Shift: The Shift Series, #1

By Elle Beauregard

Have you ever wished you could look like someone else? 

 

The last time I did, it almost came true. I nearly revealed my brand new secret in the middle of the high school quad: I'm a shifter and I can look like anyone—in theory. Now I have to spend the summer with my eccentric aunt learning to control my new "gifts." It's hell… until I meet Drake.

 

Drake feels different than any shifter I've met—and not just because he's the hottest thing in the Arizona desert. The more we're together, the more we want to be together, but at the end of summer Drake is heading to college, and I have one more year of hell—I mean high school—left.

 

As fall approaches, the idea of pulling Drake and me apart feels like splitting atoms. Will our connection be strong enough to withstand what's to come? After this—us, shifters, a world I never knew—nothing will ever be the same again.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Beauregard
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781458174116

Elle Beauregard

Elle Beauregard writes hopeful het. and sapphic fantasy romance about deeply damaged people finding love amidst the extraordinary. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with "the hubby" and "the kiddos" where she spends her free time drinking coffee, thrift shopping, and planning for world domination (one story at a time.) Find Elle online for updates on her projects, random musings, and feminist ramblings.

Book preview

Chapter 1 | History and Manicures

Holy moly, how long can one man drone on about The Red Scare?

As interesting, and absolutely pivotal to modern history as McCarthy and ‘The Red Scare’ is, it does not make for captivating lectures during the last class of the day, just one week before the end of the school year.

History for the last class of the day...as if sixth period didn’t drag on long enough, even when it was something cool like Art or English. But History. Groan. 

Greg Hinkley shifted impatiently in the desk in front of mine. At least I knew I wasn’t suffering alone. And I could easily look at the back of his neck all day...that place where his hair met his smooth, perfect skin and disappeared under the collar of his t-shirt only to meet his broad...

Ms. Brayton?

Huh?

I came out of my ill-timed mental vacation to find Mr. Fletcher and most of the class staring at me.

What? I replied automatically, and then kicked myself for not coming up with a more creative response. Maybe one that didn’t make it so obvious I had been day dreaming.

Mr. Fletcher sighed. I’d asked if anyone could tell me how many individuals were initially included on Senator McCarthy’s list of supposed communists and communist sympathizers. No one volunteered the answer, so I volunteered you.

Why do teachers do that to students? It’s a perfect example of abuse of power.

Uh... Think, Leah. Think. I’d skimmed the reading last night, I remembered seeing that somewhere, right? I flipped through the pages in my head—Photographic memory to the rescue!—until I found what I was looking for. Two hundred and five, right?

He nodded with a belittling, but amused smile. Nice recovery. And nice try. You were almost right—he first reported the list to include two hundred and five individuals, but later changed his official statement to be fifty-seven, he turned to the class at large, which your book thoroughly illustrates as an example of McCarthy’s unscrupulousness...

I felt my cheeks grow warm as I slouched in my seat and stifled snickers at my expense were heard throughout the room, all while Mr. Fletcher pressed on about McCarthy’s ‘unscrupulousness’.

The bell rang. Thank God.

Tomorrow we discuss the Hollywood Blacklist and McCarthy’s censure! Mr. Fletcher called over the din of students clamoring to leave for the day: zipping book bags and general conversation. Read chapter seven please!

I kept my head down as I shoved my books into my bag and wrenched the flap closed, trying to avoid any glances that might take one last chance to silently tease me for my lack of attention in class.

That was kind of harsh.

I looked up to see Greg smirking at me with one eyebrow raised. Was he actually talking to me? More than to ask what homework was due?

Uh, I stammered. What? Wow, nice one Leah.

Mr. Fletcher, he clarified with what might have been amusement, or annoyance, I wasn’t sure.

Oh. Yeah, I tucked my hair behind my ear (wishing it were capable of any style other than straight and flat) and threw my book bag over my shoulder. It’s no big deal. Why did I always sound so idiotic when the words went from my brain to my mouth? I didn’t ever sound so stilted and confused in my head!

He shrugged and hitched his bag over his shoulder as well. Then, upon seeing a friend through the open classroom door, he jogged from the room as he shouted a very jock-typical greeting I didn’t quite catch.

