Julie Wise
Inside the Circle
Young Adult Contemporary
Jillian parks her Jeep at the side of the mountain road, down a little bit from Carter’s driveway, just in case his parents look out their window. A couple of other cars are scattered and parked in the moonlight shadows. The house is set into the side of the mountain. Carter’s dad is a golf-pro and a big game hunter, and the walls of every room are filled with stuffed heads with glass eyes and shelves of trophies. British Open cups, pictures of Augusta. It is after midnight. Carter’s parents are asleep on the other side of the house, and we walk quietly through the huge, dark room, past stretched tiger skins and water buffalo heads. Out in back, groups of people lay around on lounge chairs placed on the flagstone patio that overlooks the city. The last time I was here, Jillian was with Aaron, I was with Sean, and Allison was with Carter. Same scene, same players, different night.
Jillian and I walk onto the terraced patio carved into the side of the mountain. Jillian lounges on a chaise. Carter sits down next to her, crazy black hair, eyes barely open, jeans held onto his thin body with a thick black and silver belt. He’s lost a lot of weight lately, the sure sign of a hobby turned habit. Carter slams coke, among other things.
Carter graduated from Brophy Prep last year. He was planning on going to college to study music, but the fall semester came and went, and now, as far as I can tell, he lives off his parents and spends their money on drugs. I can’t believe that they don’t see what is happening to him; everything about Carter screams junkie. His dad is on the PGA Tour, so they’re gone a lot, but still, Carter is pale, and his eyes are dead. You’d have to be blind or just not care to ignore that Carter is chasing himself into his own grave. It’s sad, but everyone keeps getting high with him anyway.
I sit alone on the lounge chair across from Jillian and Carter, looking at the city lights. He leans in to tell us about his night.
“Yeah, I was lying in my room,” Carter slurs, “and Aaron came by after seeing the movie with some girls. It’s cool. My parents went down the street earlier, so they’re wasted and sleeping. We’re just hanging out now. I think a few more people are coming by. Jimmy and Joey just left with some Xavier girls.” He pauses for a moment, and then, to Jillian, hungrily, ”Have you got it?” She opens her huge silver purse, and takes out a small package. She hands it to Carter.
“Excellent,” Carter purrs. I guess that explains why we’re here. He pulls a different clear plastic bag from the table and expertly rolls a joint in a blue paper that seems to appear out of nowhere. It shakes me to see Jillian selling to Carter. Who is she working for? She looks at me out of the corner of her eyes, and she shakes her blond hair back from her face. She offers no explanations, and she knows that I won’t ask her what’s going on. There’s no point.
Jillian takes the joint from Carter and lights it with a monogrammed silver lighter that she stole from her mom, Marilyn. I was in their kitchen on Friday and heard Marilyn ask if Jillian had seen this lighter. Jillian shrugged. I knew she must have stolen it; I’ve seen her shrug that way a thousand times. Not an actual lie, not telling the truth either.
Her mother’s initials shine on the silver surface, reflected in the moonlight as Jillian takes a long drag. She snaps the lighter closed and half-smiles as she exhales, leaning forward and passing it to me. Like usual, I pass it on without smoking to the next person, who this night happens to be Carter. Then, Aaron stands next to Carter and Jillian, and he takes the joint from Carter. He smokes, and as he exhales, he sits on my lounge. He leans back into me, and his back presses against my chest. I stiffen and look quickly at Jillian. But her eyes are closed, and Carter has his hand far up her leg. I relax a little, and Aaron sinks into me.
“So what movie did you see?” I ask Aaron. He shrugs.
“Who knows.”
“You went with Carter?” I ask, and Aaron shakes his head, then nods over at the jacuzzi down one level of the patio. Two long-legged girls with hair shining in the moonlight sit with their feet in the water. One of them lays her head on the other’s shoulder. I don’t recognize the girls, but I can imagine their story.
“You met them at court?” Aaron’s dad is a lawyer and a juvenile court judge, and Aaron has fun at juvy court, shopping for girls who are in trouble for drinking, curfew. Stuff like that. Girl de jour. Aaron is beautiful and quiet and just the taste of the bad girls’ club.
“Yeah,” he drawls lazily. He’s high, who knows how high, but his hands are still, his fingers clasped on his strong chest, settling back into the chair, into me.
“Easy, Aaron,” I whisper forward, over his shoulder. “You know how she is.” And he turns and looks me in the eyes for the first time tonight.
“Yeah, I know.” And he’s suddenly strangely intense. “Don’t leave for a while, okay?” It is well after midnight, but it doesn’t matter tonight. I’m staying at Jillian’s. No one will notice when we get home.
“I came with Jill. It isn’t up to me,” I shrug, trying to stay casual to counter Aaron’s intensity. He laughs, low and ironic.
“She’s not going anywhere,” and we both see Jillian run her manicured fingers through Carter’s crazy hair. It is a non-committal gesture, like the casual shrug to her mother. Indifferent. Still, Aaron and I both know the games she plays. Even if Jillian were really into Carter, she’d never let anyone know about it, least of all, Carter. Jillian isn’t going to let anyone know how to hurt her. Plus, junkies aren’t boyfriend material for her. Too hard to control.
“Does that bother you, Carter and Jillian?” I ask Aaron, my eyes closing, leaning into the back of the chair.
“Not tonight,” he breathes, close to my face, and I feel his words pushing me backwards. I feel like I’m falling off the edge of the patio and into the shining city lights. I quickly open my eyes to catch myself. My heart is beating fast, and suddenly, Aaron is making me nervous. I look away from him and check out the other kids on the patio.
Besides Jillian and Carter, Aaron and I, and Aaron’s two girls by the Jacuzzi, three guys and a girl are sitting by a small glass-topped table on another small level of the patio. I know the girl from school; I don’t recognize the guys. Unfamiliar faces are unusual in small gatherings like this. The world is small, and paths cross in strange ways around users like Carter.
I turn to Carter to ask who they are, but he is taking Jillian’s hand. They stand, and he chuckles something in her ear. She takes her purse, and they go through the French doors into his bedroom.
I look back at the four by the table. Aaron is still leaning into me; his hand casually touches the inside of my arm. I shiver. One of the guys, the beautiful one with dark skin and curly hair is watching us from across the patio. I can’t see his eyes, but he faces us, not paying attention to his friends. He seems removed, different from the other three, although he is sitting close to them. His clothes are less casual, almost adult looking. I can’t stop looking at him. The way he sits, the way he smokes, everything about him is so confident.
“Aaron, who’s that guy sitting over there? Does he go to Brophy?” Aaron turns and looks over his shoulder.
“No, I met him earlier. He goes to Arizona State, but he’s from some other country. He has an accent.”
“Why is he here? Who does he know?” I ask Aaron.
“Um, probably Carter,” he replies, disinterested. He rolls his head around, taking in the whole scene, then, focuses on me. “Let’s take a walk,” he says, sitting up slowly. Music plays from a stereo somewhere, and I stand up with Aaron and glance at Carter’s French doors. No lights inside, except maybe the flicker of a candle, shadows.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Up.” He grabs the bag of pot and leads me up a winding metal staircase at the side of the patio to the roof.
The next morning, Jillian walks into her room through the patio doors around 7am. The sun is already up. Aaron dropped me off at her house before dawn. I pretend to sleep on the futon as I hear her strip off her clothes and fall into bed. My head is pounding, and I’m already trying to figure out what to say when she wakes. I’m exhausted, so I listen to the waterfall outside, clearing my mind enough to finally sleep.
Showing posts with label First Five Pages Workshop w/ Leah Cypess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label First Five Pages Workshop w/ Leah Cypess. Show all posts
Monday, 20 August 2012
1st Five Pages August Workshop - Panteleakos Final Rev
NOTE: This entry has few changes from last week because the comments from everyone suggested that she was done. Congrats Nicole!
Nicole Panteleakos
Anabel Mist Does Not Exist
Contemporary Upper Middle Grade Mystery
ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST
Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.
“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.
“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.
“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.
“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”
All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.
The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.
Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.
Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”
I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”
That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.
That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.
“Audrey, they're coming!” she said. “I packed up everything. Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.
And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.
CHAPTER ONE
It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.
One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.
I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.
“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.
“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.
“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”
I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?
“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”
She makes me want to scream.
“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.
“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”
“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.
“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.
“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”
Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.
“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.
“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”
“Who’s Mother Theresa?” she asks, twirling a strand of her long hair between her fingers.
“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.
“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"
“Yeah, kinda,” I say, smiling at her, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.
Nicole Panteleakos
Anabel Mist Does Not Exist
Contemporary Upper Middle Grade Mystery
ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST
Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.
“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.
“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.
“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.
“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”
All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.
The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.
Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.
Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”
I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”
That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.
That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.
“Audrey, they're coming!” she said. “I packed up everything. Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.
And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.
CHAPTER ONE
It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.
One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.
I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.
“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.
“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.
“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”
I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?
“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”
She makes me want to scream.
“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.
“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”
“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.
“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.
“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”
Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.
“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.
“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”
“Who’s Mother Theresa?” she asks, twirling a strand of her long hair between her fingers.
“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.
“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"
“Yeah, kinda,” I say, smiling at her, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Pruitt-Goddard Rev 2
Author: Candyce Pruitt-Goddard
Genre: YA Dystopian
Title: Desiderium
If I had a dollar for every time I found myself wishing for more time, I might only have to work two jobs. Maybe then I'd actually have time for a life. As soon as the thought slips out, the temptation to let myself feel desire consumes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I can't want more time. I can't want anything. Not if I don't want to end up in jail.
A flickering yellow light catches my attention. My gaze fixates on the steel bracelet clinging to my wrist and I have to remind myself to breathe. I strategically place my jacket over the bracelet to conceal the yellow light, and double check to make sure no one noticed. I quicken my pace and try to focus on getting to Calculus on time. When I'm within a few steps of the classroom I take a subtle peek at my wrist and heave a sigh of relief when I find no sign of the desire I almost let myself feel.
I scurry through the door and slide into an empty seat in the back. Without glancing at the clock, I pull out my textbook to cram in a few extra seconds of studying. Before I have a chance to become fully engrossed in the dot product, someone taps my arm.
“Have you heard the rumors?” the girl next to me leans in and whispers.
“What are you talking about?” I narrow my eyes in confusion.
“They’re saying the Desiderium died yesterday.”
My heart skitters in my chest. A blank look takes over my face and I forget how to speak.
“They’re saying it was someone from Canada,” she elaborates, ignoring my blank stare.
My brain races to put all of the pieces together. There’s no telling what would happen if the rumors were true.
"Good morning, class," the professor interrupts. “Please put everything under your desks except for a pencil. For those of you who have just been added to the class, you will not be required to take the quiz but you will be responsible for the material. For everyone else, you have exactly ten minutes.”
Desperate to distract myself from obsessing over the rumor and everything it would mean, I scour the room for any new faces. Students are always adding and dropping courses in the first couple weeks of the quarter, but I always hold out hope that I’ll see somebody from the high school. There are at least a handful of us who take advantage of the Running Start program that lets high school students take college classes for free.
I recognize most of the faces from the first week of class, and am about to look away when a student a couple of seats to my right catches my attention. He brushes his curly amber hair out of his face to reveal startlingly deep blue eyes. He doesn’t look much older than me, but I haven’t seen him around the high school before. I definitely would have remembered him.
His eyes catch mine and all of the blood in my body seems to pool in my cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, adding a sense of mystery to his subtle smile, and time seems to slow down around us. A deep breath brings me back to my senses and casts a dark shadow on the silly thought. My lip twitches into a smile and I convince myself to look away.
Someone jabs me in the shoulder and shoves the stack of quizzes in my face. I slide one off the top and notice the new student doing the same. My pencil glides across the paper until all of the questions are answered. With two minutes to spare, I flip my paper over and lay my pencil on the desk. Everybody else is still scribbling away at their quizzes. Except the one person who didn’t even have to take the quiz.
He gazes at the clock and his face softens. I tuck my unruly hair behind my ear and smooth the wrinkles from my shirt. His eyes meet mine, forcing my stomach into a knot. A few seconds is all it takes to lose control. His gaze shifts to my wrist and he struggles to suppress a smile.
My bracelet blinks an annoying shade of yellow.
