Writing Wednesday: Sad

     Just a warning, this is an R-rated excerpt.  Oh, it's also unedited, keep that in mind.  Oh, one more thing, my poem, Me, will be posted on Cari's Book Blog today.  Cari is a rockin' review blogger and all around great girl.

 

      There was a silent pause.  “Well, Jordie won’t be here until around six.”  Jordie Hicks, Haleys’s new boyfriend.  Didn’t really see it myself.  He was a jock.  A tennis player to be exact.  Short, blond, and freckled.  Haley probably could have had any guy she wanted if she tried. But she didn’t.  Try that is.  She was perfectly complacent following David and I around, getting the occasional drunken mash, not going for what she really wanted (which unfortunately was my brother, Bryce, which I totally didn’t get since he was a freshman to our juniors), and just dating any schmuck who’d ask.

     She was really pretty too, and I’d tell her all the time, but I don’t think she believed me.  She was tall and thin.  I envied her hair, long dark loose curls.  I think she had no confidence in her looks and herself in general because she lived in a house of assholes.  Her step-mom was the most superficial phony bitch on the face of the planet.  To her, everyone is worthless unless, that is, you made bank and looked like you came straight out of an Ambercrombie catalog.   Elitist bitch.  Every time I go to their house, she sizes me up, as if I might have improved since the time before.  And she never says, hello, it’s always just, “Sydney,”  making me sound like something disgusting she can’t wait to spit from her tongue.

     Haley’s dad was a workaholic and pretty much lived at his office or his girlfriends.  I didn’t even know Haley had a dad until about two years into our friendship.  We were sitting around doing homework when this dude walks in without a word and opens the fridge.  I was sitting there staring, wondering, WTF?  I looked at Haley, but she didn’t seem concerned, so I said, “Who is that?” 

     She glanced up for a split second and said, “My dad,” then went right back to her homework.  He grabbed something from the fridge and left.  He didn’t say anything to Haley.  Not hi or how was school or who’s your friend.  Nothing.   I speculated once if he just hated his existence outside of the office and slutty bartender he was fucking, or if he was actually mute.

     And then there were her brothers, four to be exact, one step, from the bitch’s first failed marriage, and three half, the product of the union between her dad and step mom.  The older one was a complete waste of oxygen.  He blew up his girlfriend and their two year old son in their meth lab a couple years earlier.  Now he’s coming down from the addiction, and spends his days on the ‘rent’s couch crying, watching reality shows, smoking cigarettes, and drinking a bottle of Jack a day.  Prick is too lazy to even buy us booze when we need it.

      Not much to say about the three younger brothers, except they’re so hyped up on sugar, video games, and inattention that they’d have to make up a new acronym for whatever their diagnosis would be.  And all three think Haley is a disease.  It’s no wonder Haley always wanted to hang out at my house.  Well, all that and of course the fact that my brother lived there.

Monday Morning Blahg

First off, I have a cover and I'm psyched.  Ready . . . wait for it . . . ta-da!!

Second of all it's Monday and like most Mondays, things have not gone according to plan.  So that's all I'm posting.

Going back to bed until tomorrow.

~Megan

Writing Wednesday: Sad

Unedited of course.

We never said a word to each other until we both found ourselves at Lacy McKenna’s kegger.  The best cure for shyness is a couple pints of beer.  I remember just sitting there in the corner by myself, Haley, that’s my best friend, was off getting us a couple more beers.  David came up and said, “You’re the girl that shits behind me in English.” 

     I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he slurred sit to sound like shit.  “Yeah, that’s me.”

     He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders.  “I’ve seen you looking at me.  Why you always doin’ that?”

     I looked at him and said, “Because I find you interesting.”

     “Why?”

     “You’re so quiet and always look like you’re deep in thought.  I sometimes wonder what you’re thinking about.”

     “Really?”

     “Yeah, really.”

     “That’s kind of cool.”

     An awkward silence lingered between us, and I figured it couldn’t get any more awkward so I said, “I heard about your dad.  Sorry.”

     He looked at me and said, “You want to go talk somewhere?  Quieter I mean?”

     “Sure.” 

     He grabbed my hand and led me through the living room.  Haley was heading back with my beer, so snatched it from her and said, “Be back in a bit.”  Knowing how much I crushed on David, she gave me the thumbs up then went on her way. 

     David took me up a staircase, and opened the first door on the right, which he immediately closed back up saying, “Oops, sorry.”  He turned and gave me an embarrassed look.  I giggled.

     Door number three seemed to be the charm.  He led me to the bed where we sat in silence for a minute sipping our beers while he eyed me cautiously.  Finally he said, “I’ve never really talked about it and no one up to this point has ever asked.”

     “About your dad?”

     “Yeah?”

     “That’s because people trip over their tongues when it comes to talking about the hard facts of life.”

Tooting the Horn Tuesday: Awards and whatnots

The ALA (American Library Association) awards were announced this week.  Here are the winners.