I recovered, my heart rate gradually decreasing toward normal again as I left the room to meet my older sister at our usual spot in front of the school. She drove me to and from school every day, which forced me to wait while she gossiped with all her friends after the last bell.

True to form, she was talking with her friends, all the girls creating an inner circle while the boys dotted the outside, some with their hands resting on a girl’s waist. Mallory flipped her long blond curls over her shoulder. She was 18, a Senior. I was quite nearly 17—my birthday was tomorrow, thank you very much—but still a sophomore because Mom had kept me home an extra year before starting kindergarten. She’d never told me why. I sometimes thought she’d just forgotten to send me to school when I turned five, so she’d had to wait until the next year.

Whatever the reason, the whole thing cursed me to a wicked no man’s land of social purgatory: one of the first kids in my grade to get my driver’s license, but not cool enough for anybody to really care; just ‘advanced’ enough to take honors classes, but not quite smart enough to have just skipped ahead to the grade I should have been in. It meant there wasn’t a clique I really fit into, and I didn’t even have Mallory’s fantastic looks to fall back on. Most people didn’t realize we were even related. Honestly, I didn’t look like anyone in my family.

‘One of these things is not like the other...’ I’d sing to myself when I looked at family pictures.

My mom was tall, thin and blond, like Mallory. My Dad was well built, with sandy hair. I was short, skinny and flat-chested with light brown hair and a funny little nose that turned up at the end. Mom called it ‘cute’.

One of Mallory’s less bitchy friends smiled at me as my ‘cute’ nose and I sidled up next to my sister, trying my best to look casual—like I belonged there.

Hey, I let her know I was beside her with as few words as possible.

Hey, she barely acknowledged my presence, like usual, and continued her conversation without missing a beat.  Of course, the content didn’t make any sense to me, since I was coming into the middle of it.

I admired the less-bitchy friend’s (I think her name was Ferris, or something like that) manicure to keep myself from growing annoyed. Her nails were painted black, which should have made her look like a goth or something, but it didn’t. She just looked edgy and cute—trendy chic.

The conversation in Mallory’s circle turned to last-day-of-school plans—who was throwing a party, and what everyone would be wearing to it.

I sighed, rolled my eyes (despite my best efforts not to display my irritation) and hiked my bag onto the other shoulder. I was ready to go home. My bag was so heavy it was making my fingers go numb.

Did I say you could borrow my nail polish, you little mooch?

Mallory’s nasty tone brought my attention back into the group.

Huh? What was she talking about? I looked at my fingernails automatically—and stopped short. They were painted with an impossibly smooth and even coat of lacquer black.

I didn’t even own black nail polish. Did I? I certainly didn’t remember borrowing Mallory’s. For that matter, I didn’t remember painting my nails. In fact, I’d been inspecting the disgraceful condition of them during fourth period today. They definitely hadn’t been painted then.

But there they were—perfectly manicured.

I stared at them for a long moment, totally perplexed. Uh...I didn’t, I managed to choke out.

I really hadn’t borrowed her polish. At least not that I knew of.

What? Mallory demanded, having not heard me fully.

It’s... How had I managed to give myself a manicure—better than my normally clumsy hands could produce—and not remember doing it?

I love that color, Mallory’s manicured friend, Ferris, interjected. Is it that new brand that just came out?

I looked up to find her looking at me purposefully. She raised one eyebrow, like she knew she was throwing me a bone. I didn’t stop to wonder why. Yeah...It’s mine. I got it the other day—new brand, like she said.

Maybe I’d gotten mixed up. Maybe it was yesterday that I had been inspecting my nails during fourth period. Yeah. Maybe I’d gone home and painted them while I watched TV. Maybe I’d been so distracted by the T.V. show that I didn’t really remember doing it, like autopilot or something. All in all, it wasn’t likely, but what other explanation was there?

Since when do you buy nail polish? Mallory asked with skepticism thick in her high voice.

Autopilot. That had to be it.

Since now, I guess. I shrugged and tried to smile.

When I got home, I’d have to find the bottle of polish and return it to Mallory’s room without her noticing. If I’d borrowed it at all. No way I’d actually bought it and didn’t remember...right?

Ferris’ expression caught my eye. Her crooked smile and intense eyes seemed full of a meaning I wasn’t sure I wanted to decipher.

Chapter 2 | Autopilot, Right?