As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I fight to regain control of my thoughts. I force my hands into my lap where they're safely out of sight. Desperate for a distraction, I count the holes in the ceiling tiles. I only have a few seconds to squash the desire before the excess dopamine in my bloodstream turns the bracelet red. Once it’s red, it’ll only be a matter of minutes before the officials show up to arrest me. With everything I have going on in my life, that’s the last thing I need.
I long for the days when I’ll be old enough to not even be tempted by desire. I won’t have to worry so much about setting off the red light on my bracelet or letting the words want and desire slip out of my mouth. For now though, I just have to deal with it.
The door slams open behind me, forcing my head to whip around. Two police officers barge into the room trailing an official in a green uniform. The official passes the professor a respectful nod.
My heart races. My leg jiggles beneath the desk. With as much subtlety as I can manage, I glance down at my wrist. A heavy sigh escapes my lips when I’m unable to find the light. If it had turned red it would still be red, even if the excess dopamine was no longer in my bloodstream.
“Samantha Jones,” the official’s voice booms.
All eyes shift to a girl in the front of the room.
"Yes," she stutters.
The police officer slides out a pair of handcuffs.
“The levels of dopamine in your system have exceeded the legal limit. You are under arrest.”
The solid red light on her bracelet gives her away.
"No, you don’t understand,” her voice shakes.
The officer yanks her out of her seat.
She screams.
Before anyone can realize what’s happened, the girl’s elbow smashes into the police officer’s nose. Blood trickles down his face. The desk crashes to the ground. Everyone in the room averts their eyes and refuses to make eye contact with the girl as she makes a break for the door. The second police officer stumbles after her. Just a few feet from the door, the official reaches out, his face expressionless, and shoves a black object against the girl’s side.
Her body convulses as she tumbles to the ground. The official slides the Taser back into his pocket and waits for one of the police officers to slide the handcuffs onto her wrist. The officer jerks her up off the ground and a tear streams down her cheek.
“Sorry for the interruption,” the official passes another nod to the professor and everyone watches them lead her out of the room.
The professor nods in return. “Back to work everyone.”
Genre: YA Dystopian
Title: Desiderium
If I had a dollar for every time I found myself wishing for more time, I might only have to work two jobs. Maybe then I'd actually have time for a life. As soon as the thought slips out, the temptation to let myself feel desire consumes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I can't want more time. I can't want anything. Not if I don't want to end up in jail.
A flickering yellow light catches my attention. My gaze fixates on the steel bracelet clinging to my wrist and I have to remind myself to breathe. I strategically place my jacket over the bracelet to conceal the yellow light, and double check to make sure no one noticed. I quicken my pace and try to focus on getting to Calculus on time. When I'm within a few steps of the classroom I take a subtle peek at my wrist and heave a sigh of relief when I find no sign of the desire I almost let myself feel.
I scurry through the door and slide into an empty seat in the back. Without glancing at the clock, I pull out my textbook to cram in a few extra seconds of studying. Before I have a chance to become fully engrossed in the dot product, someone taps my arm.
“Have you heard the rumors?” the girl next to me leans in and whispers.
“What are you talking about?” I narrow my eyes in confusion.
“They’re saying the Desiderium died yesterday.”
My heart skitters in my chest. A blank look takes over my face and I forget how to speak.
“They’re saying it was someone from Canada,” she elaborates, ignoring my blank stare.
My brain races to put all of the pieces together. There’s no telling what would happen if the rumors were true.
"Good morning, class," the professor interrupts. “Please put everything under your desks except for a pencil. For those of you who have just been added to the class, you will not be required to take the quiz but you will be responsible for the material. For everyone else, you have exactly ten minutes.”
Desperate to distract myself from obsessing over the rumor and everything it would mean, I scour the room for any new faces. Students are always adding and dropping courses in the first couple weeks of the quarter, but I always hold out hope that I’ll see somebody from the high school. There are at least a handful of us who take advantage of the Running Start program that lets high school students take college classes for free.
I recognize most of the faces from the first week of class, and am about to look away when a student a couple of seats to my right catches my attention. He brushes his curly amber hair out of his face to reveal startlingly deep blue eyes. He doesn’t look much older than me, but I haven’t seen him around the high school before. I definitely would have remembered him.
His eyes catch mine and all of the blood in my body seems to pool in my cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, adding a sense of mystery to his subtle smile, and time seems to slow down around us. A deep breath brings me back to my senses and casts a dark shadow on the silly thought. My lip twitches into a smile and I convince myself to look away.
Someone jabs me in the shoulder and shoves the stack of quizzes in my face. I slide one off the top and notice the new student doing the same. My pencil glides across the paper until all of the questions are answered. With two minutes to spare, I flip my paper over and lay my pencil on the desk. Everybody else is still scribbling away at their quizzes. Except the one person who didn’t even have to take the quiz.
He gazes at the clock and his face softens. I tuck my unruly hair behind my ear and smooth the wrinkles from my shirt. His eyes meet mine, forcing my stomach into a knot. A few seconds is all it takes to lose control. His gaze shifts to my wrist and he struggles to suppress a smile.
My bracelet blinks an annoying shade of yellow.
As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I fight to regain control of my thoughts. I force my hands into my lap where they're safely out of sight. Desperate for a distraction, I count the holes in the ceiling tiles. I only have a few seconds to squash the desire before the excess dopamine in my bloodstream turns the bracelet red. Once it’s red, it’ll only be a matter of minutes before the officials show up to arrest me. With everything I have going on in my life, that’s the last thing I need.
I long for the days when I’ll be old enough to not even be tempted by desire. I won’t have to worry so much about setting off the red light on my bracelet or letting the words want and desire slip out of my mouth. For now though, I just have to deal with it.
The door slams open behind me, forcing my head to whip around. Two police officers barge into the room trailing an official in a green uniform. The official passes the professor a respectful nod.
My heart races. My leg jiggles beneath the desk. With as much subtlety as I can manage, I glance down at my wrist. A heavy sigh escapes my lips when I’m unable to find the light. If it had turned red it would still be red, even if the excess dopamine was no longer in my bloodstream.
“Samantha Jones,” the official’s voice booms.
All eyes shift to a girl in the front of the room.
"Yes," she stutters.
The police officer slides out a pair of handcuffs.
“The levels of dopamine in your system have exceeded the legal limit. You are under arrest.”
The solid red light on her bracelet gives her away.
"No, you don’t understand,” her voice shakes.
The officer yanks her out of her seat.
She screams.
Before anyone can realize what’s happened, the girl’s elbow smashes into the police officer’s nose. Blood trickles down his face. The desk crashes to the ground. Everyone in the room averts their eyes and refuses to make eye contact with the girl as she makes a break for the door. The second police officer stumbles after her. Just a few feet from the door, the official reaches out, his face expressionless, and shoves a black object against the girl’s side.
Her body convulses as she tumbles to the ground. The official slides the Taser back into his pocket and waits for one of the police officers to slide the handcuffs onto her wrist. The officer jerks her up off the ground and a tear streams down her cheek.
“Sorry for the interruption,” the official passes another nod to the professor and everyone watches them lead her out of the room.
The professor nods in return. “Back to work everyone.”
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Zero Rev 2
Author: Chihuahua Zero
Genre: Young Adult Urban Fantasy
Title: Manifestation Files
Scout and I sat next to each other for the first time in several months. We were on my back porch, sipping Fitz’s Root Beer. Her headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, was ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.
Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up Finn, the exchange student, from the airport.
“Once we meet Finn,” Scout asked, “can we go to my house?
I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of the bottle. Condensation wettened my other hand. “Nah. One of my friends is going to get pizza for Finn and I tonight.”
“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “You haven’t been over to my place in the longest time.”
“For a good reason.”
Scout snapped the scrunchie binding her blonde ponytail and smirked. “Say…what evil plan do you have to assume complete control over your subject?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit being a pervert all the time and I might invite you over again.”
“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So, are you nervous?”
“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. I then lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and she would be disappointed otherwise.”
“Why did you agree in the first place?”
“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t be selfish.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, Mom’s attention is split between three different things. Also, I’m probably not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make any effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program—although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her studio.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. But instead of her offering useful advice, she said, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”
I flustered. “Drop it.”
“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“
“Strike two.”
“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”
I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch. Now.”
Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.
I folded my arms. “You can’t tease me like that anymore, you know.”
“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.
I entered the house, plenty of root beer left in the bottle.
I walked to the front and looked out the front window. Mom was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in.
I opened the door, stepped onto the front porch, and planted my feet into the brick, feet folded. Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door opened. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, while dragging a rolling suitcase. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.
I had seen a picture of him before. He was pale-skinned, with mouse brown hair side-swept with a comb. Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish, awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.
Step by step, he walked up the stairs and pass the flower-sparse dirt garden, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me—
Finn tripped and landed on his knees, leaving his suitcase to descend the steps like a rubber band ball.
Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was already lifting himself, grimacing. When he stood, he was rubbed the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.
What a way to make a first impression.
Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”
He detracted the handle, and held the case to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his chest moving in and out. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me. “Okay.”
God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly, attitude-poisoned jerk—already I could tell he wasn’t the chatty kind. On the other hand…something about his eyes looked off. I usually didn’t notice eyes, but maybe it was the shade of gray, or the size of his irises, or that subtle absentmindedness?
Nah. I was looking too into it.
“Let’s go in.” I said. I led all three of us into the house. Another bout of sirens carried in the summer wind. It better not be an omen.
Once inside, Mom went straight to the third floor, where her studio was, leaving Finn and me alone.
I stared at Finn. He was fiddling with his suitcase’s upholstery, which reminded me of that expensive couch Dad had in his apartment. Hopefully, Finn wouldn’t ask about Dad.
“Um, Finn?”
He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”
I gestured him over to the stairs. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. “You’re from Oxford, right?” I asked. “The information the student exchange program gave Mom and I wasn’t clear.”
“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.
“So you weren’t able to send e-mails or anything?”
“I don’t have an e-mail.”
Once at the second floor, I opened the door to the guest bedroom, the one Finn was going to occupy. “You can put you suitcase in here. You can unpack later, once I show you everything.”
Finn walked in and circled aimlessly around the room. Due to money constraints, there was only a bed, an end desk with an old clock radio, and a desk and chair set recently bought in a garage sale. Finn slid opened the closet door, and gently pushed his suitcase in. He then went to the window and peeked through the curtains.
How long he was going to take?
He opened the bathroom door, peeked in, stepped out, and looked at me with a befuddled look.
“My bedroom is on the other side.” I said. “Be sure to knock every time.” I wasn’t too happy with the arrangement, but I wasn’t my house’s architect. And it wasn’t like anyone used the basement except to store milk gallons.
Finn scuttled out and followed me to the first floor.
Genre: Young Adult Urban Fantasy
Title: Manifestation Files
Scout and I sat next to each other for the first time in several months. We were on my back porch, sipping Fitz’s Root Beer. Her headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, was ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.
Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up Finn, the exchange student, from the airport.
“Once we meet Finn,” Scout asked, “can we go to my house?
I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of the bottle. Condensation wettened my other hand. “Nah. One of my friends is going to get pizza for Finn and I tonight.”
“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “You haven’t been over to my place in the longest time.”
“For a good reason.”
Scout snapped the scrunchie binding her blonde ponytail and smirked. “Say…what evil plan do you have to assume complete control over your subject?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit being a pervert all the time and I might invite you over again.”
“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So, are you nervous?”
“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. I then lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and she would be disappointed otherwise.”
“Why did you agree in the first place?”
“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t be selfish.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, Mom’s attention is split between three different things. Also, I’m probably not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make any effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program—although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her studio.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. But instead of her offering useful advice, she said, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”
I flustered. “Drop it.”
“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“
“Strike two.”
“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”
I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch. Now.”
Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.
I folded my arms. “You can’t tease me like that anymore, you know.”
“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.
I entered the house, plenty of root beer left in the bottle.
I walked to the front and looked out the front window. Mom was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in.
I opened the door, stepped onto the front porch, and planted my feet into the brick, feet folded. Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door opened. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, while dragging a rolling suitcase. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.
I had seen a picture of him before. He was pale-skinned, with mouse brown hair side-swept with a comb. Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish, awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.
Step by step, he walked up the stairs and pass the flower-sparse dirt garden, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me—
Finn tripped and landed on his knees, leaving his suitcase to descend the steps like a rubber band ball.
Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was already lifting himself, grimacing. When he stood, he was rubbed the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.
What a way to make a first impression.
Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”
He detracted the handle, and held the case to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his chest moving in and out. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me. “Okay.”
