Personal Notes: I involuntarily assign personalities and bried histories to innanimate objects, mostly numbers. I'm pretty familiar with 1-10, but if someone throws a number at me my brain tends to humanize the number within a minute or so. I think it's a little less of a 'condition' and more a 'quirk' in my case (I know there is an actual diagnosis for this, but I don't remember it, so if you do, pipe up).
My husband and I were married in 2000, not terribly long after the epic Titanic made girls everywhere sigh and start trawling art classes for a boyfriend* (the boys, it must be pointed out, where extremely willing to take on *ahem* figure models so as to hone their anatomy skills).
Just like our lives, N.'s CD collection and mine blended together. He brought country music, and I brought divas into the fold. But, still. My husband's a VULCAN, all about the logic and getting things done. His work ethic is so strong I get exhausted just reading his To Do list. He's military, and has gone into a career field that often requires he run into burning buildings. He tells people the ways things are, rarely pulling punches (though, don't think he isn't gracious, he is; just don't let him catch you doing something ridiculously brainless, or he'll laugh at you). Clearly he is not a sissy boy. Sissy boys ran followed him around, panting and saying 'Hey, boss!' in school.
So you'd never in a million years expect him to WEAR OUT my Celine Dion CD, would you? And yet, he did. He looped that thing every day for a month just after our wedding.
Last night, approximately nine years after the CD weirdness, he comes home from the video place with an Ashton Kutcher indie flick. I've never been exactly keen on Ashton Kutcher movies, so you'd think N would know better and gotten the new Gerard Butler number, but nooo. It's Kutcher, and worse, it's pretty much every inch of Kutcher, in his birthday suit. N. got it, thinking it was a romantic comedy. Um, hi, did he read the back cover of that thing? Dude nookie-ing his way through L.A., until enter the actress I first saw as Joss, whom (of course) he falls in love with.
Short moral of this story, kids? Don't assume anything. You want to make sure your work creates a paritcular reaction, get out there and start asking questions.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Sarcasm in B Minor
Personal Note: In honor of Sesame Street's 40th birthday yesterday, a confession: At somepoint in my early childhood I had a nightmare about Sherlock Hemlock. I've never been able to look at him the same. I absolutely adore the rest of the characters (although Elmo's referring to himself in third person drives me nutes), but Detective Hemlock is persona non grata with me.
I live on the Gulf coast, and as you may have heard, Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ida stopped by my house yesterday. Don't freak; she was just a little storm. compared to Ivan five years ago, who was a Cat 3 hurricane when it decided to use our coastline as a bar stool.
Ivan was trouble, but Ida's just been a nuisance, mostly keeping me from getting finished quite a few things I wanted to have done by Monday. Such as fine-combing the Silver manuscript another time before sending it off to someone who asked to read the whole thing, or keeping up the blogging. If I'd gotten those things finished yesterday, as I'd liked to have, today I could get back into writing Silver's sequel, Golden. More and more about it is coming to me, and I'd love to explore that potential. I've got so much about Ian, and Sebastien, and Joss, plus everyone else, finally bubbling up in my head again.
Should I Scarlet this post and say tomorrow is another day? For this one, I've got a headache.
I live on the Gulf coast, and as you may have heard, Hurricane/Tropical Storm Ida stopped by my house yesterday. Don't freak; she was just a little storm. compared to Ivan five years ago, who was a Cat 3 hurricane when it decided to use our coastline as a bar stool.
Ivan was trouble, but Ida's just been a nuisance, mostly keeping me from getting finished quite a few things I wanted to have done by Monday. Such as fine-combing the Silver manuscript another time before sending it off to someone who asked to read the whole thing, or keeping up the blogging. If I'd gotten those things finished yesterday, as I'd liked to have, today I could get back into writing Silver's sequel, Golden. More and more about it is coming to me, and I'd love to explore that potential. I've got so much about Ian, and Sebastien, and Joss, plus everyone else, finally bubbling up in my head again.
Should I Scarlet this post and say tomorrow is another day? For this one, I've got a headache.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Covering All My Bases
It's kind of all personal today. I'm giving you the first chapter of the novel, Silver. No stealing, because I'm not sweet enough not to sue you for it.
I faked being busy with the messy stack of paper in my bag, and bent my head, contemplating the number three hundred and sixty four. It was the kind of number that could sting, a pin prick, or maybe like stitches. But it wasn’t as bad as I suspected three hundred and sixty five would be. Three sixty five would scream bloody murder, like the kind of super sticky bandages you were supposed to yank off in one quick tug, those ones that hurt a billion times worse when you acted like a wuss, uncovering your still-pink scar tissue millimeter-by-millimeter. Three sixty five was—as my best friend Jules would say—going to suck like great big hippo toe.
But that was the way it was supposed to feel, wasn’t it? Something had to hurt if it was to heal, right?
