The Act, Chp. 2

Um... wow! I really wasn't expecting the response I got. Evidently this isn't so bad. :) It's not my favorite, so updating it is definitely not going to be regular, but... this is what I have.

Chapter 2: No, I'm not Suicidal. Yet.

            School wasn't bad enough to cater suicidal thoughts, so no, I wasn't jumping to my death. In fact, my feet never touched the ground. There was no need.

            My wings snapped out and caught the breeze, and I glided to the roof of the workshop. My workshop- my haven. The only place where I didn't have to hide. I pulled the latch that opened the trap door and dropped in, landing on a pile of wood shavings.

            I headed straight to the mini-fridge. My high metabolism meant that lunch didn't stick with me- I'd have to bring snacks to eat in between classes tomorrow. Grabbing a can of Coke and a bag of Oreos, I opened the cab of my truck and stretched out to enjoy the peace and quiet.

            My truck is a work in progress. I found it one day in the middle of the woods, totally abandoned and unmarked- no license plate, nothing. Charlie helped me push it home, and since the workshop was a garage, the whole situation worked out perfectly. (Mom and Dad never used the garage- there is no driveway up to it, and they didn't want to ruin the grass. Not that is matters much.)

            I already had tools and everything, and after making just about anything I set my mind on, this truck became my passion. It's not done, but someday, I'll get it running again. Someday.

            And that's where Charlie found me, laying on a skateboard underneath the truck, tinkering away. I heard him come in- he's the only one who ever comes in there. For one, the place has a musty smell that I love and they hate, and with feathers and shavings and spilled oil all over the place. I'm not a neat person- let's leave it at that.

            “Hey kiddo.” He began, sitting on the floor next to me.

            “Hey yourself.”

            “So how'd it go?”

            I pulled myself out, so I could see his face. His warm, brown eyes, his cheerful smile. I gave him a look and he sighed.

            “Just give it a chance, Jenna.”

            “Easy for you to say.”

            “Amy has a point, you know. You have been in the house for a while.”

            “And is that my fault?” I snapped. Amy was, after all, the one who suggested I take online classes rather than going to school. But that was way back- ten years ago, really. “I like the house. I like the quiet. She has no business getting involved in how I live.”

            “She honestly does care about you.”

            “Well, I'd rather that she ignored me, like she used too.” I slid back underneath the truck, fuming.

            “I think she got tired of having an invisible sister.”

            “It's not like it made a difference to her- my going to school only threatens her status as Miss Popular. I don't get it.”

            “Neither do I.” I heard him grab an Oreo and crunch down on it- Charlie always had eaten Oreos improperly. “Girls are confusing.”

            “Boys are confusing.” I replied.

            Charlie laughed, that rich sound I knew so well. “I suppose you met a few of those today.”

            “More than I'd like.”

            “How many guys did you know before today? Two? Me and Dad?”

            “Three.” I said after a pause. “I know Mr. Ervin from the grocery store.”

            “Three guys, before today. And now, you saw... three hundred? Cheers!” He and I clanked Cokes, though I wasn't quite sure why.

            “But back to Amy... you know the last time her friends had study group at the house?”

            I remembered. That was a close call.

            “I think her friends asked her where you were, where you've been.”

            “It's none of their business.”

            “But people are starting to wonder- maybe Amy was trying to save her reputation, showing that she didn't have some freak for a sister.”

            “Well sorry to burst her bubble, but she does have a freak for a sister.”

            Charlie pulled at the skateboard, sliding me out and giving me a hard glare. “You're not a freak.”

            “Oh yeah? Then what am I? Some mutant?” How many times had we had this argument?

            “I don't know- howabout an improvement? A hybrid?”

            “That's the politically correct way to say it.” I complained.

            “Maybe there are other people... like, like you... at school.”

            That had never occurred to me. Then they must be darn good at keeping secrets, at hiding. “I don't think so.” I muttered.

            “So... who did you meet?” Charlie asked. I was glad for the change of topic.

            “This guy called Troy walked me to class a few times.”

            “Oh- his dad works at the cattle farm in Crestview.” Crestview was the little town about an 45  minutes away, and one of the closest to Tolobie. Flying, though, is a whole lot faster.

            “And this girl- Zoe- saved me from getting trampled.”

            “Zoe who?” Charlie asked, suspicious.

            “I don't know. I think she was goth- black hair, makeup, that sort of thing.”

            “Zoe Rages.” Charlie muttered. “Stay away from her. I think she's been to Juvie.”

            “Why? She seemed... intimidating, but not a criminal.”

            “I think. I don't know. She just seems like that type- like she's seen a few fights in her life.”

            I slipped back under the cab. Zoe. Juvie. Hmm.

            “Anyone else?”

            “Um... I'm lab partners with this guy called Sam.”

            “I know him. Red hair, athletic?”

            “Yeah. During lunch he got in a fight with another guy- I don't know his name. He said they fight all the time.”

            “The other boy- dark hair, tan? Athletic?”

            I nodded.