Here are the Printz award honors:

Stolen by Lucy Christopher
Please Ignore Vera Dietz by AS King
Revolver by Marcus Sedgwick
Nothing by Janne Teller

and the winner is . . . Ship Breaker by Paolo Bacigalupi

The Newberry Honorees are:

Dark Emperor and Other Poems of the Night by Joyce Sidman
Heart of a Samurai by Margi Preus
One Crazy Summer by Rita Williams Garcia
Turtle in Paradise by Jennifer L Holm

And the Newberry winner is:

Moon Over Manifest by Clare Vannderpool


Amazing right?  Congrats to all these amazing authors.  Let's give them a shout out and rush to the book stores and give them a read (if we haven't already).

~Megan

Thought Provoking Thursday: Happy Endings

I've had this running discussion on an Amazon forum, as well as on Facebook after a woman was upset, as well as her son, that the book he had to read for his language arts ended with the main character committing suicide.  They both think the teacher should have warned about the tragic ending of the story and perhaps shouldn't have taught that book at all.

I disagree.

I write about tragedy.    A lot.  Real life tragedy.  Death, eating disorders, kidnapping, school shootings.  Not every story has a happy ending.  This is just a fact, so how can every story we write have a happy ending?  They can't.  In my research about YA literature, I've found that teens want a character they can relate to.  One that shares there own fears, problems, and issues.  These issues include violence, abuse, drugs, even death.


I also take issue with this because of the book in question.  I've not read it, but I ordered it yesterday because it sounds amazing.  It's based on the life of a real person.  A boy who lies about his age so he can join the army during the Civil War.  He's fifteen and he thinks it's going to be a good time.  He's very wrong.  He witnesses death, kills, and probably more.  He gets wounded and goes home, then suffers from post traumatic stress disorder.  This is a historically significant book.  It teaches that the war doesn't end on the battlefield.  Soldiers take it home with them, and some suffer as a result.  It is also relevant to today as our troops continue to come home from Iraq and Afghanistan suffering from PTSD.  I've seen it first hand.

Not to mention the author, Gary Paulsen, has written three Newberry Honors titles, so, you know, he's an award winning author.


A teacher hands out a syllabus at the beginning of each semester.  As a parent, you need to look at it, and here at our schools, you have to sign it and send it back.  Perhaps instead of criticizing the book choices your teachers make, (which I know are very carefully chosen) you look into them yourself first.


But to have the teacher warn you about an unhappy ending, you may as well just be one of those people who read the end of the book before they start.  Also, there has been discussion about hope.  Many novels with sad endings still leave us with a feeling of hope at the end.  I have no idea if the book in question (A Soldier's Heart) does or not, but I'm going to find out.


Okay, I think I ranted enough.  Weigh in.  Let me know what you think.

Manic Monday: Back to reality

Now that the whimsical sugar-plum-fairy-candy-cane-shopping-baking-wrapping-eating-drinking-talking-snowmen-santa-claus season is over it's time get back to it.

This includes work.  I love my job, but it's always hard getting back to it after a long weekend. 

A trip to the dump to get rid of the extra garbage and the 500 pounds of cardboard left over from Christmas (that could be a slight exaggeration).  



I have two video book trailers to make for two 2011 YA/MG debut novels.  I'm actually almost done with one of them, just adding the titles. 

 I received my copy edits in the mail just before Christmas.  Needless to say, I've not touched them yet.  Deadline is January 10th so I've GOT to get to work.

Lastly (well, probably not but all I can think of right now) getting back in shape after letting myself go for the last six months (ugh). Why is it so easy to fall OUT of shape, but so hard to get back into shape? sigh.  I'm hoping the new xbox kinect will help.  I really don't eat all that bad but my ass has pretty much been glued to my computer chair since July.

Okay, so here I go, getting back to it.

Catch you on the flip side,

~Megan

Writing Wednesday: Taking Zoey

     This is a bit from my new edgy YA novel, Taking Zoey.  I was inspired to write it after reading an article in the paper of an Australian girl's bones being found on a river bank.  Her name was Zahara.  How terrifying would it be to be taken like that, and if you were held for any amount of time before death, how desolate and hopeless you would feel.

Warning, this section would be rated PG-13 or R by the motion pictures association.  Consider yourself warned.

He practically threw me back in the closet.  He grabbed the lamp, my plate from the night before, and he took my clothes and left leaving me wet, cold, and in darkness.  I crawled to the little door at the end of my closet, opened it up and went through.  I continued toward the vent around the corner.  Though I was freezing, I unwrapped myself from my towel, and dropped it to the floor, then I slithered my way up into the vent.  Without clothes on, I had more room to wriggle around, but still got caught up at the hips.  Another few days of not eating would probably do it though.

     I squirmed my way back out, and was about to grab my towel when I heard my abductor coming down the stairs.  I quickly grabbed my towel and crawled as quickly as I could back to the door, went through it, and had just sat down on my mattress when my door opened. 

     “Why are you panting?” he asked.

     I had to come up with something fast, but what?  “I was just crying.”

     “Oh.”  He looked uncomfortable, which struck me as odd.  Maybe in his warped way he was actually starting to like me?  To feel for me?  To think of me as a human being instead of an object?  As a daughter figure even?  I mean, though he was a sick fuck and damaged his kid for life he must have loved her in his way?  Shown her some kind of normal affection at times.  He handed me a pair of sweats, boxer shorts and socks.

