright, which meant shadows were short and sharp and very, very visible.

Noah was running — but his shadow was walking. Just strolling along, casual as anything, hands in its pockets. Shadow-hands in its shadow-pockets.

"Uh, Noah?" said Priya, pointing down. "Why is your shadow doing that?"

Before Noah could answer, his shadow sat down. Right there on the blacktop. It sat down, stretched out its shadow-legs, and appeared to yawn.

"Dude," said Marcus. "That's weird."

Noah jumped up and down. "Come ON!" he whispered at his shadow. "You're embarrassing me!"

His shadow lay all the way back, like it was sunbathing. Which was a very strange thing for a shadow to do.

Noah tried running away from it, but of course, the shadow stayed attached to his feet. It just sort of dragged along, lying flat and limp like a dark blanket being pulled across the ground.

"Maybe it's tired," said Priya thoughtfully.

"Shadows don't get tired!" said Noah.

"Well," said Marcus, "yours looks pretty tired."

After recess, it got even worse than worse.

During reading time, the whole class was sitting quietly in their spots on the carpet. Noah was being very still, his book open in his lap. But his shadow? His shadow was up on the wall, dancing. Big, wild, floppy dancing, like it was at some kind of shadow party that nobody else was invited to.

The kids started giggling. Then laughing. Then pointing.

"Noah," said Ms. Daniels, looking up from her desk. "Please stop making shadow puppets on the wall."

"I'm not!" Noah held up both hands to show they were holding his book. But behind him, his shadow was now doing what appeared to be the chicken dance.

The whole class lost it. Even Ms. Daniels pressed her lips together in that way that meant she was trying very hard not to smile.

Noah's face went hot and red. He wanted to disappear. He turned around and glared at his shadow.

His shadow took a bow.

By the time Noah got home, he was fuming. He marched into his room, stood right in front of his desk lamp so his shadow was big and clear on the wall, and put his hands on his hips.

"Okay," he said. "What is your problem?"

His shadow put its hands on its hips too — but in a mocking sort of way, leaning to one side like it was saying, Oh, you want to talk NOW?

"You made everyone laugh at me!" said Noah. "You're supposed to copy me! That's your JOB!"

His shadow turned its back to him.

Noah blinked. That shouldn't even be possible.

"Fine!" he said. "Be that way! I don't need you!"

He flicked off the lamp. His shadow vanished. Noah stood in the dim room, breathing hard.

"There," he said to the darkness. "How do you like THAT?"

The room was very quiet. Very still.

Noah turned the lamp back on.

His shadow was sitting on the wall with its head in its hands.

Something about that made Noah stop being angry and start being something else. Something that felt like a pebble in his shoe — small and uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.

He sat down on the floor. His shadow was still sitting too, still slumped, still looking like the saddest shadow in the history of shadows.

Noah thought for a minute. A real, honest minute, which is actually quite a long time when you're sitting on your bedroom floor trying to understand your shadow.

"Is this..." he started slowly. "Is this because of what I've been doing?"

His shadow looked up.

Noah's stomach twisted. He thought about the past week. He thought about how he'd started copying everything Marcus did — the way Marcus talked, the way Marcus walked, the jokes Marcus told. He'd even stopped raising his hand in class because Marcus said raising your hand wasn't cool. He'd traded his favorite peanut butter sandwich for a turkey wrap because that's what Marcus ate. He'd laughed at things that weren't funny and pretended to like things he didn't like, all because he wanted Marcus to think he was cool.

He'd spent the whole week being someone else's copy.

"You don't like copying everything I do," Noah said slowly, "because... I've been copying everything Marcus does?"

His shadow stood up.

"So you haven't really been doing your own thing," Noah said, his voice getting quieter. "You've been showing me what my thing actually looks like."

His shadow nodded. A big, slow, obvious nod.

Noah felt that pebble-feeling shift into something warmer, like a seed cracking open.

"The chicken dance," he said. "In reading time."

His shadow did a little shimmy.

"I DO like dancing," Noah admitted. "Well — not during reading time. But I do like dancing. And I stopped doing it at recess because Marcus said it was weird."

His shadow started dancing again. That big, goofy, wonderful dancing.

And Noah — very slowly — started dancing too.

Right there in his bedroom, no music playing, just a boy and his shadow doing the most ridiculous, flappy, noodle-armed dance you've ever seen. The kind of dance where your elbows go in directions elbows aren't supposed to go, and your knees do things that would concern a doctor.

For the first time all day, his shadow matched him perfectly.

The next morning at breakfast, Noah swung his legs. His shadow swung its legs too.

He lifted his spoon. His shadow lifted its spoon.

He smiled. His shadow smiled right back.

At school, Marcus said, "Want to trade lunches?"

Noah looked down at his peanut butter sandwich — the one he'd asked his mom to make again. "Nah," he said. "I'm good."

"Okay," said Marcus, and shrugged, and that was that.

At recess, Noah danced. Priya danced with him. Marcus watched for a minute, then said, "You look like a noodle," and then — because it really did look like fun — he started dancing too.

And on the blacktop, three shadows danced in the afternoon sun, copying every silly, wonderful, ridiculous move — because finally, the moves were worth copying.