Mallory and I walked into the house, finally home after she’d proceeded to talk to her friends for another ten minutes after the whole manicure fiasco had passed. Mom was in the kitchen, Dad on the sofa watching TV. Dad was a firefighter, so he worked one week on, one week off. Mom stayed at home to make that schedule work and because she liked it better that way. She was the sort of doting, worry-wart kind of mom that everybody who has one complains about but secretly feels lucky to have.  

She stuck her head out from around the refrigerator door. Hi girls! How was school?

We each gave a grumbling semblance of ‘fine’. Mallory headed right up the stairs to her bedroom—probably to check on my nail polish story—and I plopped down on the other end of the sofa from Dad, throwing my book bag at my feet.

How’s the birthday girl? Dad asked, tearing his eyes away from the news just long enough to ask.

It’s not my birthday yet, Dad, I replied with a smile.

You’re right, you’re right. Tomorrow. Seventeen. That’s a big age. He said that every year. How are you feeling?

That last question was a new one, though. Fine, I replied slowly, then smiled. Why? Is there something you’re not telling me about turning seventeen? I joked.

The refrigerator door slammed closed.

Sorry, sorry! Mom called from the kitchen. Greasy hands!

No, no, Dad laughed. What was with all the repeating the same word twice? Just a big age is all, he added.

I nodded, not sure how to respond and redirected my attention to the television.

We watched the news for a while longer—economic recession, protests, blah, blah, blah—but eventually I picked my bag up off the floor and trudged up to my room with the excuse of homework.

Once there, I looked through my stuff, in search of the illusive nail polish. Sure enough, it was nowhere to be found.

So if I did borrow it from Mallory, I thought to myself, at least I put it back...? She’d definitely let me know if it was missing, I could count on that much. I crawled onto my bed and spread my math book over my lap in preparation of tackling some homework, satisfied that at least I wouldn’t have an angry Mallory hammering at my door any minute. 

Around six o’clock, like every night, we all gathered around the dining table for dinner.

Honey, turn that news off, would you? Mom called to Dad as he stood from the sofa. That’s not the kind of thing I like to listen to while I eat. It’ll give us all indigestion.

Dad lifted the remote and the T.V. screen went black as the sound ceased. He turned to the table. If they’re not careful, they’re gonna have bigger problems on their hands than rising unemployment and peaceful protests.

Mom sighed.

I’m telling you, Susan, Dad continued, spurred on by her reluctance. One out of every five people without work. That’s a huge number. People do crazy things when they get this desperate.

The saying ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’ came to mind.

Darin, Mom scolded. That’s enough. It’s dinner.

Yeah, yeah. Dad rolled his eyes in good nature the way he always did when Mom scolded him.

We all sat down as Mom placed taco fixin’s on the table, next to the meat-stuffed taco-shells standing neatly in their cooling rack.

Dig in! she announced.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, everyone too hungry to make conversation while we stuffed our faces.

Did you girls learn anything new at school today? Anything exciting happen? Mom asked, the way she always did.

I shook my head, swallowed, then took another bite. I was starving. Even more so than usual.

We got our Pre-Calc test scores, Mallory said, 80%, thank you.

I rolled my eyes internally. Only for Mallory was 80% something to celebrate. She might have had the looks, but at least I got the brains out of the deal.

Mallory that’s great! Dad patted her on the back.

Mom beamed. Really! We’re so proud, aren’t we honey?

Dad had already taken another bite. He nodded enthusiastically while he chewed.

They talked more about the test for a few minutes. I’d gotten 92% on my Honors Geometry test, but that wasn’t unusual, nor did this feel like the right time to bring it up. It would just look like I was trying to steal the spotlight. Which maybe I was, but at least I knew better than to actually do it.

Leah, what would you like for dinner tomorrow night, dear? Mom asked, finally changing the subject.

I thought for a minute as I chewed and swallowed my most recent bite. Spaghetti. Mom made awesome marinara.

After dinner, I called my best friend, Megan, to get her take on the nail polish fiasco. As fantastic as my quickly approaching birthday dinner was to think about, it couldn’t distract me from the oddities of this afternoon. Megan was much more imaginative than I was. I felt sure she’d have a good explanation, or at least give me some zany opinion that was entertaining, if not a likely explanation.