     “Thank you,” I said taking them from him.  I slid everything on immediately having been naked and freezing.   He turned to go and I said, “Are you ever going to let me go?”

     He never turned back to me and all he said was, “I’ve asked Georgia to marry me.  She’ll be moving in soon.  She doesn’t know I have a child.”  Then he left, locking me in behind him.

     So that was it.  He was going to kill me.

Friend or Foe Friday (er, Satruday this week I guess)

So, yes, once again I missed my blog day, but I've been busy, and here I am making it up and stuff.  So on Friday's I've decided to blog about someone who has either inspired me or pissed me off to the point that they end up in my blog.

Today is inspiration and that inspiration is my friend Gae.  If you read my blog, you are well acquainted with her already.  But every day this woman does things that amaze me.

I met her in the 2007 ABNA (Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award) contest, and we became fast friends.  We're like sisters now.  Sadly, we live clear across the country from each other, but hey, in the technology age that hardly matters, right?

Gae was the first of my writer friends to land a book deal, and rightly so.  The time and dedication she puts into her writing astounds.  This on top of a job, two boys, a husband, etc, etc.  And her writing is amazing.

But on top of all that, she is also a champion for the unpublished writer.  She is constantly reading and editing manuscripts and query letters helping those still on the journey perfect them.  She did this with Never Eighteen, and I know she helped make it a thousand times the book it was.  I try to emulate her in this by helping people with their writing as well, but it's hard and it's time consuming (I do help a bit).  So I admire her for doing this for others.

She's faced adversity, had her ups and downs, but she always comes out of it, brushes it off, and begins again.  Plus, she's charming, brilliant, hilarious, and beautiful.

She is what writers, mothers, wives, and women should aspire to.

Her novel, The Pull of Gravity comes out next May from FSG, Frances Foster books.  You should buy it.

Thanks for reading.

Megan

Thank you readers

Through my Google alerts, I've found that some readers have added me to their Debut Author Challenge reading list for 2011.  I just want to thank those of you who have added Never Eighteen personally.

If you don't know about the Debut Author Challenge, you need to check out the Story Siren's blog post.  That post also contains a list of book debuting next year.  So far my release date is unknown (thus my novel is at the end of the list), but is scheduled for a Fall release.

I may join the challenge myself.  I know there are some great books well worth reading coming out next year and I definitely want to read my fellow Class of 2k11 novels.

Thanks again to those who've added my novel.  Happy reading!!

Megan

Austin's Journey: The Space Needle

Following Austin's journey once again, this time to the Space Needle.  Funny, I've lived in this area pretty much my whole life, and never stepped foot in the Space Needle until researching for this book a year ago.  

He takes his best friend, who also happens to be his secret crush there, a place neither of them had ever been.  It takes 41 seconds to reach the top of the 605 foot tower built for the 1962 World's Fair.  Here are some panoramics I took while I was there. 

This was the line to get in.  It doesn't even show a quarter of it.

We come full circle.

  

I don't think you can even get the idea of how amazing this structure is from the pictures.  You have to come see it for yourself.

Ciao,

Megan

What to write next...

Well, blogger was down for a while yesterday and by the time it came up, I was deep into other things. So, it's Tuesday. I think I'll talk about writing today.

As you know (if you read me on a regular basis, which you should if you don't ;) I've just finished my first set of revisions on Cheesy, and am now working on my untitled dystopian. The problem, I have tons of book ideas, and I feel not enough time to write them all. Do you have this problem?

I've got at least three more YA started, a couple women's lit pieces, with one constantly on the brain, and of course, I have five shelved completed books I'd like to edit.

I'm excited about all of them. It's been hard to choose which to work on when. Of course, I needed a follow up to Mending Fences, and Lockdown apparently didn't cut it, so I tireless wrote Cheesy, and everyone so far is liking the dystopian, including my agent, so I've decided that should be the next project, but then which do I work on?

How do you decide which project to focus on? What you're hot on? What the market is calling for?

Do you choose the next project for yourself, or your audience? Discuss. :)

A Slice of Cheese(y)

So, I finished my first round of revisions of my novel, Cheesy, yesterday. I have a few people reading it to give me some feedback. When they're done, I'll do another round.

But until then, I'm going to work on another project, more than likely my untitled dystopian I started last year. What I've written so far has received some really good responses. But I do have something else I've started as well. ugh. I can't help myself. I also have an idea for a kind of comedic chick lit book (i'm not all gloom and doom, I can be funny).

So I think today, I'm going to give you an excerpt of Cheesy for your reading pleasure (or displeasure I guess, if you don't like it :)

Cheesy, Chapter One

There was a time I used to wear dresses. I wore pink, and patent leather shoes, and ribbons in my hair. I used to play with dolls. That was before my mom died of the cancer. I sat there and watched her disintegrate there in her own bed. I saw her hair fall out, watched her body get weaker and more frail by the day, watched her silently slip out of consciousness. Her already labored breath would catch and her chest would heave when it became too painful to even breathe. When she finally died, I was glad I was asleep. I wouldn’t want to have watched her take her last breath.