            “Zachary Rages.” Charlie informed me. “They've been best friends since the Rages moved here. Stay away from the lot of them- they're all going to end up in trouble.”

            Great. Out of the four students who had talked to me, three were doomed, in Charlie's mind. His phone rang- well, I could hear the vibration, at least- and it was Amy, calling us in for dinner.

            “Oh my gosh, so Tommy totally cheated on Lizzie, and she's hysterical.” Amy said as she set the table. Dad brought home Chinese- Mom hated cooking, so if I didn't make anything, someone had to bring home pizza or something.

            “Jenna, you smell like your truck.” Mom chided me, wrinkling her nose. No hello, no how was your day. I was used to it.

            “No, she smells like... a dump yard.” Amy replied.

            “And what are you trying to smell like?” I snapped. “Rotten eggs? That perfume is disgusting. It would smell better on a rat than you.”

            “I just got it!” She cried, outraged.

            “Sorry you wasted your money.”  

            “I like it!”

            “And I like how my truck smells.”

            “Did you get egg rolls?” Charlie asked, picking through the bags.

            “I should've.” Dad replied, lumbering into the kitchen. He gave me a half smile and sat down, digging in with Charlie.

            “So, Charlie, who called in today?” Mom began.

            I ignored the conversation, partially to spite them, partially because I always did. My family was weird- I mean, I loved them and everything, but somehow... I never really fit in. Charlie didn't mind me, but the day he carried me home after finding me in that black bag in the woods... let's just say there was a huge argument about whether or not they were going to 'keep' me.

            I remember it word for word.

            And every time Mom gave me a cross look, or Dad was upset with something I made, or tired of me smelling like the truck, or Amy crinkled her face upon sight of me, I was reminded of one thing.

            I didn't belong there.

            Charlie was the only one who didn't mind. Heck, he took care of me more than Mom.

            “Seriously, Jenna, you eat like a pig.” Amy complained. Not my fault that I get hungry easily.

            “And you smell like a pig.” I replied.

            “Jenna, let her off. Didn't you hear? Tommy cheated on Lizzie. They're all upset.” Mom gave me a hard look.

            “They're not the only ones.” I snapped. 

            “Rough day, then.” Dad muttered.

            I scarfed down the rest on my plate and threw it in the sink, running up to my room and grabbing my violin stuff. I dove out the window, back into the workshop, and plugged in my Goodwill TV.

            Music is just so awesome- though, I suppose everyone knows that. But I was finally making some of my own- more than humming little melodies or scribbling down random lyrics. I wouldn't call 'Old McDonald had a Farm' great music, but it was music all the same.

            Charlie was surprised when he came, but I was in no mood to talk, and he said his goodbye pretty quickly.

            That's when I took off.

            Stowing my violin in the cab, I grabbed my windbreaker off its hook and pulled it on, popping my wings through the slits in the back. I clambered onto the cab's and out onto the roof.

            The lights in the house were still on- they'd never notice I was gone. They never had.

            I flung myself off the roof and glided into the darkening gloom, silent as a shadow.

            I'm assuming you've never been hang gliding or skydiving. Or flying with your own two wings. I'm not going to try to explain it- you'll just have to figure it out yourself, because it would be- it is- impossible to justify through words.

            But it's amazing. I just took off, sweeping over the treetops and feeling the cool breeze in my face, playing with my hair, tugging at my jacket. The setting sun cast a great view for me, disappearing behind the mountains, and I landed in a high tree so I could see it and not have to worry about people seeing me.

            Flying erased all my worries, dragged all my concerns down to the ground. The feeling of freedom- total and absolute liberty- made the evening the climax of my day.

            I had this particular spot I liked- sometimes, when I took online classes, I picnicked there and brought my homework- a smallish clearing by a creek. In spring, it lit up with colors of the flowers, in summer, it intensified, and in fall, it seemed to burn with the violent colors of the trees. Winter... I rarely went flying in winter. Birds fly south during the winter. But when I did muster the courage and energy to leave the house, it sparkled in the sunlight and the ice glinted like diamonds.

            It leaned towards burning when I dropped down, jogging to a stop. The trees matched the sky, only not so dark, and I plopped down in the moist grass to watch the stars.

            It was late when I got back.

            I did not notice the dark shape leaning against the workshop, watching as I glided into my bedroom window.

            The next day was just as bad.

            Even though I knew what to expect, I still had several bouts of hyperventilation in between classes. And a few during, too. Like during Mr. Brunn's pop quiz in Social Studies- that was a nightmare.

            Troy, however, had memorized my schedule, and after every class led me to my next one. He babbled the whole way to each class, telling me about this or that person or whichever class he had, but at lunch he caught me totally unprepared.

            “Where are you going?” He asked as I took my lunch and was halfway out the door to the pavilion. “Yesterday I couldn't find you, but I wanted you to sit with me. Come on- it's raining out there.”

            It was strange, having someone who wanted my company. I decided he was like a golden retriever rather than a duck.

            He pushed me through the mob to a table where I thought I would die.