You really don’t remember painting your nails?

No, I really don’t! I flopped down on my bed with a sigh. I mean, I thought maybe I’d done it while I watched T.V. or something. That kind of thing can happen, right?

Her pause was telling.

Right?! I demanded. The more I thought about the whole thing, the less sense it made, which was unsettling. I could usually apply logic to most any situation and come up with a sensible explanation—this had left me stumped, however, which was infuriating...and troublesome.

No, yeah. I mean, I drove all the way to school one morning last week and realized after I got there that I didn’t remember almost the entire drive! I pulled out of my driveway and then—poof!—I was at school!

I’d done that before too. That made me feel better.

But don’t tell my mom that, she added quickly. She’d freak out!

I laughed, feeling my stress dissipate. You’re right—she would freak out—but also about the auto-pilot thing. That’s what I figured had happened.

So, on to other subjects that don’t give me the heebie-jeebies, tomorrow is your birthday! Megan exclaimed.

I held the receiver away with a grimace as her trilling voice threatened to overload the phone’s speaker.

Is your mom making dinner?

I brought the phone back to my ear, satisfied that her exclamations would remain within the normal range of decibels for the time being. Yeah, she’s making spaghetti. You wanna come over? You could spend the night, then we could go shopping or something on Saturday. Is your Mom home this weekend?

She scoffed.  Of course she’s not. I’d love to come over!

Megan’s mom had some kind of important job at a big company. She made lots of money, but she traveled a lot too. Megan had never known her Dad, so she had a lot of time to herself, which I sometimes thought might be kind of nice. I don’t think Megan thought so, though, because she came over to my house whenever she had the chance, even though her house was much bigger and more comfortable. My mom was always happy to have her come; she called Megan her ‘third daughter, once removed’.

I went to bed that night feeling much less stressed out about the whole nail polish thing. Megan had confirmed that, yes, autopilot was a likely explanation and I was satisfied with that. I didn’t even think on it again.

But when I woke up the next morning, my fingernails weren’t painted anymore.

Chapter 3 | Happy Birthday, Freak

Was I losing my mind?!

I kept looking at my hands, turning them over and inspecting my nails as if I thought they’d go back to painted and the whole thing would turn out to be nothing more than a dream, or my half-asleep eyes playing tricks on me. But by the time I got to school, I was convinced: Something very strange was happening to me.

I waited for Megan impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other in front of the school. I wished she’d seen the amazing manicure from yesterday, so she could fully grasp the craziness of what was going on.

Ferris came across the parking lot and spotted me.

She smiled and paused for a moment before she passed, seeming to only decide to say something to me at the last second. Mallory said it’s your birthday today. How are you feeling?

Dad had asked me the same thing last night. What was with that?

I feel fine, I replied, a little short. Should I not?

She smiled, her teeth appearing especially perfect and white against her subtly olive complexion that, now that I was standing as close to her as I was, I could see was the smoothest, most even complexion I had ever seen on anybody. And her super dark hair was adorable: chin-length and haphazardly styled. She always looked so...casually pristine. That annoyed me today, for some reason.  

No, she replied dismissively. I just meant do you feel older?

Oh. No, I guess not.

Well, she went to walk away, have a good day!

I remembered yesterday and her knowing eyes. Hey, wait a second.

She turned back with an expectant expression.

I tried to decide how to word what I was about to say. How..., I began, then paused before starting again. How did you know about the nail polish yesterday?

Her eyes narrowed perceptively as she flicked a glance to my fingers, wrapped tight around the strap of my book bag. Do you have a photographic memory? she asked.

That was a random way to answer my question. Yeah.

Her smile spread. Your nails looked just like mine. She turned to walk away, and then turned back again. Would you mind if I came to your house tonight for dinner? I know it’s your birthday, but Mallory promised to help me with my Pre-Calc homework...

I shrugged. Yeah, whatever.

Cool. See ya later! She skipped through the doors.

What was that supposed to mean? ‘Your nails looked just like mine,’?

I sighed and returned my attention to the parking lot, just in time to see Megan making her way toward me, a huge bouquet of brightly colored balloons bobbing and swaying above her dark brunette head. She waved enthusiastically with a huge grin on her face.

I groaned silently. This was a little much, wasn’t it?