Upon waking that morning, I went downstairs to an odd pair of undertakers in my living room. The first undertaker was just like the ones you see in the movies. His name was George and he was very tall and pale with dark hair and a deep voice. The other’s name was George too. I know, too weird. He was the comic relief. It was almost like watching a vaudeville act instead of the men who were going to take your dead mom’s body out of your house forever.

Then there was my dad, looking dazed as the undertakers performed their monologues, then went about their duties. He didn’t speak, he didn’t cry, tears having run their course weeks before, he just sat, and I let him just sit, staying quiet, watching him. I wasn’t sure how he was going to take it all. Truth was, I didn’t know him very well at all. At the time I was thirteen, and my mother had been my sole caretaker while Dad coached college football, and travelled. And when he was home he worked on plays, and watched film, and strategized. I knew lots of his players, he’d invite them to dinner every so often and my mom would serve them meatloaf, or pasta, or pork chops while my dad told them they were playing well, or how to improve their game, or that they were being cut. That’s how it went it our house.

The undertakers finished up, and rolled my mom out on a stretcher in a big black plastic bag with a zipper down the front. They handed my dad some pamphlets, he still didn’t speak, just nodded really. He didn’t even get up. I closed the door behind them then went to my mom’s room. She had her own in the last few weeks. The air was stifling and held a stale smell to it. A death smell. 

Pictures still hung by thumbtacks to a cork board, photos of us in happier times. There was one of her and me baking cookies, some from our many trips to the zoo, my parents wedding picture. I hardly remember her looking like she did that day with a head full of hair and rosy cheeks and a full body.

Her bed faced the window so she could look out over her garden, which my grandma would come and tend for her in the final days. Light was shining through the window and a stained glass ornament I made for her in third grade, the colors spreading across the gray carpet like it had spilled right out of a rainbow. Looking across the room, I could see every piece of dust filtering through the air. Swatting my hand through it to make a clear trail, I stepped toward the shelf full of books that stood right underneath the window. My mom, she loved to read. I remember her reading to me when I was little, Where the Wild Things Are, fairy tales, or poems from Shel Silverstein. I know some of those by heart. One of my favorites was called Whatif. I often thought about the Whatifs in life, so I guess this made perfect sense.

When my mother read for herself, she read stories with strong female characters, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Color Purple, and the like. She taught me to be strong myself, and to always go for what I want in life, big or small.

On the wall next to the window was an entertainment center with a television, a stereo, music and movies. My mom’s favorite movie was Fried Green Tomatoes. We watched it together a bunch of times. I admit, I liked it too, though it definitely isn’t my favorite, but I like how the women stand up for what’s right, and stand by each other in the hardest of times.

My eyes took in the room one last time before exiting. Everything was just the same as it was the day before, except for her bed of course. Hospice had brought in a hospital bed for her, one of those that you can lift up the head and feet, the kind with the bars on the sides so you don’t fall out. It was stripped. No more purple sheets, no more quilt made by my grandmother’s own hands, no pillow case. No more mom. Stripped away just like the soiled bed sheets.

But that’s enough about my mom, though I still hold her memory close to my heart and strive to be what I knew she wanted me to be, this really isn’t about her. It’s about what came after, and me and my dad, how he raised me, and the what and why of how I got where I am, and who helped and who hurt along the way. It wasn’t easy that’s for sure. Pretty much everyone was against me, well, everyone except Tommy, but then I’m pretty sure Tommy would support anything I did seeing as we’ve secretly liked one another since seventh grade.

So like I said, when my mom was alive, I was a girl, when she left me, things changed, I changed. I felt I had to, otherwise I might as well have been an orphan. I was the daughter of Shelby University football coach, Frank Reed, and he lived and breathed football. And being a daughter who wanted to know her father better, I put away the ribbons, the dresses, and my black patent leather Mary Janes, and eventually decided that the only way to my dad’s heart was through football.

Ciao,

Megan

The end of the Journey...

This journey to publication has been a fun ride. I've met some great people, learned a hell of a lot, but every journey has to end eventually, right? And so this aspiring writer is no longer aspiring. This writer is getting PUBLISHED!!!!

Yes, I've had an agent for about a month now. And two weeks after I signed with her, I received an offer from an editor at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. My YA novel Mending Fences is scheduled for release fall of 2011.

I'm going to keep blogging and vlogging, and I'm currently working on Cheesy as a follow up.

I just want to thank you all for following my blog and supporting me through this journey. Every one of you means a lot to me.

..and now the next journey begins...

Author Branding

It sounds painful, I know, but It's not like cattle branding. It's like your brand name as an author. Making your name mean something so people recognize it and seek it out. In all essence, I'm still very much a newbie when it comes to this authorship stuff. I've been writing since 2002, trying to get published since 2007, and I'm just now hearing about this branding stuff.

If you've never heard of it, for a great article that explains it in detail click here.


What is my brand? Should I even have a brand pre-publication? Or should I wait and let my audience brand me? My answer, I think I should be creating a brand. Maybe it's why I've been doing what I've been doing for the last three years, book reviews, videos, basically plastering myself all over the internet.

