Linked

The ring consisted of a simple ebony circle set in the dirt, and it contained two combatants. The first was a man, about twenty-five years old and six feet tall, lanky enough to be languid. He rolled one wrist in a circle, then the other, and repeated the motion with his shoulders. He proceeded to crack each knuckle systematically, not the half-conscious habit of someone filled with nerves. Most lazy bystanders would peg him as a playboy European, or even American, just talented enough a fighter to try his luck in the ring. The only indications otherwise were the way he moved, and the outlines of weapons sheathed on his back, hidden by his black duster. A few raindrops fell, striking and rolling from the jacket, which had the discreet shimmer of expensive fabric.

Mae stood directly opposite him, motionless save for the rise and fall of her chest. She looked almost native, except for her eyes. One hazel, one brown, they weren't enough different to capture immediate attention, but they marked her as having mixed heritage. Her long coat resembled a kimono, pale blue with abstract patterns of silver thread. It was held shut by bone pegs, and the black belt supporting a sheath, the bottom of which tapped the side of her calf.

The officiator coughed once, looking at her. She nodded, tracing the patterns on the katana's hilt. She remembered her father doing the same, years ago, his sizable index finger sliding over the loops and whorls.

The European shrugged his coat off, folded it once, and tossed it outside the ring. A dirt-faced boy ran towards it, hands nearly closing around the collar, when he made the mistake of looking at its owner. The European didn't move, or make a threatening gesture, but Mae saw his eyes. The boy jerked his hand away from the coat and scampered backwards, not taking his eyes away as if he believed the man would curse him when his back was turned. It was a foolish villager's superstition, and God knew there were enough foolish villagers around here. Mae's opponent probably viewed her the same way. Better trained and stupider, to challenge him, but he'd blatantly slighted her village elder's honor. In his world, the idea of dueling for honor died several centuries ago. The law still stood here. Man-to-man combat in this circle, with few rules and no outside interference.

He turned and bowed to her, almost mockingly. "Best of luck."

She returned the gesture, stiffly. He'd read up on dueling customs, then.

The officiator rang the gong once. Mae still felt the vibrations in the air as she unsheathed her katana. The steel slid free, gleaming despite the overcast skies. Holding the sword downward with her left hand, she unstrapped the belt with her right and tossed it from the ring. She made the mistake of entering a duel wearing it only once, and nearly taken a knife to the ribs as a result. It was an easy handhold for an opponent using a short-range weapon.

Her opponent looked her up and down once. The left corner of his mouth tipped up, and he tossed one of his swords, still sheathed, out of the ring. The other he drew from the scabbard on his back. Mae had known it was a katana from the first glance, and now she noted the way his hand closed around the grip. Comfortably. He'd used this sword before. It was an odd choice for a European. Or American. She leaned toward the latter, but his accent was fluid, shifting with each word.

And he'd thrown one of his weapons from the ring, making it unaccessible for the fight. It could have been an American sense of fair play, or the American gift of patronization/infuriation. He didn't think she could handle him using two weapons versus her one? So be it.

Their blades met, and she had to step back with her left foot. He put more strength into the blow than she anticipated. And the next. And the next after that. She would have to play on speed now. The next strike, she waited until the last moment and leaped back. His sword sliced into the ground, and she darted around him, slapping his back with the flat of her blade. Their eyes met as he spun. The casual arrogance melted from his eyes, leaving cold fury.

The battle continued for a half-hour, a flurry of strike and counterstrike. She grazed the side of his leg, and he nicked the top of her shoulder. Neither were serious wounds. And neither she nor him would give this up. Unfortunately, she was tiring, and he didn't seem to be. She didn't want to employ her last resort, but unless she made a lucky strike soon, she would lose. He swung, she dodged, and threw her sword out of the ring.

He paused mid-strike. "You concede?"

The rules stated one could use whatever weapon one brought into the ring. He had to know that. She brought herself, and that was the only weapon she truly needed. Mae closed her eyes for half a second, finding that spark in the back of her mind, and then she let it ignite. When she looked up, she was a girl with fire in her hands, slender lancets of flame dancing on her outstretched fingertips. Some of the villagers gasped, muttering fire demon, the epithet she'd lived with her entire life. They thought she was possessed, not simply genetically gifted. The talents didn't develop in Asians, or hadn't yet, only those with mixed blood.

He got half a curse out his mouth before she extended her hands and let the flame wash over his sword blade. She didn't make the flame hot enough to melt it, though she could. She just needed him to drop the katana. It hit the ground with a clank, and she darted forward, kicking it by the hilt from the ring. Three steps more, and she knocked his ankles from under him, pinning him on his back with a knee to his chest. She swept her tanto from the concealed sheath on her calf and wedged it neatly under his chin. It was her grandfather's weapon, a ninja's preferred weapon, lightweight and perfect for assassinations.

She felt his heart hammering beneath her knee. Mae let the traces of a smile edge her lips. He hadn't expected it because he'd thought it impossible she had a gift like that. "Do you concede?"

He laid there for a moment. She felt his pulse drop. The next time she met his eyes, they were iron-blue, fixed on hers.

He gave her a skeleton grin. All teeth, no humor."I don't lose."

She opened her mouth to retort, but found her throat closed. Her left hand trembled, and lifted the knife from his throat. Mae watched, eyes wide, as she brought the dagger through the air, towards herself. She tried to push away, to shake free the deadness in her limbs. The tanto came closer. A moment later, she felt the keen edge scrape her throat, the tip resting at that sensitive spot just under her ear. She felt herself press the knife closer, almost enough to break the skin.

He smiled and flicked two fingers. She found herself lifting the knee from his chest and scooting away. He rolled to his feet in one movement, like a cat, standing above her.

Mae felt her knees digging into the ground as she stared at his shoes. Black. Lace-up. Steel-toed. More, she felt the sting as the knife slipped through her skin, her hand shaking on the handle. A trickle of blood started down her throat, trailing toward her collarbone. Of all the people in the world to challenge, she found a puppetmaster. They were notorious for...creative deaths. They could be. All they had to do was command it. And the officiator could do nothing about it. Nothing happening in the ring was against the rules.

He squatted down, knees on his elbows, eyes glinting. "If you're going to use your talent, it's only fair I use mine."

She couldn't choke out an answer. She was too occupied with the smell of her own blood.

"So, it would be completely within my rights to kill you right here and now. That is in the rules, is it not?"

She managed one terse nod.

"But thankfully for you, I have more of a heart than that. I just want one thing from you."

She couldn't keep the anger from her voice. "What?"

He shook his head, smiling. "Temper, temper. I just want your sword."

Mae stilled. She heard the officiator pull a breath through closed teeth. That sword was her link to her father. A blood link. Yet, as she felt her own knife scraping her throat, she realized it was the sword or her life. She pushed the words through gritted teeth. "I concede it."

"That's a smart girl." He flicked his fingers again, and she inhaled sharply as feeling flooded into her limbs. She dropped her knife into the dirt, one hand running over the split skin at her throat. Collecting herself, Mae turned, watched him stride out of the ring and pick up her katana.

The officiator shot a look her way, questioning. She kept her face blank. He took a few respectful steps toward her opponent, speaking with the slow cadence of one unaccustomed to English. "Sir. Is there not another prize you would desire?"

He lifted one sandy eyebrow, swirling the katana in a few lazy circles. "No. This blade is remarkably balanced."

The officiator smoothed the wisps of his beard, dark eyes troubled. "I must say with all respect that I believe you should not take that weapon."

He picked up Mae's scabbard and sheathed the sword with a snap. "What are you trying to say, man?"

Mae rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her jacket, and walked from the ring. "Try to strike me with it."

Half the spectators went silent, probably because only half of them understood English. The officiator paled, but nodded approvingly at her. He knew.

Her opponent stilled, scarcely tilting his head. "What did you say?"

She spread both hands, face serene. "Afraid to hit a girl?"

He shrugged. "If you insist." Before she blinked, he unsheathed the katana and swung it toward her side in one smooth motion. Mae waited for him to double over in pain, blade falling from his hands as his face turned blue. It didn't happen. At the last second, she dove, hitting the ground and rolling toward his second sword, the one he'd thrown from the ring before the fight. She rolled over it, catching it on the next revolution with her left hand and pulling it free from the scabbard. Standing and swinging on instinct, she slammed her blade into his, inches from her face.

They stood there, blades locked. Mae could only imagine the look on his face matched hers - brow furrowed, lips cracked, eyes pinched.

He pressed his lips together before speaking. "Who are you?"

"I could ask the same," said Mae. "That sword in your hands was worked on by a Charmer four generations ago. If someone not in the direct bloodline of my ancestor tries to use it against one of my family, he or she will perish, rapidly."

He eyed the katana she held. "It's the same with that blade."

They lowered swords at the same time. Mae held hers lightly by her side. It felt right in a way her father's never quite had. She'd grown accustomed to its weight, slightly too much for her, but she wouldn't fight with anything else. Mae twirled the blade experimentally. It felt like she was holding a stick of bamboo, lightweight and sturdy. "I like it."

He did the same, moving through a few fencing positions. "This is perfect. That one's always been a bit too light."

She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. He had a defined chin and sandy hair, but the eyes. They were her father's eyes. Hazel with gold circles around the pupils. "Who were your parents?"

He shrugged. "No idea. I barely remember my father. I got abandoned in London when I was five or six and made my way from there."

"He told me he came out here to hide," said Mae. "He died five years ago." They were dancing around his key identifying mark.

"He was mildly telekinetic," he said. "I remember that much."

Mae exhaled. They were silent for a moment. "He never told me I had a brother."

"He probably thought I was dead. I should have been." He looked her over again, as if seeing her for the first time. "So. Firebomb?"

She lit her right hand, just because she enjoyed the flames dancing against her skin. "Yes. Puppetmaster?"

"Yup." He said it without a trace of shame. Maybe even pride. "And yes, I am an evil genius like the rest of them."

Mae smiled a little. He was joking. Maybe. "I don't even know your name."

"It's Chance," he said. "Chance Real. And you're Mae."

"Yes."

"Last name?"

"Depends on which passport I'm using."