            At least a dozen other teenagers sat there, crowding each other, sitting on each other's laps and on the table, some milling around it. They laughed as they chatted, my ears catching at least five different conversations, everyone jumping in at random times and trading jokes. Two of the guys tossed a football across the table; Troy darted forward for an interception.

            “Hey guys, here's Jenna!” He sang.

            Twenty- some- odd eyes turned to look at me, prying, curious, suspicious. I died internally.

            “Oh my gosh, you're finally here!” One girl cried, leaping up from a boy's lap. She put her hands on my shoulders, shaking me. “Where the heck have you been? I've been bugging Charlie about you for forever!”

            I had no idea who she was.

            “I'm Jessie- too bad we don't have any classes together. That would be so awesome.”

            Jessie, taking over for Troy, who looked a bit put-out, introduced me to everyone at the table. There was Nate, Louis, Mike, Ken, and Dan; I didn't understand their expressions, and Kay, Lisa, Noelle, and Carrie, not including Troy and Jessie.

            I knew I would never remember all their names.

            I recognized some of them from my other classes, Carrie and Louis from Choir, for example. Nate was in Social Studies- he was the one who had written notes on his arm.

            And then I was sucked into the oh-so-wonderful world of teenage drama. I had only seen flirting on TV, but let's just say that it's a lot more involved in real life. Jessie batted her eyes at Mike, who paid Carrie some attention, who was crazy about Ken, and so on and so forth. Their barrage of questions overwhelmed me- when I couldn't take it anymore I stuffed my sandwich into my mouth and chowed away.

            How much do you need to know about someone? They asked every question imaginable- my birthday, what school I had been going too, why (I had to lie), what my favorite color was (blue), what my favorite movie was, my favorite actor (I rattled one off that Amy drooled over), blah blah blah blah blah. I felt like I was being tortured, but I couldn't help but wear a little bit of a smile.

            People wanted to be my friends. They wanted to know more about me, they cared.

            It was really weird.

            I caught Amy watching me from across the cafeteria- and for once, she seemed pleased by my social life's progress.

            “Jenna.”

            Everyone at the table fell silent, some glaring, some staring up at Zoe in wonder. Or hatred. It was hard to tell.

            “Hi.” I managed to say. I had the feeling she was laughing at me by the way her eyebrow lifted. She didn't give the others one moment of her attention.

            “How's your violin?”

            A wide smile spread across my face- it surprised me that she asked. “I love it.”

            “Cool. See you at chorus, then.” She started turning, then spun back around. “Oh, and Jenna?”

            “Yeah?”

            “You better watch your back if you're going to hang out with these people. Be careful.”

            And she was gone.

            “Jerk.” Kay growled.

            “She's the backstabber.” Jessie mumbled, glaring at Zoe's retreating form.

            I gave Troy a questioning look, but he shook his head, like now was not the time to ask. He mouthed that he'd explain later.

            But Zoe's words unsettled me- I had just been basking in the newfound feeling of friendship, and she told me that all of them were backstabbers?

            Predators.

            The thought sent a shudder down my back.

            “Who is she?” I asked.

            “Who are they.” Jessie corrected me. “There's a whole pack of them- they mostly fight. Zack, Sam, Zoe- I think they're the leaders. Unless those upper-class men are involved... Stay away from them- they're dangerous.”

            Well, that told me so much.

            “Like... a wrestling club or something?”

            “That would be tame compared to what they do.” Ken shuddered. Carrie laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, nodding her head of bouncy blond curls.

            “They cheat. Steal. Bribe. Vandalize.”

            “Stalk people until they get their way.” Jessie added.

            “Don't even mention that.” Kay growled again. “Don't listen to Zoe, Jenna. Do you mind if we call you Jenn? Zoe is really good at manipulating people. Like, really good. She's the one who will stab you in the back.”

            What a comforting thought. That would definitely be painful, especially with... my condition. Fine- my wings. That would really hurt. Or was that a figure of speech? I wasn't sure.

            “We don't really know if they do those things.” Lisa murmured, staring at her canister of soup. “It's just our guess.”

            “We're 99.999 percent sure of it.” Nathan replied. “I mean, who else would?”

            I could think of some other people- that last .001%.

            Like me.

            I'm not an angel, after all. And I'm good at taking things apart. And putting them back together. And taking them apart. And... rearranging the parts. Some people call it abstract art. Others call it vandalism. But I always put them back the right way... eventually.

            It was nice, knowing people in my other classes. Being able to sit next to them, listen to their whispers, and even pass notes. I'd never done that in my life- I mean, you can't exactly slide a piece of scribbled paper to another student via computer.

            So, I wouldn't call my second day horrible, but it definitely could be better.

            And, just like before, and just like always, my evening excursion was the best part of my day.

Yeah... I'm not sure about the paragraph about her vandalism/abstract art, but I wanted to give her less of an I'm-a-perfect-and-innocent-and-naive-mutant-bird-kid character. I'll have to find another way. Hmm...
And I love reviews... :)

The Act, Part 2

So, here's the rest of the first chappy of The Act. Actually, it's the whole thing, since I know some people haven't read it or won't remember. If you don't want to read the whole thing again, I made the last sentence from the previous post red, so you can skip to it without missing anything.