Right now, I am the angsty YA writer that makes the videos and wears the knit hats and knee socks. The one that writes the gut wrenching novels that encapsulates the fears of today's youth.

Of course, this means nothing right now to anyone but my loyal fans. (fan? ;) It will mean something later. When my novels are published. When people go to the book store, not looking for any edgy YA book, or even Mending Fences, or Cheesy, but when they go and ask for the latest book by Megan Bostic.

So, tell me, what's your author brand?

Getting the axe, and the excerpt that will never be...

Okay, you know by now I didn't make it. It's fine, really. I thought I had a shot, or I made myself believe I had a shot, but no dice. I think my writing does stand up, BUT, I did write the novel in a month, and though I revised it as much as I could in the two months I had, it needs more.

Plus, scanning the titles, there's a LOT of sci-fi/fantasy. I have no idea what this means. Maybe it means most the reviewers like that, or Penguin asked for that, or that genre just had great entries with brilliant writing. BUT, I kept hearing the Sesame Street song, "One of these things is not like the other" running through my brain. MEANING, my edgy YA about a school shooting did not seem to fit.

And rereading my excerpt, well, it's pretty edgy right from the get go. If my reviewer has something against violence, sexual content, and profanity, I didn't have a chance to begin with. I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because truly I'm not. It's just time to forge a different path.

That said, some of you said you wanted to read my excerpt, so here it is. Feel free to leave your comments, critiques, questions.

Lockdown

Chapter One

I like to watch people. I sit on the back of the bus as they enter one by one like cattle. I study their faces, their body language and try to figure out what kind of day they think they’re going to have. I’m able to stare, to study because I’m invisible to them. All of them. I’m average, nothing less nothing more. I hide behind hats and scarves, big coats and long skirts, undetectable. I don’t mind it really, in fact, I prefer it.

The first to enter the bus that day were what I like to call the Trinity of Assholes, Red, Zane, and Ashley. Red and Zane were on the football team. My first experience with Red was a memorable one. It was a couple weeks into freshmen year. He had a little brunette pressed up against the wall with his hand up her skirt. She struggled, trying to push him away, which only made him press harder. I was mesmerized and disgusted by the entire scene. I could have said something, or at least made some kind of noise, but I didn’t. I just turned around and walked back the way I came.

Zane was a horse of a different color. I caught him in the same kind of predicament, only it was consensual and it was with Brad from the track team. Zane ran around trying to screw every cheerleader in sight to overcompensate for his latent homosexual tendencies. He thought no one knew, but sometimes he was too confident in his indiscretions.

Ashley was one of those cheerleaders and Red’s girlfriend at the time. Blonde, beautiful, and a heinous bitch. Her favorite activity used to be making fun of anyone she deemed ugly, poor, or weird. He second favorite activity? Eating an entire package of Oreos, sticking her finger down her throat, and yacking them up. So much for perfection.

“Me and Kelsey, last night, her parent’s hot tub,” Zane said when they sat down.

Red asked, “So how many does that make?”

“Six.”

“That’s sick man. That only leaves four, including Ash, here, and it’s not even December.”

“You are not getting your hands on me, Zane,” Ashley said.

“Come on Ash, it’s for a good cause, every year, every cheerleader. It’s tradition. You didn’t complain last year.”

“I wasn’t going out with Red last year, asshole.”

“Good point. You call me if things change.” Red punched him in the arm.

“What?” Zane said laughing.

The three of them loved to punk and torture the losers, freaks, and geeks. Feared by most, revered by the rest, they were the King, Queen, and Prince of Jefferson High School.

They always sat at the front of the bus, first on, first off. I remember them giggling, chatting, Red whispering into Ashley’s ear, probably asking for a blow job, or something Neanderthal like that. I could tell by looking at them, they thought they were in for a great day.

Matt, followed closely by his friend A.J. boarded next, a couple of stoner gaming geeks. A.J was usually fairly animated, non-stop talk, outrageous hand gestures, laughed at his own jokes, probably OCD, ADD, and a few more acronyms to boot. His most annoying trait, repeating the last word of about every other thing he said. I call him a repitard.

I noticed something different in Matt that day. He normally would enter the bus, head hung low, not making eye contact with anyone. But he looked content, happy even, with a slight smirk on his face. He had his guitar with him too, and his new cheery disposition made me afraid he was going to pull it out and start singing Kumbaya. This wouldn’t surprise me from some of the Jesus freaks at school like Krista, but definitely would have been out of character for Matt.

Just before he passed the Trinity of Assholes, Red stuck his foot out sending Matt sprawling to the floor. The Trinity laughed their asses off.

Matt’s guitar case slid down the bus hitting my foot. I would have expected a look of fear to spread across Matt’s face, but instead he smiled as he stood up.

“Oh, sorry there dude,” Red said. “It was an accident.”

Matt merely bowed, did this chivalrous hand twirl, followed by the finger, and then began walking toward his guitar case.

“Hey!” Red was pissed. He started going after him, but Ashley stopped him. I’m sure she didn’t do it out of any kind of sympathy or kindness. More than likely she was plotting to get back at him.