He studied her face. "You meant that."

She gave an enigmatic smile. "Just because I look like I'm fifteen years old doesn't mean I don't have a fairly complicated job."

He tipped back his head and laughed. "It sounds like we're in a vaguely similar line of business, then. You here for the G12 conference in Hong Kong and just stop back in here?"

"I live here. But yes, I am traveling there." There were choice bits of information waiting to be gathered there. The job would pay well.

"Well," he said. "We should meet up sometime then. You know. Catch up. Get to know each other, I guess."

She fought to keep the edges of her mouth immobile. "I'd like that."

They exchanged contact information as the spectators dispersed, probably wondering how Chance and Mae went from attacking each other outside the ring to chatting.

Chance looked at his wristwatch. "As much as I hate to say it, I have a plane to catch."

"Best of luck," said Mae. She hugged him, on the wings of some impulse she couldn't explain.

He stiffened for a moment before pulling her into his chest. "I'm glad I didn't kill you before I found out who you were."

"I'm happy about that too," she said.

I am...posting again? + Freewrite/short!

I do believe I'm getting back into this blogging thing. This is my third post within the last two weeks. Part of my motivation may be the new layout, all credit due to the loverly Q, who is genius. It's a total departure from my previous layouts, and I love the change.

I may free-write a little here, as I've also started actually working on a novel again. It's been a long time. While I have this semester off, I might as well start up again. I may not have the time next semester. But perhaps I shall. My life is up in the air.

_________________

"I don't understand it," she said. She looked across the path, where pigeons fluttered around a toddler and his heavily pregnant mother, tossing breadcrumbs onto the sidewalk. "What they call love is so clearly a biological function, designed for survival of the specie. A potent mix of chemicals."

Rob laughed, leaning into the wrought-iron bench. "You're such a skeptic, Cin."

She crossed her ankles and looked over at him. "Forgive me for bringing up Laurie, but her professed love for you had more to do with your looks. She was a beautiful girl, and innately, wanted a mate whose qualities resembled her own. It's scientific fact the better-looking are evolutionarily more suited for survival."

He grinned at her. "You're saying I'm good-looking?"

She felt the tops of her cheeks warm. "I was stating a fact established by current societal definitions of good-looking. It's a terribly vague term. In her day, Marilyn Monroe was considered a paragon of beauty. Today, she'd probably be told to lose weight."

Rob shrugged easily. "Eh, Marilyn Monroe. Blondes aren't my type."

"Hypocrite."

"Hey, I already get called the blond-haired blue-eyed American poster child. I won't submit my future children to the same indignity."

"But that would be-" She shook her head. "Never mind."

"Let me guess, evolutionarily responsible?" Rob drawled.

She straightened her spine, so it wasn't touching the slanted back of the bench. "It's not nice to make fun of people."

Rob's smirk softened into a smile. "Sorry, Cin. It's just - I can't figure out why you're so insistent on denying the existence of love outside biology."

The pigeons fluttered, catching her gaze again. "Chemistry, actually," she said absently. "I suppose it's both. Biology can't exist without chemistry." She watched the birds primping and pecking, battling for bread crumbs. Evolution at its basics, the need for sustenance, the bigger birds bullying the weaklings to the edges of the crowd. Over the years, she supposed, the birds developed an odd symbiotic relationship with humans. It made sense. Homo sapiens provided an easy source of food.

The left corner of Rob's mouth lifted. "There you go into your own head. I can only imagine what's going on in there. A discussion about mating pigeons?"

She blinked. "Close enough. How'd you know?"

"As insistent as the rest of the team is about your being impossible to read, I find it an interesting challenge."

"Ah," she said.

"It wasn't that hard, once I got past your tripwires and land mines."

She looked sideways at him, finding it hard to suppress the smile breaking her glower.

The pigeons broke and scattered, iridescent feathers loose and floating on the breeze. She looked up to see the toddler stampeding after them, a hunter and prey - no. Not a hunter and prey. She watched as the boy ran past the birds, into the arms of a man wearing a suit jacket a size too large and short in the ankles. The man swung the boy up and around until he was squealing with delight, before tossing him onto his shoulders and walking back towards the pregnant woman.

She watched, heart constricting as the family walked off together. "I kind of wish it were real," she whispered. Ashamed she'd said it out loud, she lifted her chin. "Doesn't really matter, though. Anyway, I heard someone from our group got a promotion to Blue line. Didn't hear the name, but I guess we'll know soon enough when someone's gone next week."

"Maybe," said Rob. He gazed at the lake as stray raindrops danced on the surface.

She looked askance at him. "Why wouldn't we? I figure that's pretty much the dream of anyone in the group, so someone's saying sayonara come Monday."

"Nah," said Rob. "Won't happen."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

He shrugged casually. "Because I turned down the offer."

She looked at him, mouth cracked open. "What? Why in the world would you not take a promotion?" He was the golden boy of graphic design, and she'd honestly expected him to get promoted sooner.

"It would entail a move to D.C.," he said.

"So? You love D.C. It's a great city."

He still wasn't looking at her. "Love makes people do crazy things."

She "Oh, god, tell me you're not staying for Laurie. She already hurt you so badly-"

Rob turned and looked her square in the eye. "I'm not going to D.C. because you aren't there."

The tirade died on her lips. "What - what do you mean?"

"You can go on all you want about love being a jumble of chemicals and crap, but tell me what evolutionary sense this makes."

Her mind whirred. This decision of his disregarded the instinct to move up the food chain, be it literal or metaphorical, and saying she was the reason - perhaps because their IQs were on the average, high - but that entirely threw the most attractive mate theory out the window, because she was so plain, and while he was a little on the nerd side, he was darling.

She couldn't find most of her voice. "But - why me?"

He leaned over and kissed her, slowly. She felt her eyes close of their own accord, and something stirring in her chest she hadn't felt since she was a child, safe with her parents, before their accident.

A moment later, Rob pulled back, still cupping her face in his hands, his beautiful, capable hands. "Because, despite all your minefields and massive resistance to the very idea of the sentiment, I love you."

She felt the first tear break, a hot streak down her face. He wiped it away with his thumb. The stirring in her chest bloomed, and it hurt, but she felt it like she hadn't felt anything in so long.

"I -" she faltered. How could it be true? But perhaps it didn't matter, because it just was. "I love you too."

Le Story

I smiled as the flickering strobe lights touched Dante’s head, for an instant, igniting it a weird shade of atomic red. He was never hard to find. I leaned forward in the booth as he and his cluster of friends worked their way through the throng. There was Irina, hair twisted up in a stylish Gordian knot, single pearl strand wrapped around her neck. She had interesting stories, and I liked hearing her talk just for her faint accent.

Matthew ambled behind Dante, twisting sideways to pass a group of girls, most of which twisted to look him over. I rolled my eyes. The guy couldn’t help having an aristoi father and a model mother, but the least he could do was take advantage of it. He turned into a Michelangelo statue when cute girls talked to him. Reportedly good to look at, but a conversational dead end.

Dante glanced up at me, waved, got his feet tangled and vanished into a thick clump of dancers. Matt glanced at Irina, laughed, and reached down, fishing Dante out by his collar. Dante reappeared, swatting Matt off. They vanished into the shadows of the stairs and reappeared a moment later at my booth.

I smirked at Dante. “Nice move, twinkletoes.”

He slid into the other side of the curved booth and shot me a death look. “Shut up, Chance.” He held up one hand and let flames dance on his fingertips. The smoke curled to the ceiling, melding with cigarette fumes already inhabiting the space.

Irina glided in next to Dante, setting her purse on the table. “Now boys, play nice.”

Dante extended the flame on his pointer finger. “I will, in a minute.”

She merely smiled, an enigmatic curve of her lips. Dangling her hand above his, she let water emerge from her skin and roll down her fingertips. The drops hit the flames and sizzled.

Dante slanted a glance at her and nixed the flames. “Killjoy.”

I whistled. “Wow, what did Joy ever do to you?”

Dante slugged my shoulder. “Shut up and be a gentleman.”

“Ouch.” I rubbed my arm. For being not more than a living skeleton, Dante packed a punch. “I am one.”

Another female joined the conversation. “Really? I’ve yet to see that side of you.”

Dante usually tried not to grin, because his incisors gave him the look of an emerging vampire, but I don’t think he could help himself this time. “Hey, Vani.”

Jovani Cortez, the current bane of my existence, strode into sight. She was porcelain beauty. Black curls streaming down her back, perfect figure, pale skin. I could only figure somewhere in her making, God slipped up, because she had the personality of a bulldog. She smiled back at Dante. “Sorry I’m late.”

Dante kept smiling. Smirking, really. “No worries, the rest of us just got here, except Chance, since the lazy bum has nothing better to do but wait around for us.”

I let that one pass. Half the afternoon I spent forging a passport for myself. Due to exploits like that, I tried to tell Dante as little as possible about what I did. He was legit, much unlike me, and I didn’t want to drag him down to my level. As it was, my time in this town was an hourglass running low.

Vani cocked an eyebrow as she pulled a slim cigarette from her purse. “That does not surprise me.” She sat next to Irina and extended the cigarette to Dante, widening her eyes like an expectant schoolgirl.

“What am I, the human lighter?” Dante sighed and ignited a flame on his thumb, touching it to the end of the cigarette.

Vani smiled prettily and took a drag. “This is the clean version of friends with benefits.”

“Cigarettes are terrible for your health,” I said.

She looked me over with an air of boredom, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Except for you, because snark does not count as a gift.”

I shrugged. “Third children are always sketchy. Some are lucky, some aren’t.”

She smiled. “Hence your appropriate name, Chance.”

I gave a skeleton grin in return, all teeth, no humor. “Cute. I’ve never heard that one before.” It was her favorite joke.

Vani waved her hand at me. “I know, I am adorable.”

Dante took the moment to snort. “You two are pathetic.” He glanced at Irina. “Dance?”

She tilted her head, running a finger along her strand of pearls. “Maybe.”

He adopted his best little-boy face. “Pretty please?”

She smiled, the dim lights shading her cheekbones. “Convince me.”