Like before, I sincerely hope no one is offended by this. Oh- and I'll warn you- Jenna is not a Christian.

Enjoy! (And remember that I love comments!) :)

Prologue: A Freak

           

            Do you know who you are? Most people do; kudos to them.

            I'm one of those few who don't.

            Sure, I know the basics, the bare facts: my name is Jenna Walker, I'm fifteen, and I live at 49 250^th Drive- talk about unoriginal- Tolobie, Montana. But that's just the crap that goes on passports and licenses, some of it, at least. I don't even know my birthday. When I was found, they guessed that I was six- so for all that matters I could be sixteen. I don't have half a clue who my biological parents are, or who the heck screwed my deoxyribonucleic acid. 

            Maybe I should have mentioned that earlier.

            I'll start at the very beginning. About twenty years ago, scientists began fusing animal and human DNA. Some wanted to prove evolution, while others said it was inhibiting our natural changing. Anyway, the first few years were total disasters- most of the embryos died in days or, at best, a few minutes after their artificial births. It's still a very rough science, but has more or less gained in popularity. Parents are purposefully making their kids part animal, whether so they'll be better athletes, or smarter (hah!) or prettier (who defines beauty anyway?).

            I'm one of those pathetic life forms.

            Yes, I consider myself pathetic. Why? That's a simple enough to answer.

            I'm a freak.

            Being one of us has its' definite disadvantages- look at me. I mean, that must be why I was dumped off in the middle of a woods in rural Montana. My creators/parents/mad scientists couldn't have wanted me anymore.

            So think again if you know who you are, and consider those of us who have no clue.

Chapter 1: School (AKA Torture)

            I've never been to school in my life, so my first day was naturally going to be hell.

            I was shaking by the time we reached the brown, brick building; I clutched my thrift-store backpack so hard that my knuckles were white. The cab of Charlie's car was warm and dry, an even greater incentive to stay there rather than face the cold and wet weather, but the many faces passing by frightened me more than anything else.      

            Predators- every single one of them.

            I was about to be shut inside a building with four hundred other teenagers. Not a very good combination for someone who's claustrophobic and afraid of people.

            “You okay?” Charlie asked, switching off the engine. I could feel his worried eyes boring into me. I didn't have the strength to reply, even to my brother. “Got everything? Lunch money? Schedule? Locker number? Lock code? Courage?”

            “When did we get the last one?” I asked. Bravery came so easily to Charlie, him being a Marine and everything.

            He smiled, one of those you're-going-to-be-okay smiles that I remembered from the first moment I met him. “Hey, in a week, school will be a breeze. Think of how great you'll be in Workshop and Choir!”

            Breeze. No way.

            “I'm going to make you late.” I realized, glancing at the clock. Charlie answered 9-1-1 calls, though Tolobie didn't have a lot, with a  population of around eight hundred. 

            “Go get 'um, tiger.”

            Tiger. Huh. I certainly didn't feel like a tiger.

            I slid out of the cab, scanning my perimeter.

            Predators- all around me.

            Every single one of my instincts screamed for me to run, to get the heck out of there, to preserve myself and escape. My back ached already- stupid Clamp. All the same, it was a strong reminder to stay, whispering in my ear that no one would kill me here, no one would hurt me.

            I could wish. I could hope.

            The car window rolled down, Charlie saying something like 'have fun'!

            I couldn't hear him very well anymore, with the roar of terror in my ears.

            “Are you coming?” Amy hissed, frustrated.

            My older sister glared at me, her hood pulled low over her face. She was probably worried about her make-up smearing in this rain. Or her hair getting messed up in her hood.

            She led me to the door, avoiding the puddles that had formed in the paved walkways. I tromped right through them, half to spite her, half because I didn't care. Combat boots can do that to you.

            “Office is the last door on the left. Remember to walk home.” She instructed me, beginning to flounce away towards her designer-clad friends.

            I was faster, darting forward to grab her arm. “Aren't you coming with me?” Panic built up in my tone, my voice cracking by the end. She was the only person whose name I knew in the entire building. And she was deserting me. What a great start to the day.

            “No. You're not helpless, Jenn. You can walk down a hallway by yourself.”

            “I can do more than walk.” I threatened.

            Her glare intensified, but I didn't care. She was the one who got me in this mess anyway. “Stay low.” She growled. “You know the rules.”

            “Your rules.” I spat. “I'm not afraid to break them.”

            That was a lie, but it did the job. She gave me a nasty glare and led me down the hallway, prancing like some runway model. In her dreams. I kept on her shadow, unnoticed by most. Those who did see me... I still could not shake off the feeling of danger. My back started twitching, thankfully hid by the over sized hoodie I wore.

            The threat did it's job, but I knew I would never have the courage to break it, to admit to anyone what kind of a freak I was. That I was a freak at all. That was one of Amy's rules: Don't tell the secret.