I heard my name and then something whooshed my ear, making me jump and look up. Across the room Drew Christian, aka Drew the Adorable, smiled at me apologetically. He nodded at the floor by my feet where a rainbow-striped hacky sack rested against my left heel.
I tossed the ball back, blushing when his dimples sank deeper into his cheeks as he thanked me. The bell rang and Drew slid back into his own desk, tapping a pencil against his thigh to his own internal rhythm.
I sighed, wishing I had more guts, but with Drew it had been one of those crush at first sight situations; any time he tried to talk to me I practically went mute. It was like some invisible hand smacking over my mouth.
Kids trickled into the room, getting settled while Mrs. Meyer called roll. I kept my head down and muttered my usual “here” when she called “Oliviero, Jocelyn?” No one expected me to say more than that. I’d pretty much kept them all at arms length for the last twelve months, making sure they couldn’t bring up subjects I still couldn’t bear to discuss.
Meyer continued down her list, ticking off names. The room’s quiet murmur stilled when she called “Solis…?” Bodies swiveled to stare at a new kid sprawled in the center desk. I wasn’t sure how I’d missed him before, how any of us had. He wasn’t the kind of person you didn’t notice. Still, one second nobody there, the next a newbie.
He’d lifted one black-gloved finger in acknowledgement. Almost white hair spilled back from a beautiful, compelling face. Pale features cut a sharp fineness around eyes blazing a degree too brightly, like storm clouds lit from behind. For a moment they trapped mine, and something in the pit of my stomach recoiled. He stared at me with an awful clarity, like he knew just how messed up I really was.
I dropped my gaze to his chest and noticed how his silver-grey sweater outlined wide shoulders and a smooth abdomen. The darker corduroy pants wrapped around his legs. Monochrome worked for him.
Lee’s typical “It” girl, Chrissy Anderson, gaped at him, her mouth working open and closed like a goldfish. I would’ve bet even money she’d have his phone number before the day was out.
*****
After school, I hurried outside to find sanctuary in the BMW parked in the student lot.
Jules already sat behind the wheel, laughing at my rush. “Honestly, Jocelyn. It’s been months. You should have adapted to Virginian weather by now. One might think you’re purposefully fighting it off. Then again, I suppose your refusal to confront your demons affords me and my Beamer your undying gratitude. Just don’t forget it’s your turn to drive next week.”
“I’ll make a mental note. You guys leaving for Aspen early tomorrow?”
“This evening, or I’d invite you over to hide out.”
Jules’s face crinkled up in disapproval. “Catherine and Tim care more about you than you give them credit for.”
“I sighed. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just starting freak out a little, you know. Besides, family members aren’t like a sports team; you can’t just trade players if one goes down. They aren’t my mom and dad, and as much as I adore the urchin, Gracie isn’t Eric."
As if saying his name summoned him, the image of my handsome older brother filled my mind. He’d inherited Dad’s dark good looks, whereas I mostly resembled Mom, with her porcelain skin and tiny frame. The only trait we’d shared had been Dad’s dark waves.
“Let’s just get me through this weekend and I’ll work more on appreciating them over fall break, okay? What else will I have to keep me occupied while you’re off hitting the slopes?”
*****
I made it in just as Aunt Catherine checked something delicious-smelling in the oven. The scrape of the door clashed with the wistful hum coming from the kitchen. I didn’t recognize the song, but that didn’t surprise me. My Aunt Catherine and her husband, Tim, liked lots of stuff from some bygone era. They said they appreciated far away, simpler times. They were only in their early thirties, though, so I wasn’t sure exactly how much difference three decades could’ve made.
I hung my coat on the rack and squatted to wrestle with my sneaks. The shuffling must have tipped off Aunt Catherine to my presence, because she called for me to get ready for dinner.
She ducked her head around the doorframe. “And would you mind setting the table? I’m going to be up to my elbows in greens in a minute.”
I grinned and nodded. Her first attempts to teach me to cook had failed so miserably no let me lay hands on anything that required more than a good nuking.
I returned from washing my hands to find Aunt Catherine trading out a juicy pot roast for a tray of dinner rolls. She smiled at me in her soft way and resumed her humming.
Jules is right. These people are family. They deserve more from me.
I laid out the flatware while she returned to a bowl of curly spinach. “Hey, what’s the song?” I asked, trying to alleviate some of my guilt.
“Her smile took on a dreamy note. “An old Gershwin tune called ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. I can’t seem to get it out of my head lately. Your uncle played Jimmy Winters in the play, you know.”
The uncle in question walked into the room, as if on cue, slid his briefcase onto the bar, and bent to kiss his wife’s cheek.