God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly, attitude-poisoned jerk—already I could tell he wasn’t the chatty kind. On the other hand…something about his eyes looked off. I usually didn’t notice eyes, but maybe it was the shade of gray, or the size of his irises, or that subtle absentmindedness?
Nah. I was looking too into it.
“Let’s go in.” I said. I led all three of us into the house. Another bout of sirens carried in the summer wind. It better not be an omen.
Once inside, Mom went straight to the third floor, where her studio was, leaving Finn and me alone.
I stared at Finn. He was fiddling with his suitcase’s upholstery, which reminded me of that expensive couch Dad had in his apartment. Hopefully, Finn wouldn’t ask about Dad.
“Um, Finn?”
He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”
I gestured him over to the stairs. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. “You’re from Oxford, right?” I asked. “The information the student exchange program gave Mom and I wasn’t clear.”
“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.
“So you weren’t able to send e-mails or anything?”
“I don’t have an e-mail.”
Once at the second floor, I opened the door to the guest bedroom, the one Finn was going to occupy. “You can put you suitcase in here. You can unpack later, once I show you everything.”
Finn walked in and circled aimlessly around the room. Due to money constraints, there was only a bed, an end desk with an old clock radio, and a desk and chair set recently bought in a garage sale. Finn slid opened the closet door, and gently pushed his suitcase in. He then went to the window and peeked through the curtains.
How long he was going to take?
He opened the bathroom door, peeked in, stepped out, and looked at me with a befuddled look.
“My bedroom is on the other side.” I said. “Be sure to knock every time.” I wasn’t too happy with the arrangement, but I wasn’t my house’s architect. And it wasn’t like anyone used the basement except to store milk gallons.
Finn scuttled out and followed me to the first floor.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Emery Rev 2
Author: Tim Emery
Genre: Young Adult (Sci-Fantasy Thriller)
Title: The Fire-Breather's Daughter
Adam’s room was messy. Not normal teenager messy. Yes, posters hung haphazardly on the walls and there were clothes on the floor, but there was some less conventional teenage untidiness. There was a shoe on the window sill. To be precise, there was a shoe in two parts on the window sill. The leather, laces and sole had each been cut without leaving any indication of the method of separation. There was no sign of force, pressure, cutting or burning. The shoe in two parts could have been abstract art. The corner of the top of his desk was missing, exposing a smooth, bare edge. There was a large hole in his duvet. It wasn’t a tear or burn. It was a clean hole that continued through the sheets and part the way into the mattress below. The deep shag pile carpet also had several holes. But for the shoe, you might have thought that Adam had a serious moth problem.
Most of the time, Adam was as oblivious to the damage as he was to the clothes on the floor.
As he was shutting down his laptop window by window, Adam smiled at the link to ‘Hackers’. The story described his past with uncanny accuracy. Thankfully, it also painted a rosy future for him. Sure, he was going to have more problems; that’s what happens in stories. But he got past them or will get past them, or he will have got past them, but more easily now he had the advantage of prior knowledge.
Finding a story of your past and future life is, well, unsettling to say the least. Adam shook his head. The problem with the story of his hacking is that it didn’t have him finding the story of his hacking in it – if you see what I mean. In the story, he and his best friend Guy were, no are, incredibly clever hackers, but never hacked into a Literary Agency’s system. So, unless Adam did nothing with the new found knowledge, he was already diverging from his written path. Adam felt a little like he had seen God’s plan for him, and that God had accidentally left a path open to mess with the plan – if he dared. Adam did like taking risks and after all, His god was no more than a writer with an inconsistent omniscient point of view.
He hesitated over the link to ‘The Fire-Breather’s Daughter’. He wondered again how he could feel an attraction to a character in a book. However, he was sure that Vicky was more than words, more than just a written character. Somewhere, she had flesh and blood as he had flesh and blood. He thought he knew how to get to wherever that was, to meet her, to help Vicky. Her story, her future, needed improvement far more urgently than his. He felt that scene, that early scene, that horrible early scene had to be changed and he could do it. He had to do it.
The final window contained a Word document of which he had definitely been the author. The document comprised mangled notes and explanations for Guy. He knew he couldn’t wait for Guy. He hadn’t got time to explain, and he knew would never have time because he didn’t really understand it himself. A demonstration was the best way to get Guy’s support.
Adam closed his laptop. It was time for action. He preferred action and his action would speak much louder than his words, both written and spoken. Slinging his full backpack over his shoulder, he paused as he caught sight of the shoe. That was a lesson well learnt. Then there was the corner of the desktop. Now, that lesson had not been well learnt. He wasn’t sure where the pen and the corner of desk had gone, and more importantly why he had failed to get them back.
Running down the stairs, he shouted. “Off then mom. Not sure how long I’m gonna be. A few days, maybe more. See ya.”
Adam nipped over the low wall between his mom’s house and their neighbours, and bounced up to the front door. Before knocking, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and selected the ‘Tripudio’ app. He realised he had to slow himself down. He felt like a five year old on Christmas morning and knew it. It wasn’t cool.
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he rapped the knocker of number 42, Hikers Avenue. In his mind it was the tune from ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’. To anyone else it was a few oddly spaced raps. Through the small frosted pane he could see Laura, Guy’s 14 year old sister. He smiled. He was pleased to catch Laura before he left, just in case things … well, just in case. Recently, Laura had been regularly dropping into Guy’ room when Adam was there. Now he knew why. He felt a little awkward at having read about her feelings for him. It wasn’t as if he had read her diary, it just felt like he had. “Hey Laura. Wow, you’re looking good. You’re really errrm …”, but what he could say to his best friend’s younger sister. He settled for a clumsy kiss on the cheek and shot up the stairs before she could react.
Bursting through his bedroom door always drew Guy’s attention away from his laptop.
"Guy, I know you'll think this is nuts. I've seen the future, or a future, or maybe, maybe just ONE of our futures. One as it has been written. I'm not really sure yet, but I think this is all virtual." Adam gestured to take in the room, finishing with a thump on the wall – though that only demonstrated its solidity.
"LIFE IS VIRTUAL. Nothing is really real, if you see what I mean." Adam continued breathlessly. "But everything is as real as we want it to be, and you and I, YOU AND I can be masters of reality, or at least of virtual reality. Appealing or what?"
Guy raised his eyebrows. "Adam, slow down and give me that again in simple English."
"Guy, I can’t fully explain ‘cos there’s still loads to work out. But I have been experimenting. I'm going to disappear for a while; to help someone called Vicky. You don't know her and, well, she doesn't know me yet, but I might need you here, to help me to help her."
"Please Adam, sit down mate and slow down." Guy gestured to the desk and chair at the end of his bed. "Take the backpack off and sit down. What's in there anyway? It's crammed."
His attempt to divert Adam's line of talking failed.
"I've created a folder on the network. It’s called Slushfiles. You'll understand more when you've read my notes and followed a few links. There is a link to our story Guy. OUR STORY! I've found our story with others - the notes tell you more."
"What do you mean our -"
"Shut up and listen. I've been working on programs to do with virtual positioning." Adam's eyes glistened and he shifted from foot to foot. "I'm going to try something now, here and now." Pulling his phone out, he rolled it over and over in his hand as he talked.
Guy tried to speak. "What -"
Genre: Young Adult (Sci-Fantasy Thriller)
Title: The Fire-Breather's Daughter
Adam’s room was messy. Not normal teenager messy. Yes, posters hung haphazardly on the walls and there were clothes on the floor, but there was some less conventional teenage untidiness. There was a shoe on the window sill. To be precise, there was a shoe in two parts on the window sill. The leather, laces and sole had each been cut without leaving any indication of the method of separation. There was no sign of force, pressure, cutting or burning. The shoe in two parts could have been abstract art. The corner of the top of his desk was missing, exposing a smooth, bare edge. There was a large hole in his duvet. It wasn’t a tear or burn. It was a clean hole that continued through the sheets and part the way into the mattress below. The deep shag pile carpet also had several holes. But for the shoe, you might have thought that Adam had a serious moth problem.
Most of the time, Adam was as oblivious to the damage as he was to the clothes on the floor.
As he was shutting down his laptop window by window, Adam smiled at the link to ‘Hackers’. The story described his past with uncanny accuracy. Thankfully, it also painted a rosy future for him. Sure, he was going to have more problems; that’s what happens in stories. But he got past them or will get past them, or he will have got past them, but more easily now he had the advantage of prior knowledge.
Finding a story of your past and future life is, well, unsettling to say the least. Adam shook his head. The problem with the story of his hacking is that it didn’t have him finding the story of his hacking in it – if you see what I mean. In the story, he and his best friend Guy were, no are, incredibly clever hackers, but never hacked into a Literary Agency’s system. So, unless Adam did nothing with the new found knowledge, he was already diverging from his written path. Adam felt a little like he had seen God’s plan for him, and that God had accidentally left a path open to mess with the plan – if he dared. Adam did like taking risks and after all, His god was no more than a writer with an inconsistent omniscient point of view.
He hesitated over the link to ‘The Fire-Breather’s Daughter’. He wondered again how he could feel an attraction to a character in a book. However, he was sure that Vicky was more than words, more than just a written character. Somewhere, she had flesh and blood as he had flesh and blood. He thought he knew how to get to wherever that was, to meet her, to help Vicky. Her story, her future, needed improvement far more urgently than his. He felt that scene, that early scene, that horrible early scene had to be changed and he could do it. He had to do it.
The final window contained a Word document of which he had definitely been the author. The document comprised mangled notes and explanations for Guy. He knew he couldn’t wait for Guy. He hadn’t got time to explain, and he knew would never have time because he didn’t really understand it himself. A demonstration was the best way to get Guy’s support.
Adam closed his laptop. It was time for action. He preferred action and his action would speak much louder than his words, both written and spoken. Slinging his full backpack over his shoulder, he paused as he caught sight of the shoe. That was a lesson well learnt. Then there was the corner of the desktop. Now, that lesson had not been well learnt. He wasn’t sure where the pen and the corner of desk had gone, and more importantly why he had failed to get them back.
Running down the stairs, he shouted. “Off then mom. Not sure how long I’m gonna be. A few days, maybe more. See ya.”
Adam nipped over the low wall between his mom’s house and their neighbours, and bounced up to the front door. Before knocking, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and selected the ‘Tripudio’ app. He realised he had to slow himself down. He felt like a five year old on Christmas morning and knew it. It wasn’t cool.
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he rapped the knocker of number 42, Hikers Avenue. In his mind it was the tune from ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’. To anyone else it was a few oddly spaced raps. Through the small frosted pane he could see Laura, Guy’s 14 year old sister. He smiled. He was pleased to catch Laura before he left, just in case things … well, just in case. Recently, Laura had been regularly dropping into Guy’ room when Adam was there. Now he knew why. He felt a little awkward at having read about her feelings for him. It wasn’t as if he had read her diary, it just felt like he had. “Hey Laura. Wow, you’re looking good. You’re really errrm …”, but what he could say to his best friend’s younger sister. He settled for a clumsy kiss on the cheek and shot up the stairs before she could react.
Bursting through his bedroom door always drew Guy’s attention away from his laptop.
"Guy, I know you'll think this is nuts. I've seen the future, or a future, or maybe, maybe just ONE of our futures. One as it has been written. I'm not really sure yet, but I think this is all virtual." Adam gestured to take in the room, finishing with a thump on the wall – though that only demonstrated its solidity.
"LIFE IS VIRTUAL. Nothing is really real, if you see what I mean." Adam continued breathlessly. "But everything is as real as we want it to be, and you and I, YOU AND I can be masters of reality, or at least of virtual reality. Appealing or what?"
Guy raised his eyebrows. "Adam, slow down and give me that again in simple English."
"Guy, I can’t fully explain ‘cos there’s still loads to work out. But I have been experimenting. I'm going to disappear for a while; to help someone called Vicky. You don't know her and, well, she doesn't know me yet, but I might need you here, to help me to help her."
"Please Adam, sit down mate and slow down." Guy gestured to the desk and chair at the end of his bed. "Take the backpack off and sit down. What's in there anyway? It's crammed."
His attempt to divert Adam's line of talking failed.
"I've created a folder on the network. It’s called Slushfiles. You'll understand more when you've read my notes and followed a few links. There is a link to our story Guy. OUR STORY! I've found our story with others - the notes tell you more."