            She pushed me through the office's door and bolted for her friends, embarrassed to be caught next to someone like me. My nails weren't painted; I wore no makeup. My hair hung lank around my face. My clothing would never meet her standard. I would probably be labeled as a dork, if anyone at all.

            “Hello.” Said the bright, apple-faced secretary. “Jenna Walker, is it?”

            A person. Was talking to me. Was even looking at me- was smiling at me. I started hyperventilating. Somehow I managed to nod.

            “Here's your papers again- do you need them?”

            I shook my head, staring at the puddle forming around my boots.

            “You'll be fine dear. No need to worry! You'll love it here.” She was getting worried, I could tell from her tone. Her green flats came into view.

            “Are you going to be sick?”

            Another shake of my head.

            A pause, then “Do you want me to pray with you?”

            “No.” I replied, sharper than I intended. I met her gaze for the first time, her gentle eyes patient but surprised.

            And then I bolted. I had everything I needed- no need to stay longer than necessary. I slid into the hallway and hurried the way I guessed was English- my first class- and ran headlong into an unknown body.

            “I am so sorr-” The boy began, startled, picking up both our things. He seemed to realize he didn't know me. “Are you... Charlie's sister?”

            I hoped that would be what I was known as- Charlie's sister. It meant no one really knew me, that no one bothered being my friend. That was okay with me.

            I nodded, realizing I hadn't answered his question. He had my schedule in his hands, scanning it and smiling. “We have English together.” He began. “Let me show you there.”

            How embarrassing.

            I felt like a duckling following its mother, especially when the strange boy started quacking- talking, excuse me- about this and that and how I was going to love it there and blah blah blah blah blah. Poor, naïve, brainless boy. I probably shouldn't called him brainless, with my mind, but still. He didn't know anything about me, and here he was, acting like we were good friends.

            I wouldn't have any friends there.

            Too many predators.

            The boy- he said his name was Troy- dragged me into English. My eyes dropped to the floor as he introduced me to the teacher- Ms. Tragger- and she handed me Macbeth. It would be my third time reading it.

            I shuffled to the back of the room as Troy started chatting with another girl. There weren't many people in the room yet, it was too early, but all the same, I buried my nose in Shakespeare.

            Until I couldn't bear the feeling of being watched.

            One quick glance up, and I instantly regretted doing so. At least five people peered at me, even though I was in the back, and I felt my face flush red. Darnit. Darnit darnit darnit. It made my ears turn cherry, and that brought too much attention to them-

            I flopped my hair in front of my face as I bent down again, and I heard a soft chuckle to my right.

            That kid looked seriously dangerous. He was really tan, with dark, glaring eyes and an eagle nose, and that means big. He wore leather, wet leather, like he had walked to school, and his dark hair was spiked all around his face. A dimple was chiseled into his chin, but I had the feeling he was more studying how to beat me up rather than thinking I was hilarious. Like a lion smiling at its next meal.

            Predators.

            I sealed my lips together to control my hyperventilating, but it was hard to concentrate through the rest of class. I knew people were still trying to get their fill of 'Charlie's sister', and I knew I had my fill of them. 2:30 just couldn't come fast enough.

            When the bell rang, I made a dash for the door, and got my first taste of high school hallway jams. And how tall everyone was! I thought Charlie and Amy were joking when they told me I was small, but they weren't. Evidently 5'2'' doesn't hit a 6'4'' football player's radar. My claustrophobia nearly pulled me under when a hand shot out and yanked me from the mess, slamming me against the cold lockers.

            “Stay to the side.” The girl told me. “It means you don't get trampled, and with someone your size, you've gotta be more careful.”

            If I thought the boy looked intimidating, this girl trumped. I think she was goth- she wore dark eyeliner and black clothes and had the same, short, spiky hairdo. Her eyes, though, were more dangerous. I had a feeling that if she got tired of me, or decided I wasn't worth anything, I would become Jenna pudding. The boy would've just let me go. But her black eyes weren't threatening- at the moment- and I felt (again) like I was being scanned, like she was deciding whether or not I had any potential.

            “Jenna?”

            How the heck did she know my name? She didn't wait for my reply.

            “I'm Zoe.”

            I squeaked something of a 'hello'. A smile lit up her face- great. She thought my shyness was funny.

            “If you need anything, I'll be around.”

            And then she was gone. Funny, because I had no idea where my next class was. That creepy kid from English slid past me without a glance- maybe because he was probably 6'1'', and then Troy appeared out of thin air.

            “What's your next class?”

            “Social Studies.” I whispered. He leaned closer to hear- much too close, in my opinion.

            “Oh- I know where. Mr. Brunn, right? Yeah- I have him in the afternoon. Come on.”

            Mr. Brunn was the only teacher who made me stand at the smart board and introduce myself, and that helped me decide that Social Studies was going to be my least favorite class, not to mention I was ahead in the material.

            Then came Workshop. It was more in my element- more at my speed. Mr. Gads, a man with a chiseled, wrinkled face let the class free to build whatever we wanted, as long as we got something done.