“Is you aunt telling on me? I assume you refer to my singular foray into musical theatre. Don’t look so flabbergasted, Joss. We’re braver about a lot of things when we’re young, but I expect you’ll learn that for yourself as time passes. Take your chances now, while you’re still young enough to believe in them.
*****
If I squeezed my eyelids tightly enough and held every muscle absolutely still I could almost—almost—feel the touch of my mother’s hand as she smoothed down my hair. A nightmare, skinned knees, fights with girlfriends, all once healed by the glide of her fingers.
If I listened hard enough maybe I could hear my father’s laugh again, so deep and full it overpowered any rebellious pre-teen sulks within minutes. The ways I missed that sound plinked across my ribs like skipping stones, chipping away tiny flakes of bone.
I didn’t have the strength to think of Eric. His loss still bled, the hole torn, ragged. If I went down that branch of Memory Lane, I might not make it back.
A year ago I hadn’t known a plane crash could take out all the parts of myself I loved most, while I lay hundreds of miles away in a strange bed, covered in chicken pox and a bottle of Calamine lotion, both of which my then three-year-old cousin had generously shared with me.
Now I knew my body could breathe and pulse, walk and talk, even when my spirit struggled to comprehend such a huge loss. I would’ve sworn I’d emptied out so entirely my leftover pieces should have floated away all on their own.
Here in the dark it didn’t matter how empty I felt. I could be as hollow as I wanted. I cried hard, turning my pillow into a soggy mess, but the tears were wasted. Nothing filled me back up, and the date still blazed behind my screwed-shut, gritty eyes.
October fifteenth. Happy Anniversary to me.
*****
I woke to find Gracie asleep in bed beside me. I slid myself out as quietly as possible, uncurling her tiny fingers from the end of my braid. She was already up before I got back from my shower.
I took to the stairs wearing my best “well-adjusted teenage girl” costume. Jeans, non-descript tee, and my favorite sneaks. My book-bag weighed a ton, pushing me toward the kitchen. Halfway there the hushed whispers of my aunt and uncle stopped me in my tracks.
“I’m worried about her, Timothy. It’s impossible to imagine how devastating today must be for Jocelyn. Losing a sister doesn’t compare with losing a mother.”
“I know, Cat, but we must let Jocelyn find her own way through it.”
Whoa! Enough of that!
I let my bag clunk against the wall the rest of the way down. The voices cut off at the first bang like someone flipping a switch. By the time I rounded the corner to see Gracie sitting in her booster seat, studying the strawberry swirls in her oatmeal, Aunt Catherine stood near Uncle Tim, innocently sliding bacon onto his plate while he wrote last-minute notes on a legal pad for his teaching assistant like every other morning.
“How’re you this morning, cutie?” I asked, bending over to kiss my four-year-old cousin’s beaming, oatmeal-streaked face. Mouth stuffed with breakfast, she giggled and pointed to her lips. “Oh, forgive me. Miss Manners taught you well, I see.”
The coffee brewed on the far counter, making a full-on advance necessary if I wanted my morning I.Q.-booster. I took a travel mug from the cabinet, catching a frantic glance from one adult to the other shooting over my head. “Aunt Catherine, I’m sixteen. I really don’t think you can blame coffee for stunting my growth at this point.”
Uncle Tim cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t you like to take it easy today, hang out here at the house?”
Houston, we have a problem.
“No that’s fine, really. I’d much rather go out--you know, lose myself in the outdoors and everything.”
Uncle Tim took the hint and asked when I expected to be home.
“I won’t be late,” I said, plucking a muffin from the bowl on the table.
“Before dark?”
“Dinnertime at the latest.”
“Roger that.”
Aunt Catherine looked like she wanted to say something else, but Uncle Tim’s attention went back to his pad and she turned to busy herself at the sink.
Garrett Park was deserted, with the surprising exception of the Solis kid. If I could will him away all would be right with the world. Careful not to let him see, I sneaked a look at him. He waited against the far lamp post, his body relaxed and careless, arms crossed loosely in front of him, but his gaze didn’t match. It bore into me, too intense, too focused.
He didn’t budge, and luckily for him, I didn’t have it in me to actually hit anyone. A shame; some senseless violence might do me good. Not exactly a Zen outlook, but then violence was a passionate emotion and passion was considered good by most people.
Oh, come on! I just want to sit under my tree and read my book for a while, listen to some tunes in peace. It’s not too much to ask.
I fumbled for my handy-dandy Mp3 player, turning it up until it blared a ‘burst your eardrums’ volume, and told myself to concentrate on my novel. But immediately a flash of light drew my attention to the fluffy white splotches freckling the sunny sky. The lack of storm clouds didn’t surprise me, not with the Staunton’s schizo weather, but the silence following the lightning did. Still, lightning meant rain, and rain meant time to seek shelter. Even Park Boy had seemed to know this, as he’d disappeared. I wrapped up my headphones and tucked my book safely away in my backpack.