Matt picked up the case at my feet. He looked me straight in the eyes. It gave me the eebie jeebies. People don’t normally look at me at all, and then to have someone look into my eyes when theirs are so full of, I don’t know, I guess I’d call it a joyous hatred, it creeped me out.

A.J slipped into the seat in front of me, Matt slid in next to him, holding his guitar case at his side in the aisle. A.J. continued to talk Matt’s ear off, while Matt just listened, ignored, or whatever, never taking his eyes off Red.

Red, Ashley, and Zane continued to conspire. They whispered, and kept looking back toward Matt, laughing. They were definitely planning revenge. I usually don’t involve myself or my emotions in such trivialities, but I feared for Matt that day. I’ve seen the trinity do some monstrous things. I had no idea it would be them on the receiving end that day, not then anyway.

***

We’d made a plan. After school, Williams, after a good beating, would get shoved in his locker, and left overnight. What a prick. No one disses me like that and lives to talk about it. I would have beat his ass right then and there, but Ash told me we could get him back bigger, better. That’s why I loved her, so incredibly devious.

When Zane and I got to the locker room and suited up, we noticed Williams sitting there holding something, staring at it. I smacked him on the back of the head and said, “Freak.” As I walked by, I saw what he was holding, a picture of Jenny Clark. I snatched it from his hand. He just took it like a little bitch. “Jenny? What would Jenny want with a loser like you?” I asked.

He hung his head and said under his breath, “Fuck you, Red.”

“What did you say? Fuck me? Did I hear you right? You want to fuck me?” Then I yelled real loud so everyone in the locker room could hear, “Hey Zane, you here that? Williams here wants to fuck me!”

Zane came over and said, “I knew he was a fag.” We were crackin’ up.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Williams said. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I ignored it.

“You wouldn’t be able to handle me anyway. I’d rip you apart bro,” I said.

Williams stood up. Damn, I never realized how tall that boy was. He looked down at me, straight in my eyes and smiled. “Let me rephrase that. Fuck off, Red.”

I turned to Zane, “No he didn’t.”

“Yes he did,” Zane answered.

I got right in his face and said, “You’re lucky I don’t kick the shit out of you right now. I’ve got bigger plans for you, my man.”

Zane and I started heading out to the gym. Zane turned back to him and said, “You better watch your back loser.” He put an “L” shape on his forehead with his thumb and index finger.

Williams just stood there, with a crazy smile on his face, and he said, “No, you better watch your back, Zane. Have a nice day gentlemen.”

“That dude is crazy. He must have a death wish,” Zane said.

“Let’s make him crazier. Let’s mess with his girl,” I said nodding toward Jenny Clark.

Chapter Two

“Fuck Red Red,” I said when Matt sat down.

“No big deal,” he answered. Not very Matt of him. Normally, he would be raging, at least to me. He didn’t seem like himself.

“What do ya mean, no big deal? He’s a dick dick.”

“That’s a given, he’s a dick, he’s always been a dick. It won’t matter soon enough,” he said.

“What what?” I asked. He had me totally confused. I wondered if he and I were talking about the same thing. He just looked at me and smiled.

“Why’d you bring your guitar to school today?”

“Why do people usually have a guitar?”

“Yeah, but where you gonna play it it?”

“I don’t know, maybe I’ll join Krista’s prayer group and play God is Good for them.”

“Whatever man man. It was a legit question. I’ve never seen you bring your guitar to school before is all. So, you wanna do something this weekend? Hang out, get stoned, catch a movie or something?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“What what? You got other plans?”
“No.”

“Then you want to?”

“That depends,” Matt said.

“On what,” I asked him.

“On what happens.”

He was starting to piss me off. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Fuck off A.J.”

“Fine. I’ll fuck off off.” I kept quiet the rest of the bus ride. It nearly killed me. When we got to school, Matt picked up his guitar and backpack and started heading off the bus without a word. He was being a dick that day, that’s for sure. “So, catch you later then then,” I called after him. Again, he just gave me this devil’s grin and got off the bus.

Needing my math homework, I caught up with Gelman right after he passed the fountain in front of the school. “Gelman, my man man ,” I said as I put my arm around his shoulders. I leaned in and whispered, “Where the fuck is my homework?” I had Gelman in my back pocket. He was scared shitless of me. Could be that I outweighed him by probably a hundred pounds and wouldn’t hesitate to beat the shit out of him.

He stopped, let out a heavy sigh, put his book bag down, and I say book bag instead of backpack, because Gelman carried one of those over the shoulder type bags. The kind only fags and chicks carry. He opened up his binder and handed me that day’s math homework. “Good work work,” I said, and slapped him on the back so hard he almost went flying face first into the ground.

“You know, you’re not going to learn anything if you continue to have me do your work for you. And what happens when I’m not around anymore?”

“We’re sophomore’s Gelman, I’ve got you for two and a half more years. Then what what? You think I’m going to college? Please please.”