I grimaced and looked away as Dante laughed, threaded his fingers into her hair, and kissed her solidly. “Oh, for the love, Vani, let them out before I hurl.”

She practically tumbled from the booth as Irina and Dante slid out, bodies indistinguishable as they melted into the shadows.

Matthew, who’d been sitting silently, trailed out behind them. “Since Dante’s distracted, I’m gonna slip out of here.” He nodded me. “Night, Chance. Vani. Have fun with the lovebirds.”

Vani shuddered. “Sweet Jesu, save us.”

I studied her as she slid back into the booth. “That creeps you out?”

Her lips puckered as if she’d bitten into an unsugared lemon. “Of course it does. They’re gifted aristoi, sickeningly in love, and will go on to have gorgeous, gifted children. If we’re lucky, we’ll get married, maybe, and go on living mundane lives.”

Her bleak version of the future was what I hoped for. Actually, I’d be pretty happy with living through the age of thirty.

Vani looked sharply at me. “What, no snarky comment?”

I shrugged. “Look at that, we agree on something.”

She eyed me with suspicion. “The world just stood still.”

“Maybe.” We sat in silence for a few minutes. I started to relax, letting the beat in the music pound in my mind, drowning out my worries.

“Well, I am going to go dance.” Vani set her purse on the table and looked at me. “Don’t go snooping.”

I kept my eyes half-closed. “Don’t worry, princess, if I need lipstick I’ll go get it off someone else.”

She huffed and turned, scarlet dress swirling around her knees. She really was a beautiful girl, but prickly as a cactus. I slouched further and lapsed into a half-doze, musing on how odd it was that a dead quiet room scared me too much to sleep, yet I could fall asleep to four-on-the-floor music pulsing loud enough to blow my eardrums. The blame probably fell on my erratic upbringing.

Someone stopped by the booth. “Evening, Chance.”

I jolted straight up and got pinned to the booth with a flash of blue electricity. By the time I got enough breath to swear, Luke Jenkins was staring me down, mouth creased in a half-smile. “You knew I’d catch up with you.”

The only words screaming through my mind were censor-worthy. I lifted my right hand a couple inches out of pure reflex, just to see another flicker of electricity leave Luke’s fingers and slam into my shoulder. The bolt shot down my arm, leaving it tingling and paralyzed. I clutched the edge of the booth with my left hand, gritting my teeth as my stomach threatened to eject my dinner.

Luke shook his head. “Come on, kid, you know better than that. You start getting fancy with your mind tricks, and I go crazy and kill some people.” He shrugged, as if genuinely sorry. “I can’t help it, it’s reflex.”

I conquered my nausea for the moment. “Not mind tricks.” The first time we met, he was hunting me. I was a cocky brat and used my gift on him. His electrical system went nuts, and I woke up with a splitting headache and most of the hair burned off my body.

“Mind tricks, puppet tricks, same difference.” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Come on.”

I paused for a moment, scanning the table for available weapons. My choices came down to a glass of water, or Vani’s doll-sized purse. Crap. I took my time standing. The trick with these situations was to stretch the enemy’s patience to the edge of the cliff, and no further. If I moved too slowly, Luke would move me along with his cattle-prod fingers.

“Good,” said Luke. He clamped one hand on my shoulder. “Keep moving. You know the drill. Back door.”

Devoid of options, I started down the stairs. A girl in a short pink dress giggled as I walked by, careening sideways into me. I placed my hands on her shoulders and carefully edged her away. If the idea I was trying to trick him even dallied at the edge of Luke’s mind, I would wake up in a lot of pain and probably the responsibility for some citizen deaths.

We reached the floor, packed with a mass of bodies. Sweat, cigarette smoke and perfume mingled in the warm air as I pushed through the crowd. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my wrists. I’d escaped Luke twice before, but I had a feeling he wasn’t operating solo this time. As much as it hurt his pride to have partners, letting me slip through his fingers again might be deadly. Some of the less charitably inclined aristoi paying him to bring me in had a three-strikes-you’re-out policy, and out meant six feet under.

Crimson silk flashed on the dance floor. Vani twirled a few yards away, eyes closed in rapture. I stopped and absorbed the sight of her for a moment. “Let me say good bye to her.”

Luke laughed. “You think I care whether your girlfriend ever sees you again?”

I turned to look at him. “I know you know all the aristoi in the area, so you know she isn’t one, and doesn’t pose a threat. I’m screwed, I know it, and I’m trying to make my way toward accepting it, so for God’s sake-”

He released my shoulder. “Hurry up.”

I didn’t let my surprise stall me. Three steps later I touched Vani’s elbow, pouring regret into
my voice. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I have to leave early. My sister just went into labor and it’s a month too soon, I need to be at the hospital.”

She stared at me, eyes blank. “What?”

I nodded and kept rambling before she could say something pithy. “I know, I wasn’t expecting it either.” When she opened her mouth, I pulled her into my arms, certain she could feel my heart about to split through my chest. Her hair was soft on my chin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When she pulled back a moment later, I saw the comprehension in her eyes. “I’ll let Dante know,” she murmured.

I winced. “Don’t worry about it, no need to bother him.”

She frowned. “Alright then, see you soon.”

“G’night.” I looked at her for a moment, as if memorizing her before turning back to Luke. I
realized how out of place he looked in blue jeans and a plaid shirt.

An amused smile creased his face. “Touching.”

“That’s funny coming from you, considering the Grinch’s heart rivals yours in size.”

“Cute, kid, I thought you’d outgrown Dr. Seuss by now.” He kept one hand on my back, steering me toward the dark corner exit.

I honestly couldn’t think of anything to say as I pushed into the crash bar and stepped outside. It wasn’t right to be marching towards interrogation and death on a night with a velvet sky and silk breeze. I never knew how I felt about God until these crucial moments, and now I hoped with all my might he would step in.

A black suburban idled in the middle of the parking lot. From the engine note, I’d say Luke had retrofitted it with a killer engine. He liked his vehicles to haul. I estimated I had sixty seconds left before I was in my effective hearse. Come on, Vani. I didn’t know why I was pinning my hopes on a girl who hated my guts. She was my last chance. Forty-five seconds. I felt my shirt trapping beads of sweat and sticking to my back.

As we threaded between a Lexus and Mercedes SUV, I heard a crunch behind me. Luke stumbled and swore, shoving me to the ground. Glass shattered, clear shards scattering across the cement. I rolled out from between the vehicles and pushed to my feet, facing the club.
Vani stood in the doorway, shadow streaming in front of her. She flicked her hand to the right, and the door of the Mercedes swung into Luke’s chest. He fell backwards, head connecting with the ground. That’s when people started shouting, and a bullet punched into the Lexus’ bumper. I swore and dropped, spinning to face the suburban.

A man with a handgun leapt from the driver’s side, aiming at me. “Put your hands on your head!”

I stood, slowly, as he ran toward me. With Luke unconscious, the world was mine.

He stopped a few feet away, both hands on the gun. “I said put your hands on your head!”

I smiled. “And I say drop the gun.” Pain seared my arm as he fired once. I bit back a curse and contained my grimace the best I could. Wasn’t expecting a warning shot.

He jerked his head at me. “Next one goes in your skull.”

I kept my eyes on his and kept smiling.

His gaze flickered to both sides of my head. His hands trembled once. “Fine, I warned you-”

I let my smile turn feral. “So did I.”

Something whizzed by my left ear and nailed him in the forehead. Eyes blanking, he sank to the
ground. Two other armed men spilled from the car, neither making it more than five feet before keeling over backwards. Bottle caps fell to the ground with them. I heard heels clicking behind me, and turned.

Vani was actually running, eyes huge. “Oh my God, Chance.” She stopped, stared at my arm. “You’re bleeding.” She took a deep breath. “Oh you’re bleeding-”

“It’s shallow,” I said. “Warning shot. I’m alright.”

Unhearing, she touched my bloody sleeve, fingers coming away crimson. Her voice shook. “Oh, God.”

“Vani,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “I’m fine. It’s a scratch.”

She looked at me for a long moment before throwing her arms around me, effectively shocking
me more than one of Luke’s bolts. One of the last firing synapses in my brain told me to put my arms around her. I did, and held her there. “You really must be in shock.”

She stepped back, faint tears glimmering on her skin. “Don’t you get it, you idiot? I liked you basically from the first argument, but I couldn’t do anything about it since-” She stopped herself, eyes hardening. “Well, you know now.”

“Metal bender,” I said. “Not an uncommon gift.”

She shook her head. “Yeah, for aristoi.” She scrubbed a tear hard enough to take a layer of skin from her face. “Sorry.”

“I wouldn’t be sorry. Heck, you just saved my butt by knocking out three thugs with bottle caps.”

“How wonderful for me. It doesn’t change the fact we have no future, because I’m illegit.” She glanced to the left and stiffened. “Chance-”

I spun and pointed two fingers at one of the gunmen, who aimed at me. I smiled, and he twitched, frozen in place. “See, Vani, there’d be a problem if you were trying to match up with an aristoi.” I flicked my fingers, and the gunman swung the butt of the revolver into his own skull.
“The thing is, I’m not an untalented third son. I’m just as illegit as you.”

She took a half-step back, voice rising. “You’re a puppetmaster?”

“Well, give the lady a gold star. The secret’s out. Now you know why electric boy here was after me.”

Vani tilted her chin up. “Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

“Well, maybe it’s never occurred to you that being a metal bender doesn’t inspire the same terror being a puppetmaster does. It’s not my fault some of the worst villains in history were sadistic freaks who took advantage of people with their gifts.”

She opened her mouth, blinked, and closed it for a moment. “Look, I’m not trying to fight.”

A long pause ensued as I choked back my ego. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I overreacted.”

“Well, look at this, the lion and the…well, the other lion are agreeing for once.” Dante sauntered out the back door. “The apocalypse is upon us.” He stopped short, gaze flashing across Luke, the henchmen, and the bottlecaps. “What did I just miss?”

“I’ve got to skip town,” I said. “Luke caught up with me.”

Dante nodded slowly. “And how did Vani get mixed up in this?”

I started to speak, but Vani cut me off. “Someone had to save his sorry behind.”

“Still confused,” said Dante.