Happy Birthday! she threw her arms around me, the balloons making a faint thumping noise against one another as she jostled them.

Uh, thanks. I couldn’t help but laugh.

She handed me the balloons. There’s 17! One for every year!

They had a lot of upward force; it took effort to keep them all from floating away.

Uh, maybe we’d better tie them to my bag. I looped the 17 ribbons through the strap of my book bag and tied them snuggly in place. As much as I wasn’t so keen on being such a spectacle with 17 balloons bobbing above my head all day, I would have felt really bad if they’d all floated away between classes or something. My book bag was definitely heavy enough to keep them securely anchored.

Megan beamed as we turned and walked into school. Hey, so where’s your nail polish? I want to see this fantastic manicure!

I sighed and shook my head. That’s a good question, then I changed the subject. So do you want to come over after school?

She danced jokingly while we walked. Hells yes! I’ve got my overnight bag in the car!

The bell rang.

Ugh, her dancing ceased at once. Off to class. Have a good day sweetie. She hugged me again, then turned toward her home room.

Megan and I didn’t have any classes together. She was a junior. We’d known each other since our moms met at playgroup, when we were two years old. I felt confident that, since Megan’s mom hadn’t forgotten to send Megan to school when she was five, my mom had had ulterior motives in keeping me back a year. I’ll never get it.

Just as I’d expected, walking through the halls and sitting in class with 17 balloons strapped to my bag was tantamount to standing on my chair and singing ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’ into a bullhorn. There was no way I could go unnoticed. Even Mallory snickered when she spotted me between classes after lunch. Luckily, most of the teachers were good natured about it and didn’t call on me without provocation. Maybe they could see that I’d had enough attention for one day. Finally, sixth period rolled around and as much as History always dragged on and on, at least it meant the day was almost over.  

I trudged my way across campus, choosing to take an outdoor route to history instead of the more direct path to avoid having to cut directly through the crowded quad in the middle of the building. The balloons didn’t make for easy maneuvering. I came around one of the last corners before making it back into the school to find Greg Hinkley with his tongue down one of the pretty, popular girl’s throats.

Awesome. Could this day get any better?

She had hair almost the same color as mine—it was pretty much all I could see of her features, the rest of her face smashed expertly against Greg’s—but it was thick and layered with manufactured curls that nonetheless had managed to stay full and bouncy all the way until the end of the day. Bitch.

I put my head down and marched by them. They didn’t seem to notice I was there at all, for which I was grateful.

Greg scurried into class just as the bell was ringing and took his usual seat in front of mine.

He turned back to me as Mr. Fletcher came to the front of the room, Chapter seven, right? 

I couldn’t be sure of what expression was on my face. Probably a little disgruntled. I just nodded.

He noticed the balloons (as if there was any way he couldn’t have) and smiled. Nice balloons. Is it your birthday or something?

No, I just buy myself balloons to strap to my bag so I don’t lose it, I thought bitterly to myself. Yeah, my friend got them for me.

He nodded appreciatively. That’s cool. Happy birthday.

I hated the flutter in my stomach as he said that. Mr. Fletcher called for everyone’s attention, and History class started in earnest.

* * *

After the hilarity of stuffing all 17 balloons back into Megan’s car and battling with them from the passenger seat as she drove to my house, we filed into the kitchen and I tied the monstrosity of a birthday bouquet to the back of the chair where I always sat at dinner.

Mom squealed and threw her arms around me. My little girl is 17 years old!

Megan laughed quietly, standing behind my mother where she couldn’t see her. I rolled my eyes but was secretly appreciative of the attention.

And it just wouldn’t be a birthday without Megan, Mom turned to her and hugged her as well. How are you, dear?

I’m good, she replied easily.

Well, Mom appraised us both, Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours—you have full reign of the TV, birthday girl.

Dad came down the stairs. Full reign of the TV? I don’t know about that... He laughed, but ultimately relinquished his TV control for the evening.

Megan and I lounged on the sofa, flipping through the channels while Mom bustled around the kitchen and Dad tried to stay out of her way. The phone rang and Mom answered, but I didn’t listen to who it was or the conversation—Megan was the only person who ever called me, so there wasn’t any reason to.

I heard Mom shuffle across the kitchen. She stuck her face over the back of the sofa. "Mallory says