            Amid the shavings and the smell of wood, I zoned out the rest of the chattering class- the girls who were afraid of chipping their nails, the boys who wanted to put nails in each other rather than their projects- and focused on the piece of furniture I commanded. And I would've finished the cradle, if it hadn't been for some dolt who couldn't figure out the power saw.

            Mr. Gads grunted when he saw my incomplete project.

            “You're almost as good as Mr. Rages.” He gestured for me to follow him deeper into the musty, dusty room, and in a corner stood a massive, sheet-covered thing.

            A wardrobe.

            It was beautiful, and I knew the moment I saw it, that I wanted to meet whoever was building that thing. I also doubted it would fit through the doorway.

            “Who's Mr. Rages?” I asked- the first time I'd willingly talked to a stranger all day.

            “Another student in my afternoon class. He could finish your cradle, if ya'd like.”

            I shook my head. “I'll finish it later. Or could I... take it home, sometime?”

            “You have a workshop?”

            “More for cars than wood, but it'll do.”

            “You're one with your hands, aren't ya?”

            I nodded. After all, I had built all the furniture in my house, except for the cabinets. Mom didn't trust me with her kitchen.

            “Then you'll have a good time here. Now get along- your next class'll be startin' soon.”

            He was right. The next class's students were already filing in, and I charged out the door without remembering to say goodbye. Mr. Gads seemed like a nice man.

            And Workshop's euphoria vanished as soon as I realized what my next class was.

            Biology.

            I slipped into the room unnoticed, tormented by the bright green plant clinging to the ceiling and the anatomy posters on the neon walls. A cat skeleton stood in a glass box- I shuddered at the sight of it- and I felt my breath go whooshing out when I saw a stuffed bird in a cage. My appetite vanished .

            “Jenna Walker.” It was not a question.

            Mr. Natick stood at the front of the classroom, glasses perched on the end of his nose, list in hand, staring at me. For a moment, I thought he called roll, but since everyone else was still roaming the classroom, I slid to his desk, looking down.

            “Is the floor more interesting than me, Jenna?” He asked. His straight, stiff tone made it clear I had insulted him. I tried looking up, but I could hardly meet his gaze, even though his glasses shielded me from the full force of his glare. “Are you prepared for this class?”

            “Yes sir.”  I whimpered.

            “Then what are you doing up here? Go sit down.”

            Men are so confusing. I scrambled to the far back table, noting the massive feet stuck in the row to trip me.

            It was that creepy kid from English.

            I gave him my deluxe I'm-really-freaked-out-right-now-so-I'll-hurt-you-later glare and slid into the cold chair. The boy sitting next to me kept his eyes devotedly fixed on Mr. Natick, but his hands caught my attention. Long and spindly, they twirled his pencil around like a baton, like he was ADD or something. So was I, so distracted doesn't cut it.

            And then he noticed, his green eyes glanced at me- did I see panic in his eyes?- and his mop of curly red hair bounced as he ducked his head to scribble down some notes. I followed his example, blushing.

            Mr. Natick lectured on intestines, right before lunch, and so when the bell rang, I was out of there like a bullet, heading straight to the bathroom.

            The cold water did my spinning head some good- I never had done well with sciences. Just the thought of organs made my inside want to come outside. And I was starving, so that didn't exactly help the situation. I glanced into the mirror, focusing on the water dripping down my chin to get my bearings.

            Plain hazel eyes stared back at me, surrounded by pale eyelashes. My hair, dark blond, streaked with browns and reds, flopped over half my face and hid most of my freckles. I pushed it back behind my ear, my fingers running over the scars from when I cut off the tips. A drop of water hung off my sharp nose, and I focused on it, my vision starting to stop swirling as I did.

            My rumbling stomach reminded me that my lunch break was ticking away.

            I wiped my face on my hoodie sleeve and headed out into the hallway. I was late enough- or lucky enough- that it wasn't crowded anymore, and as I slipped into the line, I realized that Amy was no where in sight. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe not. It wasn't raining anymore, so I headed outside to a deserted pavilion to eat in peace.

            Almost in peace.

            A mob of chanting boys rounded a corner of the cafeteria, two of them hitting each other like punching bags. I watched, horrified, as the two contenders locked arms and started rolling in the mud, the boys cries growing louder as they cheered on one or the other. Where were the teachers? Wasn't anyone going to stop them?

            “Pin!” I heard one cry- he had a deep voice, kind of scary. “Admit it!”

            “Fine, fine!” The other laughed, though, I wondered how, since his face was buried in the mud.

            Laughed?

            “All right, fight's over. Get out of here.” The winner told them, hoisting the other boy up. He looked hardly scratched, and I have good eyes.

            The mob slid back around the corner, never having noticed me.

            “You alright?” The winner asked. I couldn't see his face- only his dark hair.

            But I did know the other boy- I sat next to him in Biology. His red hair was impossible to ignore.

            “Yeah- you? I clipped you in the ribs pretty hard.”

            “I'll live.”

            “Sure, sure. And I'll be the one to die.”