Vani held her hand toward him, and coins started drifting out of his pocket, glinting in the
moonlight.

Dante mouthed a few words as the coins hovered mid-air. “Holy crap. Two of you? You do attract trouble, Chance.”

I shrugged. “I know. Believe me. I’ve got to peel out of here before these thugs wake up. I’d like to be in the next state before morning.”

Dante fished a set of keys from his pocket and walked over. “Dang it, you just stole my car.” He slapped them into my palm. “You’re bleeding.”

“So I’ve heard.” I looked him square in the eye. “I don’t know when I can be in touch again.”

Dante shrugged. “You’re Chance. You’ll find a way. I will miss spreading hell through the
neighborhood with you, though.”

“Same here.” I turned to Vani. “You’re still safe here. There’s no way anyone got a good look at
you. If you lay low for a couple of days, you should be out of danger.”

She delicately chewed at her bottom lip. I could see her internal war.

“Vani,” I said. “It’s okay. It makes no sense for you to leave here.”

She nodded and blinked a few times. I almost wanted to laugh. Tough-it-out Jovani Diaz was about to start crying.

Dante coughed and shot me another death look, jerking his head at Vani. I rolled my eyes at him before embracing her. “I’ll get back in touch.”

“Okay,” she said into my shirt. “Do that.”

I said my goodbyes and strode off toward Dante’s Corvette. And thus my life continued, a series of strange gifts and unfulfilled possibilities.

The Elves Steal Them

The elf scampered across the vast expanse of concrete, dodging a two-person glider before shimmying up against the wall of the house. He removed his pointed hat (the one without the bell at the end) and, withdrawing a handkerchief from the pocket of his knit trousers, carefully wiped his forehead. Usually, he was closer to four feet tall, but when he shrunk himself to twelve inches, his magic could concentrate over that smaller surface area, and enable him to outrun many things. Such as the oversized Lab puppy the next yard over.

“Stupid reindeer,” he muttered, probing the back door and pushing through a plastic flap. This was the other advantage of shrinking. He fit through small spaces, such as cat doors. Squeezing through, he landed on the floor. No alarms sounded, and no lights flashed on. He snapped his fingers five times, and green lights shone softly from his fingertips, faint reflections glowing on the tile. Night burglary was his specialty before he got nailed trying to lift a prototype computer from Santa’s workshop. The head elf chewed him out, and then sent him to the main factory, on a path of honest labor.

Mrs. Claus, however, knew his criminal past. She also ran Force 7, the undercover group of elves who routinely left the North Pole and traveled the world, doing good. In this case, stealing socks. The reindeer, on the whole, were well-behaved animals. They just had a natural weakness for flowers and shrubs. Humans’ flowers and shrubs. A full fourth of Force 7 was dedicated to the task of preventing reindeer damage to shrubs. After all, the creatures were invisible to the human eye, and, as they weren’t busy most of the year, they tended to gravitate to gardens for snacks.

The elf padded through the living room, breaths slowing. It appeared the humans were asleep. He followed a humming sound toward the side of the house until he reached the utility room. Smirking, the elf closed his eyes, and wobbled as he adjusted his height to three feet. Popping the dryer open, he waited for the clothes to stop tumbling. Reindeer, over the ages, had developed a repulsion to a common item of clothing – socks. The exact cause of this repulsion was lost in history. No one was sure whether it was because they were forced to deliver so many during the Christmas season, or whether they delivered so many because Mrs. Claus and the elves pilfered loads of them every year. It was a chicken-and-egg debate.

He plunged one hand into the dryer and came out with a fistful of socks. One was white, with pale blue snowflakes dancing around the ankles. Another probably was white in a past life, until some negligent sorter dropped it into a load of reds and pinks. A yellow one with purple stars and a green knee-high joined his stash. Once he got these beauties back to the Pole, his fellow workers would unravel them and bury tiny bits of the thread in gardens around the world. The reindeer would then reject the gardens, and spare the shrubs. Just a couple more –

He gasped as he unfolded the last sock. A tiny white one with no ankle, meant to be worn with Converse and Vans. He stared at it, eyes widening. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Perhaps it was his brief experimentation with black market varieties of hallucinogenic candy canes, but he had an affinity for this kind of sock. The other ones didn’t taste right, but these…these were the crème de la crème of socks. It was why he tried to raid houses with teenagers, who were prone to wearing Vans, and therefore, these socks.

A light flicked on in the kitchen, and he froze, one hand clasping his sock collection, the other clenching around the tiny white sock. Caught? No! A shadow appeared in the doorway, and he crammed the sock into his mouth, chewing several times before swallowing. An actual person materialized, and he gulped.

The little girl stared at him, head cocked to the left. “Did you just eat my sock?”

He didn’t move, only twitching his gaze left and right. A plan of action formed in his mind. Nodding guiltily, he darted forward and touched her hand. Her eyes glazed over, and she shuffled backwards out of the utility room. He watched her move backwards up the stairs, zombie-like, and resolved to work on his spellcasting over the spring season. For now, he shrank himself to twelve inches gain, darted through the cat door, and slipped into the night, the remnants of the tiny white sock sweet on his tongue.

Challenge!

So, all you writers out there (and I know there are lots of you) - I have a prompt/challenge for you.

What happens to all the socks that go missing between the washer and the drier?

You have 800 words maximum. Post your response and let me know when you have. I look forward to reading, and will post my own story too.

(There is a rumor the wonderful Miss Erin may or may not be writing a story with the opening line "I eat them." I dare you to top that!)

Don't Trust The Squirrels

I flipped the page of my Shakespeare anthology. One tiny, translucent page. Only eight-hundred ninety-two more. Oh. I rubbed my forehead and looked up for a moment. The breeze played with the grass and bent the snapdragons my way. I felt glued to the park bench, chained by the book in my lap. How cruel.

A squirrel scampered down the oak tree to my right, tail waving like a furry duster as it darted across the grass. It stopped a few feet from me, sitting upright on its little paws.

Aww, how cute. I smiled, grateful for the little break. The squirrel tilted its head, black eyes looking into mine. Like it was trying to say something. I tilted mine too. For an instant, I thought I heard someone whispering. Do it... I shook my head. Hearing things now. Great.

Do it. Listen to me.

I frowned. I could have sworn the squirrel was speaking the words to my mind.

Yes. Look at my eyes.

I did. So warm and brown and glowing. They understood me. Understood my overwrought brain, ready to crack if I had to bog through one more passage thick with 'thees' and 'thous'. Understood the throbbing in my left ankle from praactice. Understood how badly I wanted to hit Brian upside the head with my Shakespeare book. Gosh. I dwelt on the last one in silent communion with the squirrel. He was so obnoxious. Couldn't we both see how the world would be so much nicer without him?

There. He's right there. Go.

I could see it how. The corner of my Oxford anthology connecting with his head.

GO.

I picked up my book and stood, the world falling silent around me. All I saw was Brian, standing by the fountain.

He tilted his head back and laughed, iPhone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, I'll definitely be there, if they haven't closed up the gym yet." He half-turned and did a double-take as I swung the book. "Anna, what the heck are you-"

I swung.

He stood there for a moment. Silent. Eyes wide. The iPhone fell, hitting the ledge of the fountain and dropping in with a soft hiss. And then his eyes rolled back in his head as he crumpled.

Men in black burst from the bushes, running toward Brian, checking his pulse, his forehead. One of them turned to me. "What have you done? Didn't you know he's the Canadian ambassador's son?"

The fuzz in my brain dissolved, and a nasty electric pulse shot through my skin. I dropped to my knees, mouth forming a perfect Cheerio. "Oh no." I gasped. The squirrel.

I looked to the fountain, at a gargoyle with water spewing from its puckered mouth. The squirrel posed on the demon's horns, flicking its tail in serpentine patterns. It winked at me before leaping impossibly far across the fountain, landing, rolling, and dashing off.

One Year Later

I huddle in the basement, blanket curled around me as my sister plays with the television aerial. Static flickers across the screen in a buzz. A reporter flashes on. He clutches the microphone, glancing with furrowed brow toward the sky. "The latest news I've gotten is that the army is advancing from the south. We have no idea in what numbers, as communications are continually cut off. All I do know is that Canadian and U.S. forces finally signed a treaty last night, making a mutual pact to fight the now universal threat." He holds a hand to his earpiece, visibly blanching. "Oh no. I've just received word my station will soon be under attack. I-"

Something explodes, and splinters fly everywhere. The reporter gasps, eyes wide, clutching a hand to his chest, where an acorn-shaped bullet protrudes. He topples. Excited squeaks and chattering fill the room. A squirrel with a red-tipped tail jumps into the view of the camera. He looks straight at me and winks before the camera blinks out.

I'll just go ahead and apologize for how negligent I've been in reading blogs. It might not get much better - there's only one computer with internet capability at home. The wi-fi I, uh, borrow, is so weak it isn't worth borrowing. And Starbucks, rip-off artists, charge for their internet. The travesty...

I feel like I should have a lot to say. I do, actually, but little of it should be said, because secrets are meant to be kept, and so I shall keep mine/those entrusted to me. Since that knocks out most of what I've been thinking lately, I'm just going to freewrite a little something fiction for y'all, because it's been ages. Note, I said 'freewrite', which implies zero editing. So don't expect the next Goose Girl, not like I could produce that on a good day...

My brain is frozen. Give me a second. Or better yet, in the comments, leave random suggestions of what to write about for next time. I need help!

The idea banged against its prison door, tucked in a remote corner of M's brain. "Let me out of here! She needs me, alright? It's my job!"

The guard outside laughed. "Yeah, but this is my job."

The idea kicked the door, causing a resonant metallic ring. "You fool! Causing writer's block is no noble task! All it does is make our human frustrated and mopey - it's a total overload of toxic chemicals. Now open this door!"

"Nice try with the toxic chemicals part. I've guarded ideas like you before. They all said the same thing - let me go or the human will get frustrated, blah blah blah. Now keep quiet in there!"