I ran up to my locker, grabbed a notebook and pencil, sat on the floor, and began copying the homework in my writing. I mean, Mr. Frazier was stupid, but not that stupid. As I was finishing up, my hottie of the week, Heather showed up. She was tall, really tall, had at least a couple inches on me, and big boned, but I liked my ladies with a little meat on them. She had this long, straight black hair, and crazy gray eyes, wild and inviting, like a wolf.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Yep yep.” I held my hand out and she helped me up. I backed her up against my locker and shoved my tongue down her throat. Her lips tasted like strawberries. Out of all my girls, she was one of my favorites. She always had the best weed, and gave a killer blowjob. I was thinking about making it the real deal with her. Making her my one and only.

We went to Mr. Frazier’s class, and I knocked Gelman in the head as I went to my seat. I fucking hated math. After that day, I’d hate it even more.

Chapter Three

I knew who was getting on the bus next before I even saw her, Kat, with her arm full of bangle bracelets, jingled with every step. I’ve noticed her twist them around her arm when she’s nervous. She also had this bizarre quoting thing going on, a quote for every occasion, a walking, talking Hallmark card. Freak. And she was chatty to the point of annoyance. Kind of reminded me of a Chihuahua.

Her boyfriend, Brady was one step behind. They were part of what I would call the secondary populars. They weren’t over the top popular like the Trinity, but the group they ran with was well known and well liked, but they weren’t toxic like the Trinity. They were the perfect little couple, all smiles and kisses. Sickening. I’m sure they thought it was going to be a great day.

***

We got off the bus, and Brady and I headed to our lockers, which were right next to each other. That’s how we met. I remember the first time I laid eyes on him I nearly melted. He has these sexy blonde curls that shine like the rays of the sun, a nice smile with perfectly straight white teeth, the cutest dimples you’ll ever see, and eyes so blue they’ll break your heart.

I’d try to talk to him all the time, small talk, about the weather or school, or movies. He wouldn’t say much. I thought he wasn’t interested. Then one day he walked right up to me and said, “Kat, I think you’re the cutest most interesting girl at this school.” My heart pounded loudly in my ears, and I could feel all the blood inside me rush up to my cheeks. We’ve been pretty much inseparable since then.

The day in question, I remember, I was leaning up against my locker and he whispered in my ear. I can’t remember now what he said, but I remember his words tickled, sent shivers down my spine and caused a break out of goose bumps down my arms and legs.

Matt’s locker was on the other side of mine. Whenever I saw him, I made it a point to say hello, to connect with him. We were friends once, best friends, really, all the way from kindergarten until about sixth or seventh grade. He lived across the street from me. We were the kind of friends that had our very own secret hideout, unknown and hidden from the rest of the world. The kind of friends that made pacts in blood, and the friends that promised each other if we were still single by thirty, we’d marry. But things change. People change. We began liking different things, hanging out in different groups, drifting apart. It happens.

I tried to reach out to him because I worried about the path he was heading down. His parents? They fought all the time, always have. I don’t know the why’s or how’s about it, but sometimes they were so loud I could hear them through my bedroom window. Matt turned to pot and video games to drown out their voices, to escape it. I don’t think they knew or cared very much, so who could blame him? I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with two people that hated each other, that seemed to hate their own child.

I remember going over to his house when we were younger, I’m not sure I ever heard his dad speak. It’s almost as if he lived in some alternate reality inside his own house. He was there, living alongside his son and his wife, but almost as if they didn’t exist to him, invisible. If I hadn’t heard all the fighting late at night when the house was dark and the shades were drawn, I might have believed it to be true.

“Hi Matt,” I said as he placed his backpack and guitar case on the floor, his coat in his locker.

“Hey Kat,” he said not even looking at me.

“How’s things?”

This time he looked at me and smiled. “Couldn’t be better.”

I smiled back. “Glad to hear it.” He shut his locker, picked up his guitar and his backpack and headed down the hall toward the gym. “Hey Matt,” I called to him.

He stopped, turned back toward me. “What Kat?”

“Have a good day.”

“Oh, I’m planning on it,” he said. “And Kat?”

“Yeah?”

He paused. It looked like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. “Oh, nothing,” he said, and then continued down the hallway.

“That guy gives me the creeps,” Brady said.

“Folks never understand the folks they hate.”

“And who said that?”

“James Russell Lowell.”

“And who might that be?”

“He was a poet.” I don’t know why I do the whole quote thing really, it’s just something I’ve always remembered doing. I hear something I like, and it just sticks. I have thousands of them in my head just waiting for the right opportunity to be spoken.

“And really, Matt’s okay, just troubled.”

“He’s more than troubled, he’s disturbed.”

“Nah, he’s actually a nice guy.” Brady gave me a suspicious look. “No really, he is.”

“You know, you’re kind of sexy when you’re all nice and sweet like that, and that quote thing you do turns me on,” Brady said, leaning in, touching his forehead to mine, kissing me on the nose.

“You’re a goofball, let’s go or we’re going to be late,” I said. We finished dumping our stuff in our lockers, Brady grabbed my books, and together we walked to our first period class, Biology. That’s where we were when it started.