            The two laughed, smearing mud all over themselves like animals. I was one to talk.

            They turned, still laughing, to re-enter the building, when the winner and I locked eyes. It was the creepy kid from English and Biology, with the dark, intimidating eyes. I glanced back at my sandwich, trying to free myself from his iron gaze.

            When I looked up again through the curtain of my hair, they were coming my way.

            I started hyperventilating though my bread, which isn't very easy. Rather painful, actually, but I was hoping against all hope that they wouldn't beat me up. My back started hurting again, tugging, itching, burning, and I repositioned myself so I could run more easily.

            “I'm okay, if you were wondering.” The red head began, his green eyes prying my face. “We fight all the time.”

            I couldn't answer. Boys were talking to me. It was all too much.

            “Are you going to be sick?”

            I shook my head, my knuckles white as they clung to my water bottle.

            “I'm Sam.”

            Sam. That seemed like a normal enough name. Was it normal for boys to fight 'all the time'?

            “Jenna.” I whispered.

            The creepy boy did not say a word.

            “Oh, okay then.” Sam began, the awkward gaps in the pathetic conversation getting to him. “Uh, see you in Biology then.”

            I nodded, my attempt at a smile making the creepy guy's lip twitch, like he almost smiled. Jerk.

            Algebra passed without too many problems, besides the fact that numbers go in my eyes and never make it past there. Whoever coined the word 'bird brain' had me in mind. Math was definitely not my subject. I didn't know anyone from there, so I got lost on the way to Choir, my next class.

            Zoe was there, jamming out with a sleek, black, electric bass in the back of the room. A bunch of other people milled around the echo-y auditorium, and an eccentric-looking old fellow stood on a conductor's podium, scribbling on some music.

            “Oh, you.” He began, barely glancing up. “Do you have a pen I could borrow?”

            I dug one out of my messenger bag and handed it to his pale, wrinkly fingers. He scribbled away some more, his shock of white hair dancing as he scanned the page. When he realized I hadn't moved, he pushed his glasses up his nose and looked me in the eye. “Do you need something?”

            “I'm- I'm Jenna Walker, sir.”

            He furrowed his brow and rifled through some pages, pulling out a list. “Oh- oh! Yes, yes, I knew you were coming today. Lovely. Do you play anything?”

            “Only what I can get my hands on.” I replied. To be brutally honest, I had never seen half the instruments in the room in my life.

            A smile shoved back the sagging skin on his face, his eyes brightening as he chuckled. “Oh yes, you're Charlie's sister. Decent fellow, that boy. Now, is there anything you'd like to play? Are you willing to put effort into music?”

            “Yes sir.” I'd only dreamed of playing anything my entire life.

            “What instrument was that?”

            “Any, sir.” I was starting to like this man.

            “Well then! Just sit and watch, for today. Ah, yes. Attention everyone! Everyone! Places please!”

            I melted into the seats behind the teacher, Mr. Sark, as he drew his conducting wand and brought everyone's attention to their current piece, and before I knew it, thirty students started playing.  The song was good, but Mr. Sark was more interesting to watch. He swayed and half-danced to the lively tune, occasionally catching some student who'd gone astray and giving them a glare.

            Zoe seemed to be in her own bubble. She had memorized the piece, and tapped her foot with the drums. Her bass was cranked loud enough that half the students had headaches by the end of class, but that was the first time I saw anything like a smile on her face. Wow. Talk about having a passion for music.

            And then the bell jolted everyone to reality.

            Mr. Sarks was mumbling about 'inconsideration' of the 'flow of emotions', or something like that, when I asked him about an instrument. He gave me a violin, a DVD, and a music book and told me to practice hard.

            That would not be a problem.

            Leaving the school, though, proved to be a traumatizing experience for me.

            The halls were absolutely nightmarish, packed beyond compare. And the sound! It was so loud and wild. After spending my whole life in my house, leaving maybe... three times a week? This many people, teenagers, in one space...

            Another bout of hyperventilation washed over me. I sagged against a wall, resting my forehead on the cool surface of a locker. I heard Amy's voice waft by, her gaggle of giggling friends passing by without noticing me, going to a 'study group'.

            The thought of being in the workshop, my calm, quiet workshop, revived my courage.

            By the time I crawled out the door, school had been out for half an hour. Lugging my backpack and my violin case, I hurried down the road, half walking, half trying to fly in my haste. I just wanted to get home.

            But no, Amy said. I have to walk.

            I considered heading into the woods, where I could do so much more than walk, but I was passing the suburbs. Drat.

            I bolted as soon as I turned the corner onto my street. My house is the only one for a mile stretch, so I didn't have to worry about gossiping neighbors or anything. I didn't have to worry about anyone, actually. Mom, Dad, and Charlie were working- wouldn't be home till dinner. Amy was at her study group.

            And that left me.

            I grabbed the key underneath the welcome mat and barged into the house, slamming the door and leaning against it, breathless. Home sweet home. So quiet, so nice. Not a soul to disturb me.