The idea bit its lips and resumed its pacing. Fifteen steps out, fifteen steps back. Almost fifteen and a half if it took tiny steps. It should be able to escape this. It was a grand idea, after all, full of airplanes and car chases and love and adrenaline and fake deaths -

Yes! That was it. The idea threw itself against the door, making choking sounds. "He--elp!" It coughed like a chronic smoker, with a touch of dying pig for emphasis. "I'm d-dying!" The idea continued these contortions for another moment before it heard keys grating in the lock. Covering its smile, the idea flopped onto the floor and twitched as the guard entered. As the guard knelt, the idea spasmed once, released a quavery breath, and went limp.

One hour later, the idea shook off the sheet covering it, swung off the gurney, and hit the morgue floor with a cocky little laugh. Dusting its hands, it surveyed the dead ideas lined on autopsy tables, discerning causes of death (they could be most instrumental in the idea's...ideas). At the third one, it gasped.

KILLED BY AUTHOR. FLIMSY PLOT. WEAK ANTAGONIST. TOO SIMILAR TO THE DA VINCI CODE.

The idea stepped back, hands over its mouth. So its human was an idea-killer. It shook its head. So, if its ideas weren't brilliant enough, it would be done away with. The idea trembled and gulped. Then it took a deep breath. It was good enough. It was excellent. The idea was so perfect, in fact, it had to appear before the author's cerebral cortex. Right now.

Leaving behind its momentary suspicions - how could it have been so untrusting of its own magnificence? - the idea strolled out of the morgue toward its human, blindly unaware that its dalliance in the morgue cost him ten minutes, in which time another shining idea arrived before the author...

Okay, that's all my brain is producing today. Hasta luego!

My View On Too Much Homework and Living Life

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Theodosia. She found her name absolutely contemptible and very English, like a high lace collar that had been so overstarched it could stand on its own. As the rain fell down gently, she looked from her high window, across the pond to the parking-lot opposite. She saw two or three people huddled beneath their umbrellas, walking quickly to their automobiles and scurrying in. She saw rain dance on the shallow puddles spreading across the cement. She saw a little silver car nip out of the parking lot and a curvy red one glide in, as if they, too, were anxious get get out of the rain. She saw steam rise sullenly from a building far away. She saw a security man in a golf cart buzz through the parking-lot, disappearing between the two apartment buildings. She saw all this happen, while listening to the Allegro Movement from Bach’s Double Concerto.

She wished terribly to be outside, feeling the rain on her face, inhaling the cool breeze that doubtlessly roamed the campus, and wanted nothing more but to press her nose against the window like a small child and continue watching.

But no. She sighed and looked away from the lead sky, rippling with clouds and adventure, and to the book sitting sullenly on her lap. “Lucretius: On The Nature of Things” glowered at her in white and red letters against a black background. How horrible! Would it not be better, she thought, to experience nature and its things, rather than only read about them? Would she not better understand the true sense of rain as she felt wetness trace her face, not by a textbook informing her rain was a three-atom structure, composed of hydrogen and oxygen? Instead of being told the universe was made of the solid and the void, couldn’t she just look at bubble wrap and understand?

Theo huffed, glared at the book, and opened it to chapter four, scanning the overview of the chapter.

Theo blushed a lovely shade of red, much like Heinz 57 or a ripe cherry, coughed twice, and revised her opinion. Perhaps she had been overhasty in her judgment. Some things, it seemed, were better to be read about than to learn about by experience at the current moment in time.

I'm back!

The cross-country team went to Orem, Utah (about thirty minutes outside Salt Lake City) for the last meet of the year. And oh, oh, my stars, it was beautiful. I mean, the trees there? Get this - they turn colors in fall. In Houston? The trees do this painful molt of leaves that go straight from green to brown. And when they're piled on the ground, they don't make that beautiful papery whisper when the wind blows or crunch under your feet. No. It's humid here. The soggy leaves cling to the ground. And that's not accounting for the pine trees, which are green year-round.

And the sky...yes, there were mountains, but I could see so much sky. The buildings/trees suppress it here. Clouds rolled across the sky. Cumulus clouds, and then over the mountains, some of those amazing pancake-flat clouds I don't get to see very often. The breeze this morning made me shiver, but what a wonderful shiver!

Enough raving about the beautifulness. (Or beauty, if I must be grammatically correct). The race was 6k (almost four miles), I'm only used to 5Ks (a tad over three miles), Houston is at 279.4 feet altitude (approximation), and Orem is 4500. I'm okay with how I did, but it hurt so badly to finish that race. Enough said. It's over. Next year the conference meet is in New Jersey. Not sure about the elevation there.

So, this is all I have written on Moonlight. Please be satisfied. I haven't had doodly-squat time to write this last week. Maybe tomorrow...

____________________________


I run into the building, the main hall ceiling stretching two stories above me. The hall itself is ominously empty, with muffled sounds seeping through the theatre doors to the left. My backpack jounces my spine as I tug at one of the doors. My watch’s tiny electric soul chose today to depart its metal body. Hence, my nap intended for a half-hour tripled. And now I’m late for convocation, which I must attend for my freshman orientation class.

The door gives, and I slide into a dimly lit passageway that runs along the left side of the theatre. People stand on the stage, dressed in floor-length robes like something out of a Presbyterian choir. One that can’t afford matching robes. Not sure what that’s about. In the back row, a flash of red fabric catches my eye amidst various colors of T-shirt backs. An empty seat. I force a smile and slip into the aisle, murmuring apologies as I try not to break any toes. If you’re short and want to be tall, let me warn you, size ten feet are curses.

I let my backpack hit the floor as I turn and sit. And now I feel paranoid that everyone is looking at me. No one is, actually. At least, not on this level. I’m sure the people in the upper level enjoyed my fumbling. Yawning, I slouch in my seat. Bad habit, but this is a new building, and these are – I snuggle a little deeper – oh yes, nice seats. The only thing keeping me awake is the air conditioning. September in Houston is just an extension of summer, and it is hot outside. The cold air on my face keeps me from nodding off.

A guy starts on the piano, playing some funky piece I’ve never heard before. I nod, eyelids drooping. Not my favorite kind of music, but better than the organ I could hear through the –

A scream blasts through the speakers, and I sit bolt upright. My heart slams against my chest, and it takes me a minute to realize the sound comes from the woman standing center stage. Her periwinkle robe ends a few inches above her ample ankles, and her mouth forms an O. I suck in a breath. Apparently the opera woman of last week has returned. “Oh my God,” I mutter.

Some guy to my right glances my way and whispers. “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that in church.”

The Hispanic voice catches my interest just as much as the comment. I send my gaze his direction. He has a half-smirk, but the rest of his expression says he’s also recovering from the operatic shock. I roll my eyes, and he returns his attention back to his Bible. Oh. My bad. To the
Sports Illustrated in his hands.

I endure the performance by glancing around. Most people look befuddled, as if they aren’t sure whether to be awed or laugh. I’m frankly bewildered as to why anyone thinks opera would interest college students. And the speakers are cranked so high my head is beginning to throb.

As the singer holds onto one last high note, I hear someone cuss further down the row. I tilt my head to the right. The Hispanic guy has one hand on his head, or, rather, the flat-brimmed gangsta hat on his head, and one clutching a tennis ball. “What the hell?” He twists in his seat and glares at the upper seats, searching each row. His eyes narrow on a particular point.

I can’t help it. I lean that way and whisper, “I know you’re not supposed to say that in church.”
By the time he looks my way, I’m focused on the speaker, my eyes wide. I didn’t realize convo could be this entertaining.

When the service ends, I file out and walk diagonally across the parking lot to The Lake House. Don’t get any ideas. This sounds like a high-class blue-blood dorm, or the name of some MTV series that involves a wealthy private school and rich demoralized students. Sorry to get your hopes up, people, but this is a Baptist school. (Or Babtist, as some call it.) My guess is I just haven’t heard about the stuff that goes on past midnight. No one’s gotten busted for having alcohol on campus – yet.

Anyway, The Lake House is the newest dorm. My home now. I walk through two sets of glass doors, which appear to be working today, and to the elevators, both of which also appear to be functioning. A miracle. For a new building, The Lake House has some reoccurring technical issues. They must still be working the kinks out. I join the edge of the little crowd waiting to board the next elevator. The red arrow flashes, something dings, and the doors slide open. I shuffle in, placing myself in the right corner near the control panel. Someone’s already punched six, so I check to see if I know anyone here.

A male voice outside the elevators sounds as the doors slide shut. “Hold it!”

I thrust my hand between the doors, which shudder and reverse course. Through the widening gap, I see dark jeans and a white polo shirt. Ironed, if I’m not mistaken. Some of these guys know how to dress themselves and oh, how I appreciate the effort.

He jerks his head in a nod as he slides in. “Thanks.” He presses two.

I cough as the doors clang shut. “Second floor? I risked amputation so you could go up one lousy floor?” I get a good look at the ungrateful wretch.

Wowza. A hot ungrateful wretch. I know others who would think he just looked pale. But the whole combination of white skin, dark hair, and dark blue eyes I personally find attractive. (You. The ones who got stuck on ‘hot’ and ‘pale skin’. Get your minds out of the best-seller list and quit thinking about the hot vampire. I refuse to mention his name, because every teenage female in the United States knows it. Many of them dream about that name, often attached to their own.)

Now that I look, he totally spent some quality time and gel on that hair. I’m interested. Unfortunately, he looks like an upperclassman. Maybe I look like a sophomore. I could. If I’d bothered to put on a speck of makeup this morning. I curse my broken alarm.

The doors opened on the second floor as he answers, with zero interest in the aforementioned dark blue eyes. “Not when I have shoes.”

I frown and glance at his socked feet. Real black socks, not athletic socks. (Confession: I wear athletic socks with nice shoes when I’m wearing pants and boots. It drives my mother crazy.) “Why don’t you have-”

The doors close before he can answer.

“Shoes,” I say, feeling like I’m delivering the punch line to a lame joke.

The girl on my left catches my eyes and laughs. “Okay, so that wasn’t weird.”

I shake my head. “Who knows?" I would like to find out.

Okay, Part Two

Now just remember: This is first-draft material. There will be errors. There will be boring sentences (hopefully not too many). And this is all copyright. And my poster just fell off the wall. Hold on.