Chapter Four

Jenny looked sad that day like she were about to cry. It was always curious to me when people got on the bus looking like Jenny did that day. Or if they looked pissed, or scared. I remember wondering what was going on with her that morning. Later, I thought maybe she was intuitive, you know, just had a bad feeling that day.

She was a transplant a couple years ago from someplace in the Deep South, maybe Alabama or Mississippi. She sported a set of shiny new braces with pink and green rubber bands around them.

Nothing very interesting about her, she’s just Jenny, smart, cute, nice, maybe a bit shy. She’s one of those people that you knew had all the answers, but was too afraid to raise her hand. One thing about her did stand out. She had this crazy heavy accent. You know, the kind that adds an extra syllable to every word, instead of there, it’s the-er, instead of lunch it’s lu-unch. She sat across the aisle, one row ahead of me.

Jenny watched Matt intently that morning. She was definitely crushing. I wondered if it was something new, or something I just hadn’t bothered noticing before. No way would I not have noticed; I figured it had to be something new. They made eye contact. She gave him a metallic smile, he blushed.

***

I don’t know, there was just something about him. He wasn’t all that good looking, but he had a certain air about him. I liked the way he walked. It wasn’t a confident walk or even a smooth, sexy kind of walk. He walked profoundly. That’s the only word I can think of to describe it. He often looked like he was in deep thought or just simply raging.

His dark hair was thin and wispy, a jagged uneven cut worn just above the shoulders. I often wondered what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. I would have bet it was silky soft. And his eyes, they were piercing green like lasers and blazing with emotion. There were times I wished I could be in that head of his, thinking what he was thinking, seeing the world through his eyes. I knew it would be frightening, like walking alone through a haunted house or an insane asylum, but I couldn’t help myself. He intrigued me.

I stared at him a lot. One day, he started staring back. Sometimes he would smile, which always gave me butterflies. He had a nice smile. It was more of a half smile, closed mouth, one side of his lips curling upward while the other side stayed in place. No one knew this, but we talked from time to time, little things. We’d say hi. He told me he liked my accent, once he even told me I looked pretty. Our eyes would connect in the hallway, our hands would brush.

I know how he came across to everyone else, a loser, a stoner, a freak, but he was sweet to me. I would have liked to know him better, but I’m not sure he let anyone really know him. He kept to himself mostly except for a few scattered friends. He didn’t talk much. It was almost like he was folded into himself, hiding from the world.

When we got off the bus, he brushed against me, and whispered something in my ear. I thought he said, “Stay out of the gym.” I had no idea why he’d say something like that, so I thought I misunderstood him. I was going to ask him later what he’d said. It ended up I’d find out soon enough.

Just another day, so it seemed. I stuffed my backpack in my locker and headed to the girl’s locker room. I absolutely hated having P.E. with Ashley and her air headed cheerleading friends. There’s nothing worse than standing next to three gorgeous blondes with long legs and perfect bodies in your gym clothes. Not that I’m ugly or anything, but anyone short of a super model would look revolting next to them. Plus, they’re just so catty.

I entered the locker room, and the three of them were standing in the middle of the aisle so no one could get around them to their lockers. I nicely said, “’scuse me,” my locker being directly behind Ashley.

Without even looking at me she said, “Go around.” So I had to walk the entire length of the lockers, around the end and to my locker, and I still had to excuse myself. She gave me a dirty look. God, she made me crazy like a loon.

After suiting up, we dragged our way out to the gym, and stood there waiting for Coach Kowalski to give us our daily dose of torture. I watched for Matt to come out of the boy’s locker room, but he never did. I remember worrying for him, hoping Red hadn’t done something horrible to him.

Coach came out from his office and began taking roll. “Anderson. Bell. Clark.” He’d call our names, and we’d say either present, or here, or merely raise our hands signifying our existence. When he got to Williams, there was no answer.

“Williams,” he said again. He looked up from his attendance sheet and said, “Anyone see Williams this morning?”

“He was in the locker room coach,” Zane said.

“All right. You guys relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Red came up behind me as soon as Coach Kowalski went through the locker room door. He said in my ear, “When I left him, he was jacking off to your picture.” I froze. I didn’t even know how to react. “You two have something going on?”

“Leave me alone,” I said, so scared it barely came out a whisper.

“You know, Zane over here,” he said pointing behind him, “would do you. You don’t need a fag like Williams.”

Zane then walked up to me, brushed my hair back, and caressed my cheek. “Yeah Jenny, you’re pretty cute. I’d fuck you. What do you say?”

“Leave me alone,” I said again. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

Zane moved in closer and breathed in my ear, “That accent of yours is sure sexy. Don’t cry. I’ll be gentle with you, at first. But I do like the rough stuff. Will you meet me after school? Put up a fight? I’ll show you what it’s like to have a real man, not some loser like Williams.”

On a normal day I would be stewing, worrying, crying about this from first til sixth period. I’d be afraid to walk the halls, looking over my shoulder for Zane or Red. I would have been afraid to get on the bus after school that day. But that day was not a normal day. That day was a nightmare, one worse than any Zane or Red could ever dish out. Right at that exact moment things changed, turned, would never be the same. Right at that moment, we heard the first gunshot.