My search for a haven from the storm ended in front of Vinyl, the tiny music shop next to the Bookstack. I took a much-needed deep breath and walked in on shaky legs. More than likely Drew would be working inside and that meant my ability to use multi-syllable words was about to bail on me.
Sure enough, he stood behind the counter waiting on another customer, but he threw me a distracted grin. That smile should have had a warning label: Viewer Beware! Direct Contact Can Induce a Trance-like State. I ducked behind a rack of CDs for safety’s sake, picking through them until I found one I wanted to check out.
By the time I’d scanned most of the new releases Drew had finished with the customer and was nodding at me to come over. His dimples hit me full-force as he said, “Hey, Joss. How’s things?”
I did my best to disengage my “idiot gear” and answered. “Fine, thanks. You?”
“You know, getting in billable hours. I’m saving toward a new camera. My old Nikon’s shot.”
As if I don’t have everything about you memorized already. I nodded and passed my CD over, a twenty resting on top.
He held up the punk album. “Out of everyone who comes in here you are by far the most unpredictable. Last week you bought country, and this week you pick this?”
“That’s me. I like to keep people guessing.”
Another silent flash lit the air. Drew’s eyes flickered outside. “Unbelievable storm, huh? All the visual effects you could ask for, but someone forgot to crank the bass.”
“Yeah, crazy,” I agreed nervously.
Drew’s grin widened as he punched numbers into the register. A shifting image in the mirrored wall behind him caught my eye as he got my change out. Park Boy held up the wall across the street, watching me again. Drew said something, but I missed it and had to ask him to repeat himself.
“I said break’ll speed by too fast to settle for ‘fine’. Maybe someone could help you slow it down.”
I wanted to ask if he felt like volunteering, but two things stopped me: One, I still made the Cowardly Lion look like Hercules and two, Park Boy had given me a disgusted look, shoved himself from the wall, and taken off down the sidewalk.
That did it. I scooped up my sack, mumbled something insensible about to Drew about him having fun too, and scrambled out the door after Sir-Stares-A-Lot. I might not be able tell an adorable boy I dug him, but Heaven help me if I couldn’t let some jerk know his one-man investigation wasn’t appreciated.
Outside I scanned both sides of the street but he’d disappeared. A second later a flare of white turned onto Frederick so I took off after it at top speed. By the time I caught up with him I was so breathless my, “Hey!” came out barely audible. He didn’t stop so I sucked it some air and yelled louder. “Hey, hold on!”
He stiffened and slowly turned around, his face stained with disbelief.
“Yes, I mean you,” I wheezed from a few feet away. He stepped forward and waved a hand in front of my face as if unconvinced I’d spoken to him. His eyes grew rounder and he stumbled back when I slapped his arm away.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop freaking out. Just let me catch my breath.”
He regained his composure as I straightened up. “I’m sorry. Did you need something from me, Miss . . .?”
I ignored the subtle hint for my name and said, “Yeah. Let’s start with why you’ve been following me.”
“I have no idea to what you’re referring.”
“Puh-leeze. You’re everywhere I go today, first the park and now Vinyl. You’re studying me like I’m some kind of science experiment.”
“Begging your pardon, but I haven’t . . .”
“Yes you have,” I huffed. “Explain.”
His eyes hardened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, I’m guilty of looking at a pretty girl. Fortunately, finding you interesting isn’t a punishable offense, so you’re out of luck if you want to press charges.”
“What an arrogant thing to say! Look . . .”
“Sebastien.”
I blanked. “Huh?”
A conceited grin played at the corners of his mouth. “My name? It’s Sebastien. You didn’t bother asking for it so I’m volunteering the information, since I’d rather you knew at whom you’re tossing your accusations.”
And just like that he’d made me feel small. It wasn’t fair. He’d been rude first. Seriously, something about this guy stirred me up.
He went on. “Now, you were saying . . .?”
“Whatever. You’ve satisfied your curiosity. There’s nothing even remotely interesting about me so you can get on with your own business.”
“Ah,” he murmured, “I beg to differ. You do all sorts of interesting things. Take for instance how you blush when talking with a boy, or how you read outside this late in the year? Not many people would risk the chill of a fall afternoon in the park, even for a good tale. Most want something that creates body heat, gets the heart rate up.”
He practically purred the word “heat.” His implication pooled liquid and thick somewhere low in my body. I stumbled backwards a little.
“It’s difficult to ignore a lone girl catching up on her library finds, you see.” He stepped closer, matching me. “By the way, do you always talk with your hand whirling about like that, or do you only do it when you’re nervous?”
“Do you always interrupt with random commentary?” I countered, checking the urge to shove my hyperactive hand in my pocket. “By all that’s holy, I’m just a girl who loves books more than the average bear.”