Okay. The poster is temporarily reattached to the wall with the weirdest sticky putty stuff, which only works if applied in vast quantities. I'll tape it later. So anyway, here it is.



Beginning where this left off...if you're new, scroll down a few posts for the beginning.

Kyle holds out my keys to me. “Because I’m your friend.”

But why? I close my eyes for a moment. Part of me keeps waiting for him to get mad. Oddly, I don’t think he will. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, when I’ve decided I’m sane enough to drive, and we’re rolling down the road, Kyle shifts in his seat. “If you don’t mind me asking-”

I manage a dry laugh. “Remember what I said? You can ask about anything.”

He considers that and nods. “What happened? The Melissa I remembered was a quiet good girl. I think I was really surprised that time you said you got a ticket for going twenty miles over the speed limit, because that seemed so reckless for you.”

I shake my head, feeling a humorless smile pull my lips. “It’s a long story.”

“It takes an hour to get home.”

“Alright, then.”

____________

Fourteen months earlier

I wake long before my alarm and roll onto my back, tucking my hands under my head. They slide against my sheets, so apparently I exiled my pillow to the floor in my sleep. I pick a spot on the shadowed ceiling to look at and release a slow breath. Finally. The day of my liberation.

It sounds like I’m one of those high school seniors who hates her parents and can’t wait to go wild at college. First of all, I’m on scholarship to play volleyball, and Coach won’t put up with crap. Second, going wild just isn’t my thing. My first drink at a friend’s party made me sick. So I’m sensitive to booze, and it makes me feel horrible. Fun? I think not. Third: I don’t hate my parents. I’m not going so far as to say I’m best buds with them. But we get along pleasantly enough. Most of the time.

My current town is a dead zone. I’ve lived here for two years and have a (singular) handful of friends. I stretch, pushing my feet away until my heels scrape over the footboard and hang off the end. That’s one consequence of pushing 5’10”. That, and having difficulty finding jeans that fit. I slide my left arm off the bed and drag the ground with my fingers until they brush over a mess of thin plastic. Picking up the earbud cords, I lift my silver iPod, dangling it upside down over my chest. I scroll through a playlist and select Life in Technicolor by Coldplay. It’s the first song in the album – the beginning.

I like that. It fits. The beginning of Melissa’s era, in which I become totally me, and less what everyone else expects me to be. I feel like myself today.

I also feel like I should go for a short run. Something to work off the excess energy. Or maybe it’s the jitters. I’ve packed about all my belongings in the past week, and loaded most of it into the cars yesterday. I just know I’m going to get there with the most crap and look like a spoiled white kid. Ugh. It’s a kitchen-equipped suite, though, so I need stuff the average freshman won’t.

Tuning out for the next hour helps me calm down. Around eight, I slouch downstairs, the hems of my blue plaid pajamas flirting with the wood floor. “Morning.”

Mom looks up from a bowl of cereal, her hair in a haphazard bun. “Morning, Mel.”

I yawn and shuffle into the kitchen, grabbing a bagel from a plastic bag on the counter. The strawberry cream cheese from Einstein’s Bagels sits a few inches away, and a knife covered with pale pink stuff next to it. Yum. I smear the bagel and slink back upstairs. Usually Dad’s weird about having food upstairs on the carpet, but I can get away with anything today.

At nine-thirty I throw my backpack into the side of my pale blue Rav4 and slam the door in case the toaster box tumbles out. Dad pulls the Expedition out of the driveway. I slip into the driver’s seat, close the doors, take another deep breath, and start the engine. A few minutes later when we’ve hit the freeway, I punch the radio button. Viva La Vida pours from the speakers.
I smile, note that Dad’s picked up speed, and egg the accelerator. It’s a good day.

A couple hours later, Dad sticks his head into my little room. “Go ahead and start putting your computer together. I’ll head back down and get the last boxes.

I grind my teeth together for a millisecond before turning my voice into cotton candy. “Okay.” As soon as the door closes, I look at the computer desk, and then at the laundry basket next to it. An edge of grey plastic pokes out from under a crimson towel. I mentally growl. I hate putting computer systems together. This cord, that port, this hole, that power strip. I’ll figure it out eventually. But seriously, this is the age of technology. Why isn’t all this stuff wireless?

When the door opens next, I’m staring at the underside of the desk, one hand between the desk and wall. I clutch the end of the printer cord and randomly jam the connector forward at the printer, which is on top of the desk. It would be smarter to scoot the desk out so I could see what I was doing, but if I fumble long enough, I’ll get it into the right port.

A female voice. “Mel?”

Ack, that’s not Dad. I mutter under my breath and jab the connector again. It clicks into place. Well, whaddya know? I scramble out and to my feet, dizzy for an instant.

Kara stands in the doorway, huge brown eyes lit with her smile. She extends her arms and hugs me, and I hug her back. We met a couple months ago at orientation, and some kind woman in the housing department told me she was one of my suitemates. “Hey, how are you?”

I step back, catching a whiff of some flowery scent. “Good, just trying to get this computer set up. I hate plugging in computers.”

She wrinkles her nose and laughs. “Yeah, all those cords are kind of annoying.” Something beeps, and she opens the huge maroon purse on her arm and pulls out a phone. Flipping it open, she reads the text before rolling her eyes. “My boyfriend is so clueless.”

“Mike, right?” I think that’s his name. I remember meeting him too.

“Yes, he’s asking what time the opening convocation is.”

“Five, right?” I think it’s pointless to ask if I’m correct, because it’s almost a mandatory event, and everyone knows when it is. Except Mike, apparently.

“Yes, everyone keeps telling me that I should go, but I heard opening convo is always really old school.” She finishes texting and drops the phone into the bottomless purse with a husky laugh. “I think the main music person is an opera singer.”

I quail at the very word. “I hate opera.” My parents dragged me to Le Nozze di Figaro when I was ten. I slept through it. I’ve always been bad about nodding off when I’m bored.

Kara’s eyes widen as she nods. “It’s definitely not my style of music.” She chuckles again. It’s one of the things I think makes her interesting. She always laughs.

Dad re-enters, I make introductions, and we carry on the unloading. Everything must be accomplished in an orderly fashion, with each task being completed before beginning the next. I like to bounce around from project to project. Keeps things interesting. Or if I really don’t want to do something, that way I can stall and still get things done. But this is Dad. He does things A-B-C-D-E. It’s one of our irritation points, because I like Q-J-A-D-Z.

When I am straining to find a happy voice, we get the last box in. I pretend to do things for a couple minutes as Mom chats with Kara’s mom, who is absolutely tiny compared to Kara. And when Kara’s parents leave, I continue feigning to work. They have to go soon, and I’m fiddling with my nightstand so it doesn’t become the three of us standing around, hands in pockets, staring at the walls. Hopefully without tears. I dread the thought of tears.

Dad glances at his watch and grimaces. “We’d better get going so we can make it to church on time.”

I hide a little laugh of glee. I get freshman privileges and hence may skip church today. “Okay.” I hug Mom. “Thanks for helping move all this stuff up here.” The sixth floor will be quieter, but the first floor would have been nice for unloading.

She hugs me and steps back, face perfectly composed. She looks happy that I’m ready to be here. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I turn and hug Dad, scolding myself for being so hard on him. He’s a good dad, and I can overreact. I do overreact. “See you soon.”

When the door closes, I release a deep breath. “Thank you God.”

Kara pokes her head out of her room. We each have tiny little separate rooms, two on each side of the suite, split by a common room. “What’s up?”

“I was really hoping no one would start crying or anything, and no one did.” I’ve heard all the horror stories about parents falling apart on the first day and refusing to let their children stay at the school. I would burrow into the couch in the living room and tie myself to the coffee table. Bring on the stormtroopers.

Kara nods. “Yeah, that’s the way it was for me too.” She laughs. “I did all my freaking out a couple days ago.”

From her room at the opposite end of the hall, Nicole steps into the hallway. She redefines perfectly petite. Okay, so she’s 5’4”, but she’s so slender, has perfect bone structure in her face and beautiful ivory skin. I’d love to be that proportionately slim. I’m not gawky, but I’m thin for a volleyball player.

She tucks a wing of black hair behind her ear. “Yeah, me too. I was totally fine today, and my mom was weepy, but yesterday night she was the steady one and I was a wreck.”

She has the cutest drawl. It’s not a stereotypical Texas twang, so I’m not sure what to call it. I shrugged. “No one was weepy, but the last few days have been awful. Everyone was just acting really weird.” Maybe none of us knew how we should act.

But I do know one thing.

I am free.

___________________

Phew. I'm not sure how I feel about posting this. Irritated, maybe, that there are errors. Hey, y'all can buy the book when it gets published. Or if it does well enough, I'll just give you copies :-)

Can I claim cold feet?

Probably not. I think Judi would hunt me down if I didn't post that story. And apparently everyone wants to read it. So I'll post it now. Keep in mind, this is after seven days of no power, no AC, no electricity, no internet. I was having weird dreams. (I did have my iPod. Before it died :-( This is based almost exactly on a dream I had, and we all know how bizarre dreams can be. And for the record, the narrator is not me. You know how you can be the main character in a dream but it's not you? Same thing here. So here goes - enjoy! And please, no speculations *cough moore cough*.

And this would be about the worst time for someone on facebook to discover my blog link. But I just don't see it happening.

___________________________________

I listen to my engine ticking and run my hands over the silver sequins of my dress. They drift in an upward spiral from my ankles to my shoulders, a thin sparkling river over the crimson fabric. A slimming design, say the fashion magazines. I glance at my stomach and pray they’re right. I know every contour of my body, even more since – then.

Withdrawing the keys, I stare at them for a moment. The Tigger keychain beams at me, extending an armful of purple flowers. I got the little figure three years ago when I turned sixteen; now Tigger’s arm is missing a splotch of orange, and his tail is fading. After I drop the keys in the ebony-colored purse perched on the console, I grab a filmy black wrap from the passenger seat. Take a breath. I can do this. Just fool them all for a couple hours.