"What do you mean our -"
"Shut up and listen. I've been working on programs to do with virtual positioning." Adam's eyes glistened and he shifted from foot to foot. "I'm going to try something now, here and now." Pulling his phone out, he rolled it over and over in his hand as he talked.
Guy tried to speak. "What -"
Monday, 13 August 2012
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - First Revisions Are Posted
The first round of revisions are posted below for all the entries after the last week's round of comments. Help us tell the writers how the changes work!
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Emery Rev 1
Author: Tim Emery
Genre: Young Adult
Title: The Fire Breather's Daughter
Adam nipped over the low wall between his mom’s house and their neighbours. His bulging backpack hung off one shoulder. Guy’s black cat rubbed against his leg and purred softly. Adam bent down to stroke her. This always went the same way – the more Adam stroked Sooty, the louder she purred; the louder she purred the rougher Adam stroked. He loved to feel the tremors through her fur as she purred. This game always ended with a flash of yellow eyes and a curled body with claws and teeth gently gripping Adam’s hand.
Today was different. Adam had things on his mind. Sooty nudged her head against his wrist, demanding attention. After just one short rub, Adam spoke softly.
“Hey Sooty, what would tempt you to a new world - eh? Mice to chase? How about a handsome boy cat? Or, you and me could see Dick Whittington and his cat – would you like that?”
Since Adam wasn’t playing properly, Sooty slinked way and miaowed at the front door. Adam paused on his haunches, his eyes following the cat. “I thought I’d get a better reaction from you Sooty. I know what I’m going to get from Guy.” As he rose, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Walking to the door, he selected the ‘Tripudio’ app.
He was sure that his best friend and computer fraud partner would never approve of what he planned to do. He knew that Guy would want to exercise caution. Guy would want to test the app, to check, to document and to check it all again. Adam needed Guy to be his back up but he hadn’t got Guy’s patience. There wasn’t time to be patient.
Adam preferred to use default coordinates. There was less likelihood of error in taking current position. But not this position; not out here. The residents of Hikers Avenue probably wouldn’t notice whatever he did, but he needed to show Guy what he could do. A demo would grab Guy’s attention and support. He would leave notes, but action speaks louder and all that.
He waggled his fingers in he air then strummed them against the back of the phone. This was going to be good. This was going to be so, so good. A little dangerous maybe but hey, life is as only as real as you make it. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he bounced up to the front door of number 42 and rapped the knocker. In his mind it was the tune from ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’. To anyone else it was a few oddly spaced raps.
Through the small frosted pane he could see Laura, Guy’s 14 year old sister. He smiled. He was pleased to catch Laura before he left, just in case things … well, just in case.
With the door barely off the latch he pushed through almost as quickly as Sooty. Laura was surprised to find herself whirled around with her back against the door. There was a weird moment of silence. Laura wanted to speak, but Adam seemed to be examining her face; then her body; then her eyes. Pulling her shoulders back, she moved her right hand to her hair. Finally, he was noticing her.
His voice was calm and deep. Adam stepped even closer; his palm now against the door. “Laura, oh Laura … you’re going to be such a heart breaker.” As his lips gently touched Laura’s, her eyes closed. She reached her hand to his side but he was gone. Adam was bounding up the stairs two and three at a time. Her shoulders dropped. Her head fell back. What was that about?
Adam burst through Guy’s bedroom door. A noisy entrance was always necessary to draw Guy’s attention away from his laptop.
“Guy, you’ll think this is nuts but I’ve found our story. It’s on a literary agent’s system. Their electronic slush pile I suppose. Guy it’s a story about US. We’re just … we’re just characters in a story. None of this is really real. Our world is no more than a virtual reality.” Adam gestured to take in the room, finishing with a thump on the wall – which only demonstrated its solidity. This had sounded better when he rehearsed it in his head. “But it’s ok. You see, we can get into other stories. We can have fun in different worlds. I’ve developed programmes that can take us to other story worlds. It’s just about resolving virtual positions, that’s all.” Adam paused. He needed a response from Guy. He wanted Guy to be as excited as he was.
“Eh? What are you on about? Does it mean I can be Superman?”
Adam shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t get it. You’ve got no imagination Guy. You can’t be Superman, Spiderman, or anyone else. You can only be Guy. You’re Guy and I’m Adam, we can’t change that. Think about it – we’re 17 year olds, consider how good we are at hacking, at computing. A bit too good to be real perhaps? Like characters in a story?” He paused. “I’m sorry pal, I’m a bit cool and you’re a bit geeky – that’s just how we’ve been written.”
Guy stiffened. His talent was real. He didn’t think of himself as a geek. Ok, not really into sports like Adam, but that didn’t make him a geek.
Adam registered Guy’s body language as an improvement on sarcasm. “But we have got powers Guy. We can read ahead. That’s something. We can see the future by reading ahead - then we can change things. Better than that, we can read other stories and change them. And we don’t have to stay here. With my app we can go where we want.” Adam pulled his phone out.
“You’re talking garbage mate. Just sod off.”
Adam knew this would be difficult. “It’s ok Guy. You’ll believe me when I show you. I’ve created a folder on the network called Slushfiles. You’ll understand when you’ve read the notes and followed a few links. While you do that I’m going to disappear; to help someone called Vicky. Vicky’s in a different story; a different world. You don’t know her and, well … she doesn’t know me yet, but I need you here, to help me to help her.”
“Story worlds! Adam this is -”
“Shut up and just watch – then read the notes.”
Guy tried to speak. “What -”
Adam held a palm forward. “I wanted to include you from the start Guy, but I can’t let you slow me down. I know how you are. Vicky needs help. Her story needs to be changed and I need you here … you know, just in case things don’t work. I know I can count on you.”
Laura appeared at Guy’s bedroom door, still flushed from the kiss. She hadn’t heard the name Vicky before. “Who’s Vicky?”
Adam grinned at Laura, then at Guy. “Guy, look after Laura. Oh, and don’t give your brother so much money. He WILL get into gambling trouble. Believe me, though you’ll see for yourself … one way or another.”
“But -”
“But we’ll all be ok in the end. It’ll just be easier if you’re less generous with Sam. Change our story – change our lives.”
“But what’s Sam got to do with anything?” Guy tugged on his right ear lobe, as his brow furrowed and nose wrinkled. Adam seemed seriously nuts but nuttily serious.
“I’m ready Guy."
Genre: Young Adult
Title: The Fire Breather's Daughter
Adam nipped over the low wall between his mom’s house and their neighbours. His bulging backpack hung off one shoulder. Guy’s black cat rubbed against his leg and purred softly. Adam bent down to stroke her. This always went the same way – the more Adam stroked Sooty, the louder she purred; the louder she purred the rougher Adam stroked. He loved to feel the tremors through her fur as she purred. This game always ended with a flash of yellow eyes and a curled body with claws and teeth gently gripping Adam’s hand.
Today was different. Adam had things on his mind. Sooty nudged her head against his wrist, demanding attention. After just one short rub, Adam spoke softly.
“Hey Sooty, what would tempt you to a new world - eh? Mice to chase? How about a handsome boy cat? Or, you and me could see Dick Whittington and his cat – would you like that?”
Since Adam wasn’t playing properly, Sooty slinked way and miaowed at the front door. Adam paused on his haunches, his eyes following the cat. “I thought I’d get a better reaction from you Sooty. I know what I’m going to get from Guy.” As he rose, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Walking to the door, he selected the ‘Tripudio’ app.
He was sure that his best friend and computer fraud partner would never approve of what he planned to do. He knew that Guy would want to exercise caution. Guy would want to test the app, to check, to document and to check it all again. Adam needed Guy to be his back up but he hadn’t got Guy’s patience. There wasn’t time to be patient.
Adam preferred to use default coordinates. There was less likelihood of error in taking current position. But not this position; not out here. The residents of Hikers Avenue probably wouldn’t notice whatever he did, but he needed to show Guy what he could do. A demo would grab Guy’s attention and support. He would leave notes, but action speaks louder and all that.
He waggled his fingers in he air then strummed them against the back of the phone. This was going to be good. This was going to be so, so good. A little dangerous maybe but hey, life is as only as real as you make it. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he bounced up to the front door of number 42 and rapped the knocker. In his mind it was the tune from ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’. To anyone else it was a few oddly spaced raps.
Through the small frosted pane he could see Laura, Guy’s 14 year old sister. He smiled. He was pleased to catch Laura before he left, just in case things … well, just in case.
With the door barely off the latch he pushed through almost as quickly as Sooty. Laura was surprised to find herself whirled around with her back against the door. There was a weird moment of silence. Laura wanted to speak, but Adam seemed to be examining her face; then her body; then her eyes. Pulling her shoulders back, she moved her right hand to her hair. Finally, he was noticing her.
His voice was calm and deep. Adam stepped even closer; his palm now against the door. “Laura, oh Laura … you’re going to be such a heart breaker.” As his lips gently touched Laura’s, her eyes closed. She reached her hand to his side but he was gone. Adam was bounding up the stairs two and three at a time. Her shoulders dropped. Her head fell back. What was that about?
Adam burst through Guy’s bedroom door. A noisy entrance was always necessary to draw Guy’s attention away from his laptop.
“Guy, you’ll think this is nuts but I’ve found our story. It’s on a literary agent’s system. Their electronic slush pile I suppose. Guy it’s a story about US. We’re just … we’re just characters in a story. None of this is really real. Our world is no more than a virtual reality.” Adam gestured to take in the room, finishing with a thump on the wall – which only demonstrated its solidity. This had sounded better when he rehearsed it in his head. “But it’s ok. You see, we can get into other stories. We can have fun in different worlds. I’ve developed programmes that can take us to other story worlds. It’s just about resolving virtual positions, that’s all.” Adam paused. He needed a response from Guy. He wanted Guy to be as excited as he was.
“Eh? What are you on about? Does it mean I can be Superman?”
Adam shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t get it. You’ve got no imagination Guy. You can’t be Superman, Spiderman, or anyone else. You can only be Guy. You’re Guy and I’m Adam, we can’t change that. Think about it – we’re 17 year olds, consider how good we are at hacking, at computing. A bit too good to be real perhaps? Like characters in a story?” He paused. “I’m sorry pal, I’m a bit cool and you’re a bit geeky – that’s just how we’ve been written.”
Guy stiffened. His talent was real. He didn’t think of himself as a geek. Ok, not really into sports like Adam, but that didn’t make him a geek.
Adam registered Guy’s body language as an improvement on sarcasm. “But we have got powers Guy. We can read ahead. That’s something. We can see the future by reading ahead - then we can change things. Better than that, we can read other stories and change them. And we don’t have to stay here. With my app we can go where we want.” Adam pulled his phone out.
“You’re talking garbage mate. Just sod off.”
Adam knew this would be difficult. “It’s ok Guy. You’ll believe me when I show you. I’ve created a folder on the network called Slushfiles. You’ll understand when you’ve read the notes and followed a few links. While you do that I’m going to disappear; to help someone called Vicky. Vicky’s in a different story; a different world. You don’t know her and, well … she doesn’t know me yet, but I need you here, to help me to help her.”
“Story worlds! Adam this is -”
“Shut up and just watch – then read the notes.”
Guy tried to speak. “What -”
Adam held a palm forward. “I wanted to include you from the start Guy, but I can’t let you slow me down. I know how you are. Vicky needs help. Her story needs to be changed and I need you here … you know, just in case things don’t work. I know I can count on you.”
Laura appeared at Guy’s bedroom door, still flushed from the kiss. She hadn’t heard the name Vicky before. “Who’s Vicky?”
Adam grinned at Laura, then at Guy. “Guy, look after Laura. Oh, and don’t give your brother so much money. He WILL get into gambling trouble. Believe me, though you’ll see for yourself … one way or another.”
“But -”
“But we’ll all be ok in the end. It’ll just be easier if you’re less generous with Sam. Change our story – change our lives.”
“But what’s Sam got to do with anything?” Guy tugged on his right ear lobe, as his brow furrowed and nose wrinkled. Adam seemed seriously nuts but nuttily serious.
“I’m ready Guy."
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Panteleakos Rev 1
Nicole Panteleakos
ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST
Middle Grade
Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.
“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.
“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.
“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.
“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”
All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.
The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.
Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.
Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”
I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”
That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.
That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.
“Audrey, the Bad Men are coming!” she said. “I packed up everything.
Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.
And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.
CHAPTER ONE
It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.
One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.
I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.
“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.
“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.
“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”
I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?
“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”
She makes me want to scream.