“Oh, no. Now you’ve done it.”
“Done what?”
“A pretty girl with a brain? It will be impossible to ignore you after learning of your literary prowess. We’ll have to see how this plays out.”
I grinned too sweetly. “Oh, it’s a brilliant beauty you’re looking for? In that case, you should allow me to introduce you to my friend, Jules.”
He laughed some more, not seeming the least bit put off. “I’d rather have you,” he admitted, and then casually turned and walked away, leaving me to squeeze my eyes shut in frustration.
When I opened them again he’d disappeared into the ether. A curious tingle filtered through my fingertips.
“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”
1 Corinthians 13:1-2, NIV
“Hey baby, I don't wanna be your Superman.I just wanna be your man and I'll be super, baby.You'll be standin' in the sunshine,I'll be standin' right here in the rain.You save me and I will save the day.”
“Save the Day” by Train.
Chapter One: Commander-in-Grief
I navigated the clogged arteries of Lee High’s hallways, dodging limbs and squeezing through spaces not normally reserved for the human body. The kissing couples, sneaking smokers, and furtive freaks I wound my way around didn’t have a prayer of seeing a Master of Stealth Mode like me. Finally, I held my breath and sprinted for the safety of my homeroom desk, like a kid playing tag. I sank into my seat and exhaled, whispering, “Base!”
And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”
1 Corinthians 13:1-2, NIV
“Hey baby, I don't wanna be your Superman.I just wanna be your man and I'll be super, baby.You'll be standin' in the sunshine,I'll be standin' right here in the rain.You save me and I will save the day.”
“Save the Day” by Train.
Chapter One: Commander-in-Grief
I navigated the clogged arteries of Lee High’s hallways, dodging limbs and squeezing through spaces not normally reserved for the human body. The kissing couples, sneaking smokers, and furtive freaks I wound my way around didn’t have a prayer of seeing a Master of Stealth Mode like me. Finally, I held my breath and sprinted for the safety of my homeroom desk, like a kid playing tag. I sank into my seat and exhaled, whispering, “Base!”
I faked being busy with the messy stack of paper in my bag, and bent my head, contemplating the number three hundred and sixty four. It was the kind of number that could sting, a pin prick, or maybe like stitches. But it wasn’t as bad as I suspected three hundred and sixty five would be. Three sixty five would scream bloody murder, like the kind of super sticky bandages you were supposed to yank off in one quick tug, those ones that hurt a billion times worse when you acted like a wuss, uncovering your still-pink scar tissue millimeter-by-millimeter. Three sixty five was—as my best friend Jules would say—going to suck like great big hippo toe.
But that was the way it was supposed to feel, wasn’t it? Something had to hurt if it was to heal, right?
I heard my name and then something whooshed my ear, making me jump and look up. Across the room Drew Christian, aka Drew the Adorable, smiled at me apologetically. He nodded at the floor by my feet where a rainbow-striped hacky sack rested against my left heel.
I tossed the ball back, blushing when his dimples sank deeper into his cheeks as he thanked me. The bell rang and Drew slid back into his own desk, tapping a pencil against his thigh to his own internal rhythm.
I sighed, wishing I had more guts, but with Drew it had been one of those crush at first sight situations; any time he tried to talk to me I practically went mute. It was like some invisible hand smacking over my mouth.
Kids trickled into the room, getting settled while Mrs. Meyer called roll. I kept my head down and muttered my usual “here” when she called “Oliviero, Jocelyn?” No one expected me to say more than that. I’d pretty much kept them all at arms length for the last twelve months, making sure they couldn’t bring up subjects I still couldn’t bear to discuss.
Meyer continued down her list, ticking off names. The room’s quiet murmur stilled when she called “Solis…?” Bodies swiveled to stare at a new kid sprawled in the center desk. I wasn’t sure how I’d missed him before, how any of us had. He wasn’t the kind of person you didn’t notice. Still, one second nobody there, the next a newbie.
He’d lifted one black-gloved finger in acknowledgement. Almost white hair spilled back from a beautiful, compelling face. Pale features cut a sharp fineness around eyes blazing a degree too brightly, like storm clouds lit from behind. For a moment they trapped mine, and something in the pit of my stomach recoiled. He stared at me with an awful clarity, like he knew just how messed up I really was.
I dropped my gaze to his chest and noticed how his silver-grey sweater outlined wide shoulders and a smooth abdomen. The darker corduroy pants wrapped around his legs. Monochrome worked for him.
Lee’s typical “It” girl, Chrissy Anderson, gaped at him, her mouth working open and closed like a goldfish. I would’ve bet even money she’d have his phone number before the day was out.
*****
After school, I hurried outside to find sanctuary in the BMW parked in the student lot.