I unlock my door and step out of the Rav4. I would have been fine with a Camry or an Accord, but Dad insisted on a small SUV. Cars were too little, too dangerous. I shudder, grateful he isn’t here. Draping the wrap over my shoulders, I clutch my purse and lock the doors, slamming mine shut. Two hours. Just two hours. Avoid getting up from the table if possible. Just smile. Smile and lie prettily. I am golden in reputation only for another few weeks.

An older couple dressed in black walk toward the museum in front of me. The last rays of sun tint her pearls with luscious pink. I find it odd I can still appreciate beauty with such clarity, though I am unhappy, as if my mind is partitioned.

The wooden doors at the entrance are swept open like arms, welcoming us. Vines and birds and flowers rise in relief on the wood. I reverently touch one finger to a parrot’s beak as I step over the threshold. Inside, a woman in an emerald sheath dress and brilliant auburn hair stands behind a table, armed with a clipboard. She glances up and smiles as I approach. She wouldn’t know me by name, but my grandmother, yes. “Hello.”

I smile. “Melissa Burns.” I pull my invitation from my purse and hand it to her.

She nods and glances at the table. I realize the objects posed on the cream tablecloth are life-sized butterfly pins. Monarchs, swallow-tails, and one with glowing sapphire wings. She waves one manicured finger over them as if it will summon the correct one. “Ah, here we are.” She plucks up a fine specimen of a monarch. “This will look lovely with your dress.”

Why we’re wearing these at an invitation-only modern-art museum show opening, I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s something to do with the theme. I smile again, clipping it to my shoulder. “Thanks.” I wander in, eyes drawn by a splash of color, a beautiful Leon Polk Smith I’ve never seen before. My stomach lurches once, as if reminding me. The sooner I sit, the less people see. I jerk my gaze from the art in the next room, taking a left out of the foyer. Hurrying through two more spacious gallery rooms, I search for the dining room and find it through another door.

I sight my mother at table thirteen, and I can’t help an ironic smile. What a fitting number. I envision my feet growing into my black heels, becoming one with them so I will not stumble as I weave through the circular tables, set on pale marble floors. A flash of red to the left catches my eye. I see my grandmother’s short (unnaturally) blond hair and the back of her stoplight-red jacket, entirely sequined. She disappears into a small side door with a sign. Perfect. She won’t see me until I’m seated, and she’s shown me the restroom. I’ll need it.

Setting my purse on the table, I seat myself across from Mom. “Hey, Mom.”

She smiles, light in her eyes dimmer than usual. “How was the drive in?”

I shrug. “Not bad. They had just cleared a wreck, so a little slow, but not bad.”

Her gaze flicks to my midsection and back to my eyes. “How are you?”

Such a loaded question. I decide to answer purely in the physical sense, keeping my tone light. “Nauseous sometimes, but not too often. I can keep playing for a while. Just no dramatic saves.” Volleyball isn’t exactly a high-contact sport. Unless I'm throwing myself at that gleaming wood floor to make a save.

A short little breath and a near-squeal in a soft drawl. “Mel!” Grandmother bustles around, beaming, lips the color of her jacket parted in a smile. She hugs me, and I return the embrace, catching a whiff of tasteful perfume. My grandmother might be eccentric, but she’s good with scents. “Well, we match quite nicely, don’t you think, Anna?”

Hardly. I’m blinded by the light thrown from her brash sequins; I glimmer silver on crimson.

My mother smiles, nodding, probably grateful she wore the dark green dress instead of her red one. She’s a foil to my grandmother: slender, olive-skinned, dark-haired, and thoughtful. My grandmother is pale in comparison, only made bright by her clothes. I fall in the middle, with darkish brown hair.

As she sits on my left, still beaming and chatting nonstop about so-and-so who’s passing by, I pick up my purse and set it on the floor. If my stomach decides to rebel, I can make a quick exit.
Dinner comes soon enough. I smile and nod, adding a comment here or there, answering the occasional question about school.

Mr. Hanson finishes a bite of filet mignon and sets down his fork. “I remember when your mother was this age. The two of you look so much alike.”

I nod patiently, bestowing a smile. This is the fourth time I’ve heard that tonight. A lot of these people knew my mother from her childhood. “So I’ve heard.”

His wife sets down a glass of wine, red, with a nice sharp smell. “Now, you’re a junior in college?”

“No, ma’am, I’ll be a junior next year.” Maybe. If I make it that long.

Grandmother jumps in. “Did you know that Mel plays volleyball on the school team? Why, her school played…”

She rambles, and I tune out. Thanks. Load on the guilt. My coach will be ticked when I have to quit. Mrs. Hanson and her thirty-something daughter are looking at me with interest, so I smile again. My teeth hurt. I know my grandmother loves me, and I love her, but nineteen years later, I still haven’t found her mute button. Even if I announced my predicament, she wouldn’t shut up for more than five seconds.

I pick at the filet, favoring the bread. My mind informs me I won’t have food this good again for a long time. My stomach tells my mind there’s only so much heavy food it can process. And it wants sugar. So when caramel crème brulee comes for dessert, I scrape the little bowl clean with my spoon. It makes me happy. Kind of.

During coffee, the speeches begin. I stare at a crease in the tablecloth while the main backer of the show prattles about the museum’s history. While another person thanks individual donors, I memorize the positions of the wine glasses. My grandmother stands when her name is called, beaming, hands clasped behind her back, pivoting left and right to see her co-donors.

I want to sleep. Drift into black oblivion for years. Finally, the head of the museum invites us to finish coffee (I want it, my stomach doesn’t, so I abstain) and see the paintings. I think she says “Enjoy these priceless works of art”, actually. Her phrasing is the last thing on my mind as I see someone rise from a table across the room.

His build catches my eye first. Tall. Muscular. Nice shoulders I’ve often gazed upon. By result of my gazing, I know their shape. My breath catches in my throat, and I go still.

Kyle Thompson stands, head at usual jaunty angle. He’s one of those people who always have expressions on their face. Almost stage expressions, just exaggerated enough to be obvious. Usually his expression is a smile, a smirk, a half-cock grin, lit by mischievous dark brown eyes. I like how his hair is a length that untouched looks casual, but given five minutes of combing and hair product, forms a million little spikes. He’s done the latter tonight. I see a suit jacket draped over his chair. He wears a silk vest the color of cream over a dark red shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows. He has large hands, perfect for a running back. His smile lights the room.

My stomach lurches, and I taste something bitter. I swallow hard and sweep up my purse, throwing my wrap over my shoulders. Mom and Grandmother are occupied. Eyes on the floor, I hurry from the room via a small gallery to the side. A moment later I’m in the older part of the museum, heels making minute clicks on ochre tile. The show is confined to the new part, so the lights are dim, most off. The paintings are flat boxes on the wall, no color, no life. I walk along the wall, turning to the left into a women’s restroom.

A single overhead shines onto the mirror. The rest of the room is like a peaceful grave, dark and quiet. I lean against the counter, as far from the light as I can. The air conditioner breathes in the background. All else is quiet. I pull my cell phone from my purse, flip it open, and stare at the display. Close my eyes. I don’t want to do this. He deserves it. I think back to Christmas break, almost eight months ago.

____________________________________

I sat in the chair, inhaling the rich air of Starbucks, tapping my fingers on the table. It had been five months since I’d seen this particular group of friends. Shelby and Marie stood in line, waiting for the long-haired barista to finish shelling out change to the man in front of them. Tyler, Violet and Kyle hadn’t shown yet. I met them all in a way most people would call unusual.

So there were three high schools in town. They went to Shadow Grove and I went to Willow Point. The connection was at Highland Park, where six of us tutored a couple classes of freshmen and sophomore. Believe me, it was a bonding experience, especially when this clueless kid dropped the f-bomb right in front of me, and then asked “So where’s the tutor-person?” The teacher had stepped out, everyone else knew my exact location, and they lost it. To his credit, I never heard another cuss word from him.

Anyway, we were all back home for Christmas break, after semester one of college. The bells on the door jingled, drawing my attention. Tyler and Violet walked in first. I didn’t actually go light-headed when Kyle stepped through the doorway. It’s not like I was in love with the guy, please. I couldn’t deny, though, he had some special magnetism. That’s why half the freshman girls attached themselves to his tutoring group, and why after the first few weeks, I didn’t talk to him a lot. No way was I going to come off as some idiot love-struck girl.

But naturally, I looked him over from my strategic position in the back corner. He wore a cool leather jacket, unzipped, and a black Ralph Lauren shirt with a tiny red polo player. I hoped for the spike-thing with his hair, but the casual look wasn’t shabby. Okay, so I liked him. He was smart, he was a football player (the two aren’t incompatible, as I previously assumed), he was hot, and he made me laugh more than anyone else I knew. Now I wished he could be serious a little more often, but no one’s perfect.

I set down my hazelnut steamer and stood, walking toward them with a smile. “Hey, y’all.” I hugged Violet, the sweetest person on the planet. And then I did the side-hug thing with Tyler, who looked like a starving college student while he was in high school. I stepped back, glanced at Kyle, and waved, face straight.

He gasped, with that hilarious big-eyed expression of mock hurt. “Ouch! Guess I know where I am on the priority list.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling, stomach doing weird, hollow things at his voice. Stupid, stupid. Friends only, remember? Not a stupid love-struck idiot, right? “Yeah, yeah.” Quick hug. I felt different retorts warring in my mind. If I spoke I’d mix them up, so I kept my mouth shut.

They order drinks, and a few minutes later we were all in the back corner, in an assortment of straight-backed chairs and couch seats. I learned how everything’s going – Marie’s first semester of Arabic went well. Violet stayed home, working at KinderCare. Her eyes got bright, and she put down her drink, using her hands as she talked about her kids. The whole time I resisted one long ohhhh. I’ve never seen anyone so clearly loving their work.

Tyler enjoyed Texas A&M so far. He passed biology (something I’d heard was a trouble subject) and liked the town. Shelby planned to double-major in biology and chemistry, so her biology class went well. It was her sometimes-absent total slob of a roommate that drove her nuts. From her Facebook status updates, really nuts.