“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.
“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”
“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.
“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.
“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”
Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.
“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.
“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”
“Who’s Mother Theresa?”
“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.
“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"
“Yeah, kinda,” I say, smiling at her, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.
ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST
Middle Grade
Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.
“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.
“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.
“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.
“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”
All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.
The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.
Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.
Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”
I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”
That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.
That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.
“Audrey, the Bad Men are coming!” she said. “I packed up everything.
Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.
And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.
CHAPTER ONE
It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.
One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.
I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.
“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.
“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.
“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”
I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?
“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”
She makes me want to scream.
“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.
“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”
“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.
“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.
“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”
Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.
“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.
“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”
“Who’s Mother Theresa?”
“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.
“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"
“Yeah, kinda,” I say, smiling at her, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Pruitt-Goddard Rev 1
Author: Candyce Pruitt-Goddard
Genre: YA Dystopian
Title: Desiderium
If I had a dollar for every time I found myself wishing for more time, I might only have to work two jobs. Maybe then I'd actually have time for a life. As soon as the thought slips out, the temptation to let myself feel desire consumes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I can't want more time. I can't want anything. Not if I don't want to end up in jail.
A flickering yellow light catches my attention. My gaze fixates on the steel bracelet clinging to my wrist and I have to remind myself to breathe. I strategically place my jacket over the bracelet to conceal the yellow light, and double check to make sure no one noticed. I quicken my pace and try to focus on getting to Calculus on time. When I'm within a few steps of the classroom I take a subtle peek at my wrist and heave a sigh of relief when I find no sign of the desire I almost let myself feel.
I scurry through the door and slide into an empty seat in the back. Without glancing at the clock, I pull out my textbook to cram in a few extra seconds of studying.
“Have you heard the rumors,” someone whispers behind me.
“What rumors?” someone else whispers.
“They’re saying the Desiderium died yesterday.”
I stop reading and focus intently on their conversation.
“Who was it?” the girl whispers.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t someone in The States, though.”
I shake my head in frustration and will the person behind me to ask the more important question. It doesn’t matter so much who the Desiderium was as it does what he or she changed.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
I hold my breath and eagerly await a response. Nothing about my life feels different. Not yet.
"Good morning, class," the professor interrupts. “Please put everything under your desks except for a pencil. For those of you who have just been added to the class, you will not be required to take the quiz but you will be responsible for the material. For everyone else, you have exactly ten minutes.”
My mind replays the students’ words. If the Desiderium is dead, it means that something has changed. Past Desiderium have already wreaked enough havoc on our lives. I don’t know if we could take much more.
Desperate to distract myself from obsessing over the rumor, I scour the room for any new faces. Students are always adding and dropping courses in the first couple weeks of the quarter, but I always hold out hope that I’ll see somebody from the high school. There are at least a handful of us who take advantage of the Running Start program that lets high school students take college classes for free.
I recognize most of the faces from the first week of class, and am about to look away when a student a couple of seats to my right catches my attention. He brushes his curly amber hair out of his face to reveal startlingly deep blue eyes. He doesn’t look much older than me, but I haven’t seen him around the high school before. I definitely would have remembered him.
His eyes catch mine and all of the blood in my body seems to pool in my cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, adding a sense of mystery to his subtle smile, and time seems to slow down around us. A deep breath brings me back to my senses and casts a dark shadow on the silly thought. My lip twitches into a smile and I convince myself to look away.
Someone jabs me in the shoulder and shoves the stack of quizzes in my face. I slide one off the top and notice the new student doing the same. My pencil glides across the paper until all of the questions are answered. With two minutes to spare, I flip my paper over and lay my pencil on the desk. Everybody else is still scribbling away at their quizzes. Except the one person who didn’t even have to take the quiz.
His eyes meet mine and I can't help but wonder if he sees the same green-eyed girl with curly hair and tiny ears that I see when I look in the mirror. My stomach ties itself into a knot and I’m filled with a longing to get to know him. Not that I even have time for the friends I already have. As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I have to struggle to regain control of my thoughts.
My bracelet blinks an annoying shade of yellow.
The flickering light shifts his attention to my wrist, forcing my hands into my lap where they're safely out of sight. My eyes dart around the room, searching for something to distract me. The bracelet will pick up on even the smallest desire. Anything more than a trace amount of excess dopamine in my bloodstream will turn it red. When it does, it’ll only be a matter of minutes before the officials show up to arrest me. I know they’re only trying to protect us from the Desiderium, but that’s the last thing I need.
People tell me I won’t even be tempted to feel desire anymore when I’m older. It’ll be nice. Then I won’t have to worry so much about setting off the red light on my bracelet or letting the words want and desire slip out of my mouth.
The door slams open behind me, forcing my head to whip around. Two police officers barge into the room trailing an official in a green uniform. The official passes the professor a respectful nod.
My heart races. My leg jiggles beneath the desk. With as much subtlety as I can manage, I glance down at my wrist. A heavy sigh escapes my lips when I can't find the light anywhere. If it had turned red it would still be red, even if the excess dopamine was no longer in my bloodstream.
“Samantha Jones,” the official’s voice booms.
All eyes shift to a girl in the front of the room.
"Yes," she stutters.
The police officer slides out a pair of handcuffs.
“The levels of dopamine in your system have exceeded the legal limit. You are under arrest.”
The solid red light on her bracelet gives her away.
“No, you don’t understand,” her voice shakes.
The officer yanks her out of her seat.
She screams.
Before anyone can realize what’s happened, the girl’s elbow smashes into the police officer’s nose. Blood trickles down his face. The desk crashes to the ground. The room erupts into confused murmurs as she makes a break for the exit. The second police officer stumbles after her. Just a few feet from the door, the official reaches out, his face expressionless, and shoves a black object against the girl’s side.
Her body convulses as she tumbles to the ground. The official slides the Taser back into his pocket and waits for one of the police officers to slide the handcuffs onto her wrist. The officer jerks her up off the ground and a tear streams down her cheek.
“Sorry for the interruption,” the official passes another nod to the professor and everyone watches them lead her out of the room.
The professor nods in return. “Back to work everyone.”
Genre: YA Dystopian
Title: Desiderium
If I had a dollar for every time I found myself wishing for more time, I might only have to work two jobs. Maybe then I'd actually have time for a life. As soon as the thought slips out, the temptation to let myself feel desire consumes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I can't want more time. I can't want anything. Not if I don't want to end up in jail.
A flickering yellow light catches my attention. My gaze fixates on the steel bracelet clinging to my wrist and I have to remind myself to breathe. I strategically place my jacket over the bracelet to conceal the yellow light, and double check to make sure no one noticed. I quicken my pace and try to focus on getting to Calculus on time. When I'm within a few steps of the classroom I take a subtle peek at my wrist and heave a sigh of relief when I find no sign of the desire I almost let myself feel.
I scurry through the door and slide into an empty seat in the back. Without glancing at the clock, I pull out my textbook to cram in a few extra seconds of studying.
“Have you heard the rumors,” someone whispers behind me.
“What rumors?” someone else whispers.
“They’re saying the Desiderium died yesterday.”
I stop reading and focus intently on their conversation.
“Who was it?” the girl whispers.
“I don’t know. It wasn’t someone in The States, though.”
I shake my head in frustration and will the person behind me to ask the more important question. It doesn’t matter so much who the Desiderium was as it does what he or she changed.
“What happened?” she finally asks.
I hold my breath and eagerly await a response. Nothing about my life feels different. Not yet.
"Good morning, class," the professor interrupts. “Please put everything under your desks except for a pencil. For those of you who have just been added to the class, you will not be required to take the quiz but you will be responsible for the material. For everyone else, you have exactly ten minutes.”
My mind replays the students’ words. If the Desiderium is dead, it means that something has changed. Past Desiderium have already wreaked enough havoc on our lives. I don’t know if we could take much more.
Desperate to distract myself from obsessing over the rumor, I scour the room for any new faces. Students are always adding and dropping courses in the first couple weeks of the quarter, but I always hold out hope that I’ll see somebody from the high school. There are at least a handful of us who take advantage of the Running Start program that lets high school students take college classes for free.
I recognize most of the faces from the first week of class, and am about to look away when a student a couple of seats to my right catches my attention. He brushes his curly amber hair out of his face to reveal startlingly deep blue eyes. He doesn’t look much older than me, but I haven’t seen him around the high school before. I definitely would have remembered him.
His eyes catch mine and all of the blood in my body seems to pool in my cheeks. He raises his eyebrows, adding a sense of mystery to his subtle smile, and time seems to slow down around us. A deep breath brings me back to my senses and casts a dark shadow on the silly thought. My lip twitches into a smile and I convince myself to look away.
Someone jabs me in the shoulder and shoves the stack of quizzes in my face. I slide one off the top and notice the new student doing the same. My pencil glides across the paper until all of the questions are answered. With two minutes to spare, I flip my paper over and lay my pencil on the desk. Everybody else is still scribbling away at their quizzes. Except the one person who didn’t even have to take the quiz.
His eyes meet mine and I can't help but wonder if he sees the same green-eyed girl with curly hair and tiny ears that I see when I look in the mirror. My stomach ties itself into a knot and I’m filled with a longing to get to know him. Not that I even have time for the friends I already have. As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I have to struggle to regain control of my thoughts.
My bracelet blinks an annoying shade of yellow.
The flickering light shifts his attention to my wrist, forcing my hands into my lap where they're safely out of sight. My eyes dart around the room, searching for something to distract me. The bracelet will pick up on even the smallest desire. Anything more than a trace amount of excess dopamine in my bloodstream will turn it red. When it does, it’ll only be a matter of minutes before the officials show up to arrest me. I know they’re only trying to protect us from the Desiderium, but that’s the last thing I need.
People tell me I won’t even be tempted to feel desire anymore when I’m older. It’ll be nice. Then I won’t have to worry so much about setting off the red light on my bracelet or letting the words want and desire slip out of my mouth.
The door slams open behind me, forcing my head to whip around. Two police officers barge into the room trailing an official in a green uniform. The official passes the professor a respectful nod.
My heart races. My leg jiggles beneath the desk. With as much subtlety as I can manage, I glance down at my wrist. A heavy sigh escapes my lips when I can't find the light anywhere. If it had turned red it would still be red, even if the excess dopamine was no longer in my bloodstream.
“Samantha Jones,” the official’s voice booms.
All eyes shift to a girl in the front of the room.
"Yes," she stutters.
The police officer slides out a pair of handcuffs.
“The levels of dopamine in your system have exceeded the legal limit. You are under arrest.”
The solid red light on her bracelet gives her away.
“No, you don’t understand,” her voice shakes.
The officer yanks her out of her seat.
She screams.
Before anyone can realize what’s happened, the girl’s elbow smashes into the police officer’s nose. Blood trickles down his face. The desk crashes to the ground. The room erupts into confused murmurs as she makes a break for the exit. The second police officer stumbles after her. Just a few feet from the door, the official reaches out, his face expressionless, and shoves a black object against the girl’s side.
Her body convulses as she tumbles to the ground. The official slides the Taser back into his pocket and waits for one of the police officers to slide the handcuffs onto her wrist. The officer jerks her up off the ground and a tear streams down her cheek.
“Sorry for the interruption,” the official passes another nod to the professor and everyone watches them lead her out of the room.
The professor nods in return. “Back to work everyone.”
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Zero Rev 1
Author: Chihuahua Zero
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy/Paranormal
Title: Manifestation Files
Scout and I sat next to each other for the first time in several months. We were on my back porch, sipping Fitz’s Root Beer. Her headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, was ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.
Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up Finn, the exchange student, from the airport.
“Once we meet Finn,” Scout asked, “can we go to our house?
I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of the bottle. “Nah. Kyle wants to go to dinner with us tonight.”
“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “You haven’t been over to my place in the longest time!”
“For a good reason.”
Scout snapped the scrunchie binding her blonde ponytail and smirked. “Say…what evil plan do you have to assume complete control over your subject?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit applying your perverted logic onto the world, and I might invite you over next month.”
“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So are you nervous?”
“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. I then lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and she would be disappointed otherwise.”
“Why did you agree in the first place?”
“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t get myself to be selfish.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, Mom’s attention is split between three different things. Although it’s irrational, I don’t think I’m not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make any effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program—although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her studio.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. My fingers tensed up.
But instead of her offering useful advice, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”
I flustered. “Drop it.”
“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“
“Strike two.”