Jules already sat behind the wheel, laughing at my rush. “Honestly, Jocelyn. It’s been months. You should have adapted to Virginian weather by now. One might think you’re purposefully fighting it off. Then again, I suppose your refusal to confront your demons affords me and my Beamer your undying gratitude. Just don’t forget it’s your turn to drive next week.”
“I’ll make a mental note. You guys leaving for Aspen early tomorrow?”
“This evening, or I’d invite you over to hide out.”
“Fantastic. Then again, maybe it’s better if the legals see I’m not on the verge of slitting my wrists or anything, and I wouldn’t want to miss out on any of the “Treat Joss Like a Psych Patient” festivities.”
Jules’s face crinkled up in disapproval. “Catherine and Tim care more about you than you give them credit for.”
“I sighed. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just starting freak out a little, you know. Besides, family members aren’t like a sports team; you can’t just trade players if one goes down. They aren’t my mom and dad, and as much as I adore the urchin, Gracie isn’t Eric."
As if saying his name summoned him, the image of my handsome older brother filled my mind. He’d inherited Dad’s dark good looks, whereas I mostly resembled Mom, with her porcelain skin and tiny frame. The only trait we’d shared had been Dad’s dark waves.
“Let’s just get me through this weekend and I’ll work more on appreciating them over fall break, okay? What else will I have to keep me occupied while you’re off hitting the slopes?”
*****
I made it in just as Aunt Catherine checked something delicious-smelling in the oven. The scrape of the door clashed with the wistful hum coming from the kitchen. I didn’t recognize the song, but that didn’t surprise me. My Aunt Catherine and her husband, Tim, liked lots of stuff from some bygone era. They said they appreciated far away, simpler times. They were only in their early thirties, though, so I wasn’t sure exactly how much difference three decades could’ve made.
I hung my coat on the rack and squatted to wrestle with my sneaks. The shuffling must have tipped off Aunt Catherine to my presence, because she called for me to get ready for dinner.
She ducked her head around the doorframe. “And would you mind setting the table? I’m going to be up to my elbows in greens in a minute.”
I grinned and nodded. Her first attempts to teach me to cook had failed so miserably no let me lay hands on anything that required more than a good nuking.
I returned from washing my hands to find Aunt Catherine trading out a juicy pot roast for a tray of dinner rolls. She smiled at me in her soft way and resumed her humming.
Jules is right. These people are family. They deserve more from me.
I laid out the flatware while she returned to a bowl of curly spinach. “Hey, what’s the song?” I asked, trying to alleviate some of my guilt.
“Her smile took on a dreamy note. “An old Gershwin tune called ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. I can’t seem to get it out of my head lately. Your uncle played Jimmy Winters in the play, you know.”
The uncle in question walked into the room, as if on cue, slid his briefcase onto the bar, and bent to kiss his wife’s cheek.
I stared at him. “Really? You sang in something?”
“Is you aunt telling on me? I assume you refer to my singular foray into musical theatre. Don’t look so flabbergasted, Joss. We’re braver about a lot of things when we’re young, but I expect you’ll learn that for yourself as time passes. Take your chances now, while you’re still young enough to believe in them.
*****
I helped with the clean-up effort after dinner, and then played for a while with Gracie. She lay slumped in my lap, post-bath and two Dora the Explorer adventures, ready to hit the sack. We said our bedtime prayers, traded kisses, then I headed down the hall to my room.
I didn’t feel like going to bed right away, so I opened a favorite book I’d been rereading. I loved it mostly because I, being a red-blooded teenage girl, identified with the main character, who’d fallen in love with this beyondamazing boy. Actually, she had it better off, being fictional and all. Major tragedy had made me, a real girl, a minor character in my own life.
I wasted time skimming through the best parts until I realized I was yawning more than reading. Listlessly, I closed the book and started to the bathroom where I braided my waist-length hair, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. When I slid into bed again, I wiggled under the covers and curled into a tight ball. I’d seen the neon numbers on my alarm clock tick over to Midnight. Three-sixty-five, I counted.
If I squeezed my eyelids tightly enough and held every muscle absolutely still I could almost—almost—feel the touch of my mother’s hand as she smoothed down my hair. A nightmare, skinned knees, fights with girlfriends, all once healed by the glide of her fingers.
If I listened hard enough maybe I could hear my father’s laugh again, so deep and full it overpowered any rebellious pre-teen sulks within minutes. The ways I missed that sound plinked across my ribs like skipping stones, chipping away tiny flakes of bone.
I didn’t have the strength to think of Eric. His loss still bled, the hole torn, ragged. If I went down that branch of Memory Lane, I might not make it back.
A year ago I hadn’t known a plane crash could take out all the parts of myself I loved most, while I lay hundreds of miles away in a strange bed, covered in chicken pox and a bottle of Calamine lotion, both of which my then three-year-old cousin had generously shared with me.