I kept myself from sounding overly interested when Kyle updated us. He was an economics major (I didn’t have trouble being uninterested in that), so those classes were easy. He liked his dorm, his roommates, and all that jazz. I knew his football team had a good season, so I commented on that. I also knew from his Facebook page he’d gotten his hair buzz-cut at the beginning of the semester. Not so hot, in my opinion, but it was long enough to spike again, so I liked it. Naturally, I didn’t voice that.

Shelby had to leave early. Marie followed, leaving Tyler, Violet, Kyle and me. I of the ever-restless fingers fiddled with the cardboard hot-drink wrapper hugging my cup. Soon enough they’d have to leave, meaning another long period without visitation. Facebook IM only did so much. It certainly didn’t make me laugh as much, because I couldn’t see Kyle’s face. Ugh! Stop mooning, you moron!

Kyle eventually stood, stretching his arms. “I guess we’ve gotta go. Jessica’s supposed to come in soon.”

Jessica. Older sister. Right. I nodded, standing, sighing to myself. “It was great to see you all.” I hugged Violet, feeling like a freaking giant at 5’9”. “Definitely keep me updated on what’s going on. Let me know if you’re gonna be around town.”

Tyler spun the keys to his old Beemer around his index finger. “Yeah, definitely.”

I hugged him too. “Awesome.” I felt a sudden rush of boldness and jerked my chin at Kyle. “See ya later, Thompson.”

He spread his hands, brows scrunching in a hurt-little-boy expression. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, it’s a cool last name.” I wasn’t sure where these words were coming from. I was sure meeting his eyes did weird things to my muscles.

He half-smirked. “What, like Melinda Thompson?”

Flames ignited my face. I was not that obvious. I might have been a newbie to this whole romance-thing, due to the parental restriction on dating, but I knew it wasn’t that bad. “What? You’re dreaming.”

Violet’s forehead puckered as she glanced at Kyle, and then at me.

Kyle didn’t look away. “Seriously, though, if we were going to think about dating, I’d say wait a while, just ‘cause it’s still freshman year and we live like three hours away.”

Was it possible to be a human torch and a soaring bird at the same time? I felt like both, and dizzy. “Are you serious?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” His tone didn’t sound as flippant as his words.

I nodded slowly, aware of Tyler smirking at us. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And I smiled.
And he smiled back.

I thought I was going to melt like the misguided snowflakes outside. “Keep in touch. All you guys.”

Tyler shot a knowing look at me, and then at Kyle’s back as he and Violet walked out. “I never saw that one coming. You and Kyle?”

I glared at him, face still warm. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You seriously liked him that whole time and never let on?”

I grimaced. “No way was I saying a word. Not with those freshmen throwing themselves at him.”

He laughed, starting for the door. “He was the chubby kid in fifth grade, so I can’t say I thought I’d ever see that either.”

We walked out together, parting ways at my car. I stepped in, exhaling the happiest sigh. I was so, so happy. Even if it never worked out. I was so happy.

___________________________________

I take a shaky breathe and find Kyle’s number, pressing the talk button before I can think. It rings. I don’t know why I expect him to pick up. His phone’s probably off. That’s all right. A message is easier for me to –

The ring cuts off. “Hello?”

I inhale. Crap. “Hey. It’s Mel.”

“Hey, Mel. What’s going on?”

I can’t tell if his voice sounds a little flat or if it’s the connection. “I kinda needed to talk to you.”

He laughs. “I kind of guessed as much, since you called.”

“No, seriously.” I can’t even force levity into my tone. “Look, I think – you know what we talked about a while back? Dating and all that?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I think it’s probably best if we just stick to being friends.” I bite both lips, waiting.

His voice becomes as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “I know.”

I don’t move. Breathe. He knows. He knows. I can hardly hear myself. “How?”

There's a pause, like he's talked himself into a corner. “Look, if anything, a couple months ago you'd lost the Freshman Fifteen. And now you're curvier.”

I feel a blowtorch on my face. Trust Kyle to know my shape. He’s just like that. The next emotion comes in a tsunami, crushing the embarrassment. I choke on the golf ball in my throat. My voice hoarsens and drops to almost silent. “I’m so sorry.” And I close the phone. My nose will be a cherry within two minutes. There’s no return now. I text Mom, saying I’m sick, sorry, catch up later. Picking up my purse, I look in the mirror, pulling shorter strands of hair from their pins and arranging them around my face. Anything to draw attention from my eyes. But I catch my own haunted gaze and glance away.

I weave through the museum and out a different door. The streetlights gleam on smooth car domes; light traffic travels the road past the parking lot. I locate the general area I parked in and walk that way, heels clipping the asphalt. The sobs congeal in my chest, waiting for total solitude. I’m going home to my dorm. To sleep. Perchance, to never dream again.

The vehicle doesn’t twitch, move, or flash, but I look left. An old Toyota 4Runner sits between a silver Lexus and a red Corvette. It looks black, but I see the shade in my mind as dark green. My chest throbs as I touch the back window with my fingertips. I remember checking the parking lot in front of the school for this vehicle, heart always jumping a little when I saw it. So sorry. So, so sorry. Stepping around, I press my forehead to the driver’s window before walking on.

A moment later I sight the back of my vehicle. I press the unlock button on the key fob, eyes down as I slide between my car and the Mercedes coupe next to it.

A human-sized space of darkness drapes across the driver’s door. I glance up and gasp, dropping my keys. His face is shadowed, but the streetlight gleams on the collar of a silk vest.

Kyle stoops down, oh-so-close to me, and picks up my keys. He stands, closing his hand around Tigger.

This was the last-ditch plan. If all else fails, flee. I stare at the middle button of Kyle’s vest. Now that hope is gone, held firm in a hand half again as big as mine. I don’t know what to say.

“How far along are you?” says Kyle.

I keep my gaze where it is. “Three months. People will start noticing soon.” I shove some anger into my tone. “I didn’t expect this soon for those exact reasons.”

“Take it easy, Mel. I know for other reasons too.”

I snap my gaze up. “Yeah, like what?”

The muscles in his jaw work, and he tightens his fingers around my keys. “Like my sister got pregnant a year ago.”

Whoa. Not expecting that. “Jessica?” The perfect girl?

He nods, eyes dark. “Yeah. I knew she was acting weird, and I figured it out when I swung by her dorm and she was walking in with a pregnancy test kit.”

I really can’t think of three words to string together.

“And then she had an abortion and made me swear never to tell.”

I wince. I know abortion is one of the ultimate no-no’s for Catholics. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He forces his tone into submission, but I hear traces of pain in it. “So I know what it looks like. And my parents never found out, so that stays here.”

I nod robotically. We’ve talked a bit, obviously, but this breaks into a new level of personal revelation. “Yeah.”

Kyle tilts his head. Maybe it’s the cheerfulness in my tone. “You okay?”

I crack my lips to say yes, but the word refuses to leave my mouth. “Of course I’m fine.”
Through gritted teeth.

“’Cause you don’t sound fine.”

I bristle, tears pricking my eyes. “Just shut up, would you?” Before I’m sobbing into your shirt.

He blinks. “I think my mother was right.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“About viciously swinging pregnancy hormones.” There’s just enough humor in his tone to keep me from hurtling over the edge.

I swallow hard. “Why? Why the hell are you standing here talking to me after we talked about dating for crying out loud? And then I did something so monumentally stupid as getting pregnant without being married and trashing volleyball forever and I haven’t even told my dad yet and when he finds out he’s going to kill me-” The horror of it all, piecemealed over the past three months, collects into a meteor and crushes me. A ragged sob escapes.

“Okay, Mel.” His voice is summer-breeze soft. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“No I’m not!” I draw a jagged breath that hurts my chest. “I just wrecked my life! I had a purity ring, I never, ever thought I was gonna sleep with someone until I was married, and then I ruined it all one stupid, stupid night!” My throat pulses shut, barring words. I fold my arms around myself, balling my fists in my wrap. They shake, and I close my eyes hard. Can’t cry. Not now.

His hand on my shoulder is the weight of a butterfly, like he wants to make sure touching me won’t shatter me. I blink a few times. His face is shadowed again. “Look, I’m not a shrink and this isn’t exactly what I do as a hobby, but hear me out, okay?”

I swallow and draw a breath that shakes my whole body.

He stands there for a minute, not moving. “Ah, screw it.” Kyle pulls me into a hug, but as though I’m the most fragile rice paper.

I can’t believe this. I talked about dating him, got pregnant, and he’s comforting me? Something in my chest shatters. I didn’t know he had a heart like this. I feel the tears streaming down my face, and I lean sideways into him, sobbing. He pulls me closer, one arm against my back, hand on my head. I wrap my arms around him and hold on, a swimmer in a storm clinging to a pillar of granite. His vest is smooth on my skin.

Time drifts onward. Sometime later, I step back. My chest hurts, but it’s a different pain, like there’s a possibility of healing. “Sorry.” I trace my fingers under my eyes. There’s a reason I wear waterproof makeup these days.

Kyle nods once. “So, if you don’t mind me asking-”

“You can ask about anything at this point.”

He tilts his head. “What are you going to do?”

I shudder, despite the warmth of the night. “I don’t know. My dad doesn’t even know. That I’m pregnant.” Those three words are ugly. “But it’s not like I’d have an abortion. I don’t think I could live with myself.” God notwithstanding – I’m not sure who exactly he is at the moment – I just can’t do it.

His face relaxes a hint. “Yeah, good. You haven’t told your dad yet?”

I shake my head. “I have to sometime before it’s obvious. I just – I can’t make myself. He’s going to kill me.”

“Would it be easier if someone was there with you?”

I nod, stupidly, before realizing what he’s saying. “It would, but you don’t mean-”

“No, I meant Big Bird.”

I stand there, mind shutting down on me. “Are you serious?”

Something like a smile passes across his lips. “Trust me, I wouldn’t have offered otherwise. I’m not a masochist. All the time, at least.”

“But why?”

Kyle holds out my keys to me. “Because I’m your friend.”

___________________________

Whew. You're still here? I know that was a lot to read on a monitor. So I'm toying with the idea of turning this into a project. Like, a novel-length project. But I'm kind of uncertain. I dunno. I am clearly rambling now, and should go do something useful like watch soap operas, clean the kitchen floor with a toothbrush, or read Plato.