“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”
I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch. Now.”
Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.
I folded my arms. “You need to understand that you can’t tease me like that anymore.”
“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.
I entered the house, plenty of root beer left in the bottle.
God, Mom was now going to ask why Scout left so early.
I looked out the front window. Mom’s car was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in.
I stepped onto the front porch, planted my feet onto the brick and folded my arms.
Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door opened. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, while dragging a rolling suitcase. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.
I had seen a picture of him before. He was paled-skinned, with mouse brown hair side-swept with a comb. Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish, awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.
Step by step, he walked up the stairs, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me. Hmm, how did it go at the airport—
Halfway, Finn tripped and landed on his knees. His suitcase descended the steps.
Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was lifting himself up, grimacing. When he stood, he was rubbing the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.
Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”
He detracted the handle, and held the case to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his chest moving in and out. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me.
“Okay.”
God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly, attitude-poisoned jerk—I could already tell he wasn’t the chatty kind.
I took the first step up the stairs. As I did so, I looked in the direction Finn gazed out to. Was there something out there? Or—?
Wait, was that a shimmer in the air?
I squint my eyes and focused on it.
Nah. It must just be the heat.
I killed the thought and led all three of us into the house.
Once inside, Mom went straight to the third floor, where her studio was, leaving Finn and me alone.
At stared at Finn. He was fiddling with his suitcase’s upholstery, which looked similar to that expensive couch Dad had in his apartment. Hopefully, Finn wouldn’t ask about Dad.
“Um, Finn?”
He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”
Yeah, he was absent-minded. I walked to the stairs, gesturing him over. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. Strange, his socks were dyed green. “You’re from Oxford, right?” I asked. “The information from the student exchange program wasn’t clear.”
“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.
“So you weren’t able to send any e-mails or letter?”
“I don’t have an e-mail.”
Once at the second floor, I opened the guest bedroom door, the one Finn was going to occupy. “You can put you suitcase in here. You can unpack later, once I show you everything.”
Finn walked in and circled aimlessly around the room. Due to money constraints, there was only a bed, an end desk with an old clock radio, and a desk and chair set recently bought in a garage sale. Finn slid opened the closet door, and gently pushed his suitcase in. He then went to the window and peeked through the curtains.
How long he was going to take?
He opened the bathroom door, peeked in, stepped out, and looked at me with a befuddled look.
“My bedroom is on the other side.” I said. “Be sure to knock every time.” I wasn’t too happy with the arrangement, but I wasn’t my house’s architect. And it wasn’t like anyone used the basement except to store milk gallons.
Finn scuttled out and followed me to the first floor.
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy/Paranormal
Title: Manifestation Files
Scout and I sat next to each other for the first time in several months. We were on my back porch, sipping Fitz’s Root Beer. Her headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, was ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.
Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up Finn, the exchange student, from the airport.
“Once we meet Finn,” Scout asked, “can we go to our house?
I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of the bottle. “Nah. Kyle wants to go to dinner with us tonight.”
“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “You haven’t been over to my place in the longest time!”
“For a good reason.”
Scout snapped the scrunchie binding her blonde ponytail and smirked. “Say…what evil plan do you have to assume complete control over your subject?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit applying your perverted logic onto the world, and I might invite you over next month.”
“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So are you nervous?”
“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. I then lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and she would be disappointed otherwise.”
“Why did you agree in the first place?”
“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t get myself to be selfish.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, Mom’s attention is split between three different things. Although it’s irrational, I don’t think I’m not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make any effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program—although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her studio.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. My fingers tensed up.
But instead of her offering useful advice, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”
I flustered. “Drop it.”
“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“
“Strike two.”
“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”
I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch. Now.”
Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.
I folded my arms. “You need to understand that you can’t tease me like that anymore.”
“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.
I entered the house, plenty of root beer left in the bottle.
God, Mom was now going to ask why Scout left so early.
I looked out the front window. Mom’s car was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in.
I stepped onto the front porch, planted my feet onto the brick and folded my arms.
Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door opened. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, while dragging a rolling suitcase. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.
I had seen a picture of him before. He was paled-skinned, with mouse brown hair side-swept with a comb. Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish, awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.
Step by step, he walked up the stairs, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me. Hmm, how did it go at the airport—
Halfway, Finn tripped and landed on his knees. His suitcase descended the steps.
Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was lifting himself up, grimacing. When he stood, he was rubbing the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.
Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”
He detracted the handle, and held the case to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his chest moving in and out. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me.
“Okay.”
God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly, attitude-poisoned jerk—I could already tell he wasn’t the chatty kind.
I took the first step up the stairs. As I did so, I looked in the direction Finn gazed out to. Was there something out there? Or—?
Wait, was that a shimmer in the air?
I squint my eyes and focused on it.
Nah. It must just be the heat.
I killed the thought and led all three of us into the house.
Once inside, Mom went straight to the third floor, where her studio was, leaving Finn and me alone.
At stared at Finn. He was fiddling with his suitcase’s upholstery, which looked similar to that expensive couch Dad had in his apartment. Hopefully, Finn wouldn’t ask about Dad.
“Um, Finn?”
He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”
Yeah, he was absent-minded. I walked to the stairs, gesturing him over. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. Strange, his socks were dyed green. “You’re from Oxford, right?” I asked. “The information from the student exchange program wasn’t clear.”
“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.
“So you weren’t able to send any e-mails or letter?”
“I don’t have an e-mail.”
Once at the second floor, I opened the guest bedroom door, the one Finn was going to occupy. “You can put you suitcase in here. You can unpack later, once I show you everything.”
Finn walked in and circled aimlessly around the room. Due to money constraints, there was only a bed, an end desk with an old clock radio, and a desk and chair set recently bought in a garage sale. Finn slid opened the closet door, and gently pushed his suitcase in. He then went to the window and peeked through the curtains.
How long he was going to take?
He opened the bathroom door, peeked in, stepped out, and looked at me with a befuddled look.
“My bedroom is on the other side.” I said. “Be sure to knock every time.” I wasn’t too happy with the arrangement, but I wasn’t my house’s architect. And it wasn’t like anyone used the basement except to store milk gallons.
Finn scuttled out and followed me to the first floor.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Wise Rev 1
Julie K. Wise
YA Contemporary
Inside the Circle
“I’m out in a couple of weeks. That’s what the doc said this morning,” Allison says offhandedly, like she doesn’t care if she stays or if she’s released. It’s freezing in here, like always. I shake off a shiver and lean back into the short, vinyl couch. Outside the window, the shadows on Camelback Mountain deepen as the sun starts to set. Nice view, I think. When I was in-patient here at the Center, my room faced the other way.
“A couple of weeks, that’s good, Allison. That’s nothing,” I say, watching her play with her platinum watch. She twists it around her wrist.
“It’s all bullshit anyway,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I just went too far one night, you know? I’m not an addict.” Sure about that? I want to ask her. Instead, I keep my face still.
I imagine her in daily group, doing those “complete the sentence” games that the doctors use to get a patient to discover her inner fuck-up.
Finish this sentence, Allison: I might be an addict if…
Well, Doctor, I might be an addict if… I took a bunch of painkillers and drank half a bottle of whiskey and ended up in rehab. But that was just supposed to be a little jump-start before I started to party. Before lines of coke off the compact in my purse. And did I mention the fix that I keep in my car?
Oh, yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Or actually, an addict. Takes one to know one.
“Well, you know, as long as you’re here, you might as well listen to what they have to say,” I shrug, trying to sound casual. She looks out of the window too, and her eyes go distant.
“Yeah, I know.” She’s quiet for a minute, and then, she smiles and laughs. “I’m clean. I miss the parties, but I’m not going back into the shit. Think about the shoes I can buy with the money I was shooting,” she jokes darkly. Allison is lucky that the pills got her before the other shit did. Recreational mainlining doesn’t stay recreational for very long.
I stay quiet. I love her like a sister, and it hurts to see how deluded she is, but judgments are against the rules in The Circle.
Allison has never known limits, not even when we were little. In Kindergarten, she would spin until she was dizzy enough to throw up, just to see what it felt like. Allison loves more. Of whatever.
“Well, you look good,” I tell her, truthfully. Her skin is clear without makeup and but pale from months without sun, trapped in this ugly world of fluorescent hospital lights. I look down at her fresh, pink pedicure. “Who’s coming in to do your toes? Josie from Gossip?” Allison nods.
Josie did her toes every two weeks even before Allison’s infamous overdose at Jimmy’s holiday party a few months ago. A few girls found her blue in one of the bedrooms, and instead of calling 911, those ignorant bitches threw her in a tub so she wouldn’t throw up on the Persian rug. Luckily, Aaron found her in there. He broke about a hundred traffic laws to get her to the hospital, and Jillian and I followed in my car. I cried rare tears on Jillian’s shoulder while the nurses pumped Allison’s stomach. I don’t let myself feel much usually. I’m safer that way, away from highs and lows. I keep things right in the middle.
Look what the extremes got Allison. She’s lucky to be alive.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” she asks me, wistfully.
“Going out with Sean to Sakura tonight,” I answer honestly. Her face looks pained. Rehab is hell, and when it isn’t hell, it’s boring, for sure.
“Sushi. That sounds awesome. Maybe I’ll order in,” she says. Banner is the five-star of rehab. Patients can get whatever they want, well, except for the things that they really want.
“Yeah, dinner is probably going to be really dull. We’re meeting…friends,” I say, and Allison searches my face.
“Friends of Sean’s?” she asks, and I nod a small nod. She snorts. “Wow, I don’t know how you stand it, Kate, being that close.”
“That’s just how it is. The world doesn’t change just because I did,” I say. I hear the ice in my voice, and I feel my face fix itself into my default. Cold, closed. Allison sees the change, and she lifts an eyebrow just as her doctor walks in. He greets her cheerfully, and as he turns to look at her meds chart, she gives him the finger and mouths fuck you. I thaw instantly and laugh.
“See you next Friday, Allison,” I say, shaking my head.
“Thanks for coming, Kate,” she says, genuinely. I give her a little hug and walk out into the hall.
I speed out of the parking lot with the convertible top down and play my music as loud as I can stand it. It’s Friday rush hour on Scottsdale Road, and I weave in and out of traffic as the sun lowers behind Camelback Mountain, casting the final shadow of the day over the palm-lined street. The wind and the speed and the music help me shake off Allison’s depressing hospital scene.
What happened to Allison is scary, but it happens. People lose control and go too far. They fall into the darkness. After she got out of intensive care, her folks admitted her to Banner Behavioral Center, and people were here all of the time. The same people who saw her getting high at parties all semester sobbed around about what a waste and drugs are bad and that’s why I won’t touch hard stuff as they passed their joints on to the next people. As long as everyone is having a good time, no one just says no.
Her story was on the news. No one expects rich kids to overdose. That’s for back alleys and people with dirt on their faces, not the hundred-dollar manicure crowd. We had a ridiculous assembly at school about #takingcareofeachother and #innerbeauty and #justsayno and #blahblahblah. Then, the hype died down, and now, I’m the only person who still visits Allison. I miss her, and plus, I remember how lonely Banner can be. Even her parents only visit her a couple times a week. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.
I drive fast up the mountain and fly up our long, steep driveway into the four-car garage, and after a long shower, I dress carefully. What to wear, to meet Sean’s middle-aged friends? I choose a short, black, ABS dress and tall espadrilles, and I finish my hair and makeup. My folks are outside on the patio where they hang out most nights when they are in town, which isn’t very often. Dad smokes a cigar and drinks the first of many scotches, and Mom holds a glass of wine tightly by the stem. “What are you doing tonight?” Dad asks, an afterthought.
“I’m going out with Sean. Japanese.” Sean and I have been dating for a few months. My parents like him. He’s polite, and he gets me home by curfew. They don’t know that Sean is a drug dealer.
My parents love to enforce rules like curfew when they’re around. It makes them feel better about the fact that they have no idea what I’m doing when they are gone, which is most of the time. Dad builds hotels all over the place, and these days, Mom goes with him.
“That sounds like fun,” my mother murmurs without looking at me, and I wonder if she even heard what I said. She looks out at the view. Clouds tinged with pink build in the southern sky, glowing over the lights of the city. I play with my phone, texting Jillian, but she doesn’t text back. We ate lunch together, but I didn’t see her after that. She knows that I go to the hospital on Fridays, so we didn’t hang out after school. I wonder what she’s doing tonight.