Now I knew my body could breathe and pulse, walk and talk, even when my spirit struggled to comprehend such a huge loss. I would’ve sworn I’d emptied out so entirely my leftover pieces should have floated away all on their own.
Here in the dark it didn’t matter how empty I felt. I could be as hollow as I wanted. I cried hard, turning my pillow into a soggy mess, but the tears were wasted. Nothing filled me back up, and the date still blazed behind my screwed-shut, gritty eyes.
October fifteenth. Happy Anniversary to me.
*****
I woke to find Gracie asleep in bed beside me. I slid myself out as quietly as possible, uncurling her tiny fingers from the end of my braid. She was already up before I got back from my shower.
I took to the stairs wearing my best “well-adjusted teenage girl” costume. Jeans, non-descript tee, and my favorite sneaks. My book-bag weighed a ton, pushing me toward the kitchen. Halfway there the hushed whispers of my aunt and uncle stopped me in my tracks.
“I’m worried about her, Timothy. It’s impossible to imagine how devastating today must be for Jocelyn. Losing a sister doesn’t compare with losing a mother.”
“I know, Cat, but we must let Jocelyn find her own way through it.”
Whoa! Enough of that!
I let my bag clunk against the wall the rest of the way down. The voices cut off at the first bang like someone flipping a switch. By the time I rounded the corner to see Gracie sitting in her booster seat, studying the strawberry swirls in her oatmeal, Aunt Catherine stood near Uncle Tim, innocently sliding bacon onto his plate while he wrote last-minute notes on a legal pad for his teaching assistant like every other morning.
Nothing odd here. Certainly no talk of your dead parents, no siree Bob!
“How’re you this morning, cutie?” I asked, bending over to kiss my four-year-old cousin’s beaming, oatmeal-streaked face. Mouth stuffed with breakfast, she giggled and pointed to her lips. “Oh, forgive me. Miss Manners taught you well, I see.”
The coffee brewed on the far counter, making a full-on advance necessary if I wanted my morning I.Q.-booster. I took a travel mug from the cabinet, catching a frantic glance from one adult to the other shooting over my head. “Aunt Catherine, I’m sixteen. I really don’t think you can blame coffee for stunting my growth at this point.”
Uncle Tim cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t you like to take it easy today, hang out here at the house?”
Houston, we have a problem.
“No that’s fine, really. I’d much rather go out--you know, lose myself in the outdoors and everything.”
Uncle Tim took the hint and asked when I expected to be home.
“I won’t be late,” I said, plucking a muffin from the bowl on the table.
“Before dark?”
“Dinnertime at the latest.”
“Duly noted. Call if you need anything.”
“Roger that.”
Aunt Catherine looked like she wanted to say something else, but Uncle Tim’s attention went back to his pad and she turned to busy herself at the sink.
I’d been exploring tiny little Staunton for a while, and the most dangerous thing I’d yet to come across had been Mrs. Anderson’s schnauzer, Hippolyta. She’d tried to yap me six feet under.
Garrett Park was deserted, with the surprising exception of the Solis kid. If I could will him away all would be right with the world. Careful not to let him see, I sneaked a look at him. He waited against the far lamp post, his body relaxed and careless, arms crossed loosely in front of him, but his gaze didn’t match. It bore into me, too intense, too focused.
Stop staring at me. Stop staring at me or I’ll march over there and smack you silly.
He didn’t budge, and luckily for him, I didn’t have it in me to actually hit anyone. A shame; some senseless violence might do me good. Not exactly a Zen outlook, but then violence was a passionate emotion and passion was considered good by most people.
Oh, come on! I just want to sit under my tree and read my book for a while, listen to some tunes in peace. It’s not too much to ask.
I fumbled for my handy-dandy Mp3 player, turning it up until it blared a ‘burst your eardrums’ volume, and told myself to concentrate on my novel. But immediately a flash of light drew my attention to the fluffy white splotches freckling the sunny sky. The lack of storm clouds didn’t surprise me, not with the Staunton’s schizo weather, but the silence following the lightning did. Still, lightning meant rain, and rain meant time to seek shelter. Even Park Boy had seemed to know this, as he’d disappeared. I wrapped up my headphones and tucked my book safely away in my backpack.
My search for a haven from the storm ended in front of Vinyl, the tiny music shop next to the Bookstack. I took a much-needed deep breath and walked in on shaky legs. More than likely Drew would be working inside and that meant my ability to use multi-syllable words was about to bail on me.
Sure enough, he stood behind the counter waiting on another customer, but he threw me a distracted grin. That smile should have had a warning label: Viewer Beware! Direct Contact Can Induce a Trance-like State. I ducked behind a rack of CDs for safety’s sake, picking through them until I found one I wanted to check out.
By the time I’d scanned most of the new releases Drew had finished with the customer and was nodding at me to come over. His dimples hit me full-force as he said, “Hey, Joss. How’s things?”