            I headed down the hallway, dropping my backpack and heaving a chair over to pull down the attic stairs. That's one problem with attic stairs- people my size just can't reach the stupid little drawstring.

            Bounding up the stairs, which retracted as soon as I reached the top, I paused, to savor the moment. Home sweet home.

            I live in the attic, and it's just perfect. My bed, shoved against the far wall, resembled a birds nest- and that's messy. I had diagrams and sketches tacked to the walls, my personalized wallpaper, and  three picture frames held memories of Charlie and I. A bookshelf and dresser were my only other pieces of furniture, each littered with things I had found in the woods and pencils. Everywhere, pencils. Four windows faced each direction- the road, the woods in back, and the side yards- the curtains drawn and the windows cracked.

            I tore off my hoodie, my back tingling with joy.

            Around my torso I wore a torturing device Charlie and I had made, under Mom and Dad- and subsequently- Amy's orders. I call it the Clamp. They call it improvement. It was like a leather tank top, with buckles so I could loosen the straps and the tightness, meant to make my back side look 'normal'.

            I pulled it off, throwing the horrible thing to the floor and drinking in great gulps of air.

            And I headed for the west window, the one facing the woods. Scrambling out onto the two inch ledge, I hung there for a moment, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze-

            And I jumped out my second story window.

8 Ways To Write a 5-Star Chp. 1

So, I found yet another gem in the treasure trove of Writer's Digest articles. Here it is- written by Elizabeth Sims, and it's fantastic. Granted, I cut out some parts for brevity's sake, but here's the link to the full article.
http://writersdigest.com/article/8-ways-to-write-a-5-star-chapter-one/?et_mid=156106&rid=3003748

Enjoy!

As an aspiring author, the prospect of writing Chapter One should not intimidate, but excite the hell out of you. Why? Because no other part of your book can provide you with the disproportionate payoff that an excellent first chapter can. Far more than a great query letter, a great Chapter One can attract the attention of an agent. It can keep a harried editor from yawning and hitting “delete.” It can make a bookstore browser keep turning pages during the slow walk to the cash registers. And yes, it can even keep a bleary-eyed owner of one of those electronic thingamajigs touching the screen for more, more, more!

Fiction, like food, is an art and a craft. Here’s how to blend inspiration with technique and serve up an irresistible Chapter One.


#1: RESIST TERROR.
Let’s be honest: Agents and editors like to make you quiver and sweat as you approach Chapter One. All those warnings: “Grab me from the opening sentence! Don’t waste one word! If my attention flags, you’ve failed—you’re down the toilet! In fact, don’t even write Chapter One! Start your book at Chapter Four! Leave out all that David Copperfield crap!” From their perspective it’s an acid test. They know how important Chapter One is, and if you’re weak, they’ll scare you into giving up before you begin. (Hey, it makes their jobs easier: one less query in the queue.)

Here’s the truth: Agents and editors, all of them, are paper tigers. Every last one is a hungry kitten searching for something honest, original and brave to admire. Now is the time to gather your guts, smile and let it rip.

Your inner genius flees from tension, so first of all, relax. Notice that I did not say agents and editors are looking for perfect writing. Nor are they looking for careful writing. Honest, original and brave. That’s what they want, and that’s what you’ll produce if you open up room for mistakes and mediocrity. It’s true! Only by doing that will you be able to tap into your wild and free core. Let out the bad with the good now, and you’ll sort it out later.

Second, remember who you are and why you’re writing this book. What is your book about? What purpose(s) will it serve? Write your answers down and look at them from time to time as you write. (By the way, it’s OK to want to write a book simply to entertain people; the noblest art has sprung from just such a humble desire.)

And third, if you haven’t yet outlined, consider doing so. Even the roughest, most rustic framework will give you a sharper eye for your beginning and, again, will serve to unfetter your mind. Your outline could be a simple list of things-that-are-gonna-happen, or it could be a detailed chronological narrative of all your plot threads and how they relate. I find that knowing where I’m headed frees my mind from everything but the writing at hand. Being prepared makes you calm, and better equipped to tap into your unique voice—which is the most important ingredient in a good Chapter One.


#2: DECIDE ON TENSE AND POINT OF VIEW.
Most readers are totally unconscious of tense and POV; all they care about is the story. Is it worth reading? Fun to read? But you must consider your tense and POV carefully, and Chapter One is go time for these decisions. It used to be simple. You’d choose from:

a) First person: I chased the beer wagon.

b) Third-person limited: Tom chased the beer wagon.

or

c) Omniscient: Tom chased the beer wagon while the villagers watched and wondered, Would all the beer in the world be enough for this oaf?

… and you’d always use past tense.

But today, novels mix points of view and even tenses. In my Rita Farmer novels I shift viewpoints, but limit all POVs to the good guys. By contrast, John Grisham will shift out of the main character’s POV to the bad guy’s for a paragraph or two, then back again. (Some critics have labeled this practice innovative, while others have called it lazy; in the latter case, I’m sure Grisham is crying all the way to the bank.) It’s also worth noting that studies have shown that older readers tend to prefer past tense, while younger ones dig the