Jillian never comes to the hospital. She practically grew up in rehab places like Banner. Her mom, Marilyn, is a party girl turned into junkie. Marilyn was in and out of treatment the whole time that we were in grade school. She brought some serious scumbags into their house when Jillian was a kid. Jilly saw more dope before she was ten than most people see in their lifetimes, not to mention the screaming and puking and crying and all the other fun stuff that goes along with hardcore addiction. When Marilyn finally got clean and married some super-rich guy she met at Narcotics Anonymous, Jilly moved into the house that he built for them. Super-rich guy is long gone now, and Marilyn is way too into herself to even notice Jillian except to throw cash at her so she’ll go away.
Monday, 6 August 2012
1st 5 Pages August Workshop Entries Up for Comment
This month's First Five Pages Workshop entries are posted believe for review and comment. For full rules, guidelines, and list of future mentors, check here. In the meantime, please join us by reading, enjoying, and providing the writers with your impressions and constructive suggestions. Please remember that we all respond better to critiques when they are delivered kindly and courteously.
In case you are wondering, I also have a confession about a technical stafu. Please read my apologies and explanation at the top of Saturday's announcement. Again, I am so, so, so sorry!
We are beyond fortunate this month to have a true writing master to help mentor the workshop -- acclaimed fantasy author Leah Cypess.
If you haven't read Leah's novels MISTWOOD or NIGHTSPELL, you are seriously missing out. MISTWOOD was a Kirkus 2010 Best Book for Teens, and NIGHTSPELL is just out now in paperback. You can visit Leah’s website or find her blogging at The Enchanted Inkpot, or on Facebook and Twitter.
In case you are wondering, I also have a confession about a technical stafu. Please read my apologies and explanation at the top of Saturday's announcement. Again, I am so, so, so sorry!
If you haven't read Leah's novels MISTWOOD or NIGHTSPELL, you are seriously missing out. MISTWOOD was a Kirkus 2010 Best Book for Teens, and NIGHTSPELL is just out now in paperback. You can visit Leah’s website or find her blogging at The Enchanted Inkpot, or on Facebook and Twitter.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Zero
Author: Chihuahua Zero
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy
Title: Manifestation Files
Scout and I sat together for the first time in several months. Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her over. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up the exchange student from the airport.
We were sitting next to each other on my back patio, sipping Fitz’s root beer. Scout’s headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, looked ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.
“Once we meet Finn, can we all go to my house for dinner?” she asked.
I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of my bottle. “Nah. Mom and I will have to make sure he settles in—at least for the first night.”
“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “Does your mom really want to cook dinner, considering she’s doing everything?”
“She’s picking Finn up from the airport. I agreed to give him the house tour.”
Scout snapped the scrunchie holding her blonde ponytail together. “Hmm…what evil plan are you brewing to assume complete control over your subject?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit applying your perverted logic onto the world, and I might invite you over more often.”
“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So are you nervous?”
“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. Was it safe opening up to Scout?
Before my rationality could shut me up, I lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and would be disappointed otherwise.”
Scout grew more somber. “Why did you agree in the first place?”
“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t get myself to be selfish enough.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, when my mom’s attention is split between three different things…also, it’s more of an irrational fear, but I’m afraid I’m not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make much effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program, although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her art studio.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. My fingers tensed up.
But instead of her offering useful advice, she said, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”
I flustered. “Drop it.”
“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“
“Strike two.”
“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”
I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch now.”
Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.
I folded my arms. “You need to understand you can’t tease me like that anymore.”
“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.
I entered the house, plenty of root bear left in the bottle.
God, Mom was now going to ask why Scout left so early.
I looked out the front window. Mom’s car was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in. They most certainly have passed each other.
----
I stepped onto the front porch, planted my feet onto the brick floor and folded my arms.
Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door popped open. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, and dragged a rolling suitcase behind him. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.
I recognized him. He was paled-skinned, with mouse brown hair side swept with a comb, Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish and awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.
Step by step, he walked up the stairs, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me. How did it go at the airport—
Halfway, Finn tripped and landed on his knees. His suitcase descended the steps.
Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was lifting himself up. He grimaced, but the time he stood, he was rubbing the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.
Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”
He received the suitcase, detracted the handle, and held it to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his breathes moving his chest. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me. “Okay.”
God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly jerk with an attitude—I could already tell he wasn’t the chatty kind.
All three of us advanced up the steps. At the porch, I opened the door, letting a burst of cold air hit us. We entered the house. I looked at the living room to the left, and the kitchen to the right. This was what Finn was seeing for the first time.
Mom sped pass Finn and I to the stairs. “Bryan? Will you show Finn his room and then show him around the house? I need to finish this project for a new client.” She walked up, leaving Finn and I alone. He looked at me, blinking absently. He tugged at his shoes with his feet.
“You can take your shoes off.” I untied my shoes and placed them neatly to the side. “My mom is a freelance artist. She has been jumping from project to project lately, so don’t be surprised if she seems to disappear for hours at the time.” Ever since her Owl Mural went viral, her car had been getting some mileage. Also, the phone bills, which I had taken a peek at, had an increase.
Finn didn’t respond. He was gazing out the window next to the front door.
“Um, Finn?”
He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”
Yep, he was absent-minded. I walked to the stairs, gesturing him over. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. Strange, his socks were dyed green. “You’re from Oxford, right? The information from the student exchange program wasn’t clear.”
“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.
“So you weren’t able to send any e-mails or letter?”
“I don’t have an e-mail.”
We circled around to the second floor. Besides Mom’s master bedroom, there were my room, and the guest bedroom Finn was going to use.
Genre: YA Urban Fantasy
Title: Manifestation Files
Scout and I sat together for the first time in several months. Of all the people that could calm my nerves, I invited her over. Habits refused to stay buried—considering Mom was picking up the exchange student from the airport.
We were sitting next to each other on my back patio, sipping Fitz’s root beer. Scout’s headband, which had a stuffed chick sewn on it, looked ridiculous. Yet, she wore it.
“Once we meet Finn, can we all go to my house for dinner?” she asked.
I kept my eyes on my ring finger, which I tapped against the rim of my bottle. “Nah. Mom and I will have to make sure he settles in—at least for the first night.”
“C’mon Bryan.” Scout leaned into the brick wall. “Does your mom really want to cook dinner, considering she’s doing everything?”
“She’s picking Finn up from the airport. I agreed to give him the house tour.”
Scout snapped the scrunchie holding her blonde ponytail together. “Hmm…what evil plan are you brewing to assume complete control over your subject?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s not my ‘subject’. Quit applying your perverted logic onto the world, and I might invite you over more often.”
“All right.” She looked beyond the fence. Sirens blared in a distance; a typical sound around the hospitals. “So are you nervous?”
“Of course.” I took a long sip, smearing the frost surrounding the glass. The coldness calmed my jitteriness. Was it safe opening up to Scout?
Before my rationality could shut me up, I lowered the root beer and looked her in the eye. “I prefer not having Mom and I host for an exchange student, but I feel like I can’t push this away. Mom expects me to look after him, and would be disappointed otherwise.”
Scout grew more somber. “Why did you agree in the first place?”
“I asked myself that for a while.” I took another sip. “It was after ‘The Owl’ went viral. She was in an artist high and I couldn’t get myself to be selfish enough.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Well, when my mom’s attention is split between three different things…also, it’s more of an irrational fear, but I’m afraid I’m not going to like this Finn guy. He didn’t make much effort to answer the messages I sent through the student exchange program, although it’s likely Mom intercepted some of them and lost them in her art studio.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“Once. She dismissed it.” I sighed. “What do you suggest I should do?”
She tilted her head to the side and gazed off to the distance. My fingers tensed up.
But instead of her offering useful advice, she said, “I don’t understand you. A boy is finally living at your house for an entire semester, and you don’t even—?”
I flustered. “Drop it.”
“You showed me Finn’s picture. He doesn’t look too—“
“Strike two.”
“Hey, speaking of baseball, do you think he would make good catcher—?”
I stood and pulled her from her seat. “Get off my porch now.”
Scout kept her grip on her bottle. She sighed. “All right. You’re no longer fun anyways.” She slipped her arm from my grasp and opened the yard gate to the front.
I folded my arms. “You need to understand you can’t tease me like that anymore.”
“Well, if you want me driving you again…” She walked through the alley. A few seconds later, I could hear her new car driving away.
I entered the house, plenty of root bear left in the bottle.
God, Mom was now going to ask why Scout left so early.
I looked out the front window. Mom’s car was driving into the spot Scout’s car was in. They most certainly have passed each other.
----
I stepped onto the front porch, planted my feet onto the brick floor and folded my arms.
Mom exited the car, drawing pad in hand. A couple of seconds later, the passenger door popped open. Finn put one foot onto the sidewalk, and dragged a rolling suitcase behind him. He fumbled with it before placing it onto the ground with a clatter.
I recognized him. He was paled-skinned, with mouse brown hair side swept with a comb, Beyond that, semi-formal clothes hanging off his scrawny frame, and a sheepish and awkward smile. Already, I could tell he wasn’t sure of himself.
Step by step, he walked up the stairs, his suitcase bouncing. He kept his head aimed at his feet. Mom remained at the car, grinning at me. How did it go at the airport—
Halfway, Finn tripped and landed on his knees. His suitcase descended the steps.
Before Mom could move, I ran down the steps to help Finn. By the time I reached him he was lifting himself up. He grimaced, but the time he stood, he was rubbing the back of his head with his palm, laughing nervously. “Sorry about that. I can be clumsy at times.” He was soft-spoken, with a British accent.
Mom picked up his suitcase, walked up, and handed it to him. “Finn, this is my son Bryan. You guys will be getting to know each other quite well over the next few months.”
He received the suitcase, detracted the handle, and held it to his chest. A bandage covered his right forearm. He gazed off in the distance, his breathes moving his chest. “O-okay.” He then made eye contact with me. “Okay.”
God, it was painful looking at him. Although he didn’t fit my worse-case-scenario—a surly jerk with an attitude—I could already tell he wasn’t the chatty kind.
All three of us advanced up the steps. At the porch, I opened the door, letting a burst of cold air hit us. We entered the house. I looked at the living room to the left, and the kitchen to the right. This was what Finn was seeing for the first time.
Mom sped pass Finn and I to the stairs. “Bryan? Will you show Finn his room and then show him around the house? I need to finish this project for a new client.” She walked up, leaving Finn and I alone. He looked at me, blinking absently. He tugged at his shoes with his feet.
“You can take your shoes off.” I untied my shoes and placed them neatly to the side. “My mom is a freelance artist. She has been jumping from project to project lately, so don’t be surprised if she seems to disappear for hours at the time.” Ever since her Owl Mural went viral, her car had been getting some mileage. Also, the phone bills, which I had taken a peek at, had an increase.
Finn didn’t respond. He was gazing out the window next to the front door.
“Um, Finn?”
He flinched. “Oh, am I supposed to do something?”
Yep, he was absent-minded. I walked to the stairs, gesturing him over. He followed, stepping across the carpet as if it was rough ground. Strange, his socks were dyed green. “You’re from Oxford, right? The information from the student exchange program wasn’t clear.”
“Father had some trouble making arrangements.” Finn’s shoulder brushed against the stairway.
“So you weren’t able to send any e-mails or letter?”
“I don’t have an e-mail.”
We circled around to the second floor. Besides Mom’s master bedroom, there were my room, and the guest bedroom Finn was going to use.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Wise
Julie K. Wise
YA ContemporaryInside the Circle
“So when do the doctors think you’ll get out of here?” I ask Allison as I shiver in the deep-freeze of the Center. It’s always cold in here. Allison shrugs at my question and leans back into the couch next to the only window in her private room.
“A couple of weeks, hopefully in time for graduation,” she answers. She plays with her platinum watch, flipping it around her wrist. “It’s all bullshit anyway. Detox was easy, and the people in here are freaks. I went too far one night, you know? I’m not an addict,” she says, rolling her eyes. I keep my face still.
Sure about that? I want to ask her. I can imagine her in daily group, doing those “complete the sentence” games that the doctors use to get a patient to discover her inner fuck-up.
Finish this sentence, Allison: I might be an addictif…
Well, Doctor, I might be an addict if… I took a bunch of painkillers and drank half a bottle of whiskey and ended up in rehab. But that was just supposed to be a little jump-start before I started to party. Before lines of coke off the compact in my purse. And did I mention the fix that I keep in my car?
Oh, yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Or actually, an addict. I know an addict when I see one. Takes one to know one. Still, I stay quiet. Let the doctors do their jobs. I love her like a sister, and it hurts to see how deluded she is, but judgments are against the rules in The Circle.
“A couple of weeks, that’s good, Allison. That’s nothing. But, you know, as long as you’re here, you might as well listen to what they have to say,” I shrug, trying to sound casual. She looks out the window at the houses on the desert mountain, and her eyes go distant.
“Yeah, I know.” She’s quiet for a minute, and then, she smiles and laughs. “I’ve been clean since I got in here. I miss the parties, but I’m not going back into the shit. Think about the shoes I can buy with the money I was shooting,” she jokes darkly. Allison is lucky that the pills got her before the other shit did. Recreational mainlining doesn’t stay recreational for very long.
Allison has never known limits, not even when we were little. In Kindergarten, she would spin until she was so dizzy, she’d throw up, just to see what it felt like. Allison loves more. Of whatever. If two pills feel good, three will feel better. If one line makes her fly like an angel, more will make her feel like a goddess. I get it, I really do. I’ve been off hard stuff for a few years, but I still remember.
“Well, you look good,” I tell her, truthfully. Her eyes are bright blue, and her skin is clear without makeup, if a little pale from months without sun, trapped in this ugly world of fluorescent hospital lights. I look down at her fresh, pink pedicure. “Who’s coming in to do your toes? Josie from Gossip?” She nods. Josie did her toes every two weeks even before Allison’s infamous overdose at Jimmy’s Holiday party a few months ago. Two girls found her blue in one of the bedrooms, and instead of calling 911, those ignorant bitches threw her in a tub so she wouldn’t throw up on the Persian rug. Luckily, some sophomore saw her in there, and he found a way to get her to the hospital. She’s lucky to be alive.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?” she asks me, wistfully.
“I’m going with Sean to Sakura tonight,” I answer honestly. She gives me a jealous look. Rehab is hell, and when it isn’t hell, it’s boring, for sure.
“Sushi. That sounds awesome. Maybe I’ll order in,” she says. Banner is the five-star of rehab. Patients can get most anything that they want, except for the one thing that they really want. I look up at the ceiling.
“Yeah, well, dinner is probably going to be really dull. We’re meeting…friends,” I say, and Allison searches my face.
“Friends of Sean’s?” she asks. I nod a small nod. She snorts. “Wow, I don’t know how you stand it, Kate, being that close.” My neck prickles, and I sit up straighter.
“That’s just how it is. The world doesn’t change just because I did,” I say with ice in my voice. I feel my face fix itself into my default. Cold, closed. Allison sees the change, and she lifts an eyebrow just as her doctor walks in. He greets her cheerfully, and as he turns away from her to check her chart, she gives him the finger and mouths fuck you at his back. I thaw instantly and laugh.
“See you next Friday, Allison,” I say, shaking my head.
“Thanks for coming, Kate,” she says, genuinely. I give her a little hug and smooth down her blonde curly hair before walking out into the hall.
What happened to Allison is scary, but it happens. People lose control and go too far. They fall into the darkness. After she got out of intensive care, her folks admitted her to Banner Behavioral Center, and people were here all of the time. The same people who saw her getting high at parties all semester sobbed around about what a waste and drugs are badand that’s why I won’t touch hard stuff as they passed their joints on to the next people. As long as everyone is having a good time, no one just says no.
Her story was on the news. No one expects rich kids to overdose. That’s for back alleys and people with dirt on their faces, not the hundred-dollar manicure crowd. We had a ridiculous assembly at school about #takingcareofeachother and #innerbeauty and #justsayno and #blahblahblah. Then, the hype died down, and now, I’m the only person who still visits Allison. Even her parents only visit her a couple times a week. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.
I drive fast up the mountain and fly up our long, steep driveway into the four-car garage, and after a long shower, I dress carefully. What to wear, to meet Sean’s middle-aged friends? I choose a short, black, ABS dress and tall espadrilles, and I finish my hair and makeup. My folks are outside on the patio where they hang out most nights when they are in town, which isn’t very often. Dad smokes a cigar and drinks the first of many scotches, and Mom holds a glass of wine tightly by the stem. “What are you doing tonight?” Dad asks, an afterthought.
“I’m going out with Sean. Japanese.” Sean and I have been dating for a few months. My parents like him. He’s polite, and he gets me home by curfew. They don’t know that Sean is a drug dealer.
My parents love to enforce rules like curfew when they’re around. It makes them feel better about the fact that they have no idea what I’m doing when they are gone, which is most of the time. Dad builds hotels all over the place, and these days, Mom goes with him.
“That sounds like fun,” my mother murmurs without looking at me, and I wonder if she even heard what I said. She looks out at the view. Clouds tinged with pink build in the southern sky, glowing over the lights of the city. I play with my phone, texting Jillian, but she doesn’t text back. We ate lunch together, but I didn’t see her after that. She knows that I go to the hospital on Fridays, so we didn’t hang out after school. I wonder what she’s doing tonight.
Jillian never comes to the hospital. She can’t stand hospitals. She practically grew up in rehab places like Banner. Her mom, Marilyn, is a party girl turned into junkie. Marilyn was in and out of treatment the whole time that we were in grade school. She brought some serious scumbags into their house when Jillian was a kid. Jilly saw more dope before she was ten than most people see in their lifetimes, not to mention the screaming and puking and crying and all the other fun stuff that goes along with hardcore addiction. When Marilyn finally got clean and married some super-rich guy she met at Narcotics Anonymous, Jilly moved into the house that he built for them. Super-rich guy is long gone now, and Marilyn is way too into herself to even notice Jillian except to throw cash at her so she’ll go away.
1st 5 Pages August Workshop - Panteleakos
Author: Nicole Panteleakos
Genre: Upper Middle Grade Contemporary Mystery
Title: "Anabel Mist Does Not Exist"
ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST
Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.
“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.
“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.
“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.
“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”
All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.
The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.
Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.
Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”
I remember thinking, “How can I figure out who am I when I don’t even know my own name?”
I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”
That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.
That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.
“Audrey, the Bad Men are coming!” she said. “I packed up everything.
Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.
And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.
CHAPTER ONE
It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.
One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.
I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.
“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.
“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.
“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”
I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?
“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”
M.Z. and I call it “sideways,” the way Lola Jean talks. It always feels like she’s dishing out an insult, even when her tone is kind and her words aren’t necessarily mean.
She makes me want to scream.
“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.
“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”
“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.
“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.
“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”
Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.
“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.
“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”
“Who’s Mother Theresa?”
“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.
“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"
“Yeah, kinda,” I say, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.
Genre: Upper Middle Grade Contemporary Mystery
Title: "Anabel Mist Does Not Exist"
ANABEL MIST DOES NOT EXIST
Every time I’ve introduced myself to anyone, I’ve lied.
“Hi, my name is Anabel.” Lie.
“I’m twelve years old.” Lie.
“I just moved here from the West Coast.” Lie.
“My birthday is in March, my dad lives in Europe, and my mom’s name is Margo.”
All lies. A whole lifetime of lies.
The truth is I don’t know my real name. I’m not sure exactly how old I am, and I’m not from the West Coast. At least, I don’t think I am. My birthday changes with the seasons, I have no idea who my father is or where he lives, or if he’s even alive, and my Mom’s had so many different identities I couldn’t even begin to list them all.
Mom says it’s better this way. Safer. “Better safe than sorry,” she always says. But she won’t tell me why.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I stare at the ceiling and try to think back to when I was really little, my earliest memories. I’m like a detective looking for clues, but all I have to go on are flashes of recollection so short it’s like I’m clicking through channels and only stopping on each show long enough to hear a line or two. Not enough dialogue to actually tell me anything.
Last year in fifth grade health Mrs. Jimenez began a lesson on self-discovery. She said, “Girls, you’re pre-teens now, and it’s time you learn the truth: The next ten years will not be easy. Life will be full of ups and downs. You’ll be growing up and figuring out who you really are. It’s a very important time in the life of a young woman.”
I remember thinking, “How can I figure out who am I when I don’t even know my own name?”
I started to cry, which was not unusual for me, but it was beyond embarrassing, and of course Mrs. Jimenez noticed right away. Her eyes met mine and she opened her mouth, but what she planned to say I never did find out, because at that moment Sofia Mejia raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, asked, “Are we gonna learn about sex now?”
That distracted everyone, including Mrs. Jimenez who got very red-faced, and by the time the lunch bell rang I’d managed to pull myself together.
That was a Friday. Two nights later I was sound asleep, dreaming about a big city building with lots of stairs, when Mom shook me awake.
“Audrey, the Bad Men are coming!” she said. “I packed up everything.
Get dressed. We don’t have much time.”
A week later, Mrs. Jimenez was over a thousand miles away.
And my name wasn’t Audrey anymore.
CHAPTER ONE
It happens as I’m exiting the bathroom.
One second, I’m upright and walking fine; the next, I’m on my hands and knees on the floor. I don’t hear my jeans rip, but I sure feel it.
I can’t believe I tripped over my own shoelaces like some clumsy first grader. I move into a sitting position and bend my right knee so I can re-tie my laces. Then I take a second to glare at my scabbed-up kneecap, poking through the large hole.
“You couldn’t have survived just a few more hours?” I whisper to my Salvation Army jeans because I know that they did this on purpose, just to embarrass me.
“What’s the matter, Anabel?” someone asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Her Majesty, Lola Jean Wright, Queen of Sixth Grade. Of course she would be the one to stumble upon me, kneeling in the hall, jeans all torn up, tears in my eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, but she kneels down beside me and pats my shoulder like we’re friends.
“Aww, you poor thing! Just look at your pants. Don’t worry, it’s not like anybody will really notice. It’s the last day of school, and besides, no one cares what you look like! So don’t cry. There now. Feel better?”
I just stare at her. I never know what to say to Lola Jean. Lola Jean, with her expensive skinny jeans and perfectly-fitted tee-shirt. Lola Jean, with her curly hair pulled into the world’s neatest ponytail. Lola Jean, with teeth that would make Miss America jealous. How do I talk to someone like that?
“Hello, Anabel? Are you awake?” she knocks on my exposed kneecap and giggles.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.
Her Majesty stands up and nudges me with the toe of her white and silver flat. “Come on, up we go. You’re fine. It’s not a big deal, Anabel. No one looks at you.”
M.Z. and I call it “sideways,” the way Lola Jean talks. It always feels like she’s dishing out an insult, even when her tone is kind and her words aren’t necessarily mean.
She makes me want to scream.
“Go away, Lola Jean,” I say finally, but of course she just stands there giving me this pitying look. Maybe if I close my eyes, she’ll disappear.
“Tell you what? Consuela, my maid, said the other day that she needs to get rid of some of her daughters’ old clothes that don’t fit anymore. She could bring them to a thrift store, but why don’t I just have her drop them off at your house? That’ll save you and your mom a trip! Plus, then you guys don’t have to use all your welfare money to buy clothes. What do you say?”
“We’re not on welfare,” I say, but Lola Jean just laughs.
“Of course you’re not.” She winks at me like we’ve got a secret. For one wild moment I really want to bite her leg. I’m still crouched down; I could do it.
“We don’t need your maid’s old clothes,” I insist. “We’re fine.” With that, I do what I always do: stand up, turn around, and walk away.
“Let me know if you change your mind!” she calls after me. I bite my lip to keep from crying. If she hears me crying she will never let me forget it, the way she hasn’t let me forget the day I got a bloody nose in gym because I tripped over my own feet and fell flat on my face during a game of basketball. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay after school with me one day?” she asks all the time. “I can teach you to dribble so you won’t embarrass yourself again!”
Lucky for me, when I round the corner I almost walk right into the only person in sixth grade who thinks I’m fine just the way I am: Mei-Zhen Wu.
“Hey Anabel! What’s wrong?” M.Z. asks.
“The usual. My jeans ripped, then Lola Jean busted on me, but in that way she does where it sounds like she’s Mother Theresa if you tell a teacher about it, you know?”
“Who’s Mother Theresa?”
“This nun who worked with lepers in India,” I explain.
“Oh. Well hey, maybe Lola Jean will work with lepers someday and end up losing her nose. Does it make me a bad person to say I’d laugh at her?"
“Yeah, kinda,” I say, but I know M.Z.’s just kidding… mostly.
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