I did my best to disengage my “idiot gear” and answered. “Fine, thanks. You?”
“You know, getting in billable hours. I’m saving toward a new camera. My old Nikon’s shot.”
As if I don’t have everything about you memorized already. I nodded and passed my CD over, a twenty resting on top.
He held up the punk album. “Out of everyone who comes in here you are by far the most unpredictable. Last week you bought country, and this week you pick this?”
“That’s me. I like to keep people guessing.”
Another silent flash lit the air. Drew’s eyes flickered outside. “Unbelievable storm, huh? All the visual effects you could ask for, but someone forgot to crank the bass.”
“Yeah, crazy,” I agreed nervously.
Drew’s grin widened as he punched numbers into the register. A shifting image in the mirrored wall behind him caught my eye as he got my change out. Park Boy held up the wall across the street, watching me again. Drew said something, but I missed it and had to ask him to repeat himself.
“I said break’ll speed by too fast to settle for ‘fine’. Maybe someone could help you slow it down.”
I wanted to ask if he felt like volunteering, but two things stopped me: One, I still made the Cowardly Lion look like Hercules and two, Park Boy had given me a disgusted look, shoved himself from the wall, and taken off down the sidewalk.
That did it. I scooped up my sack, mumbled something insensible about to Drew about him having fun too, and scrambled out the door after Sir-Stares-A-Lot. I might not be able tell an adorable boy I dug him, but Heaven help me if I couldn’t let some jerk know his one-man investigation wasn’t appreciated.
Outside I scanned both sides of the street but he’d disappeared. A second later a flare of white turned onto Frederick so I took off after it at top speed. By the time I caught up with him I was so breathless my, “Hey!” came out barely audible. He didn’t stop so I sucked it some air and yelled louder. “Hey, hold on!”
He stiffened and slowly turned around, his face stained with disbelief.
“Yes, I mean you,” I wheezed from a few feet away. He stepped forward and waved a hand in front of my face as if unconvinced I’d spoken to him. His eyes grew rounder and he stumbled back when I slapped his arm away.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop freaking out. Just let me catch my breath.”
He regained his composure as I straightened up. “I’m sorry. Did you need something from me, Miss . . .?”
I ignored the subtle hint for my name and said, “Yeah. Let’s start with why you’ve been following me.”
“I have no idea to what you’re referring.”
“Puh-leeze. You’re everywhere I go today, first the park and now Vinyl. You’re studying me like I’m some kind of science experiment.”
“Begging your pardon, but I haven’t . . .”
“Yes you have,” I huffed. “Explain.”
His eyes hardened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, I’m guilty of looking at a pretty girl. Fortunately, finding you interesting isn’t a punishable offense, so you’re out of luck if you want to press charges.”
“What an arrogant thing to say! Look . . .”
“Sebastien.”
I blanked. “Huh?”
A conceited grin played at the corners of his mouth. “My name? It’s Sebastien. You didn’t bother asking for it so I’m volunteering the information, since I’d rather you knew at whom you’re tossing your accusations.”
And just like that he’d made me feel small. It wasn’t fair. He’d been rude first. Seriously, something about this guy stirred me up.
He went on. “Now, you were saying . . .?”
“Whatever. You’ve satisfied your curiosity. There’s nothing even remotely interesting about me so you can get on with your own business.”
“Ah,” he murmured, “I beg to differ. You do all sorts of interesting things. Take for instance how you blush when talking with a boy, or how you read outside this late in the year? Not many people would risk the chill of a fall afternoon in the park, even for a good tale. Most want something that creates body heat, gets the heart rate up.”
He practically purred the word “heat.” His implication pooled liquid and thick somewhere low in my body. I stumbled backwards a little.
“It’s difficult to ignore a lone girl catching up on her library finds, you see.” He stepped closer, matching me. “By the way, do you always talk with your hand whirling about like that, or do you only do it when you’re nervous?”
“Do you always interrupt with random commentary?” I countered, checking the urge to shove my hyperactive hand in my pocket. “By all that’s holy, I’m just a girl who loves books more than the average bear.”
“Oh, no. Now you’ve done it.”
“Done what?”
“A pretty girl with a brain? It will be impossible to ignore you after learning of your literary prowess. We’ll have to see how this plays out.”
I grinned too sweetly. “Oh, it’s a brilliant beauty you’re looking for? In that case, you should allow me to introduce you to my friend, Jules.”
He laughed some more, not seeming the least bit put off. “I’d rather have you,” he admitted, and then casually turned and walked away, leaving me to squeeze my eyes shut in frustration.
When I opened them again he’d disappeared into the ether. A curious tingle filtered through my fingertips.
I’d soon learn to expect it anytime I got near Sebastien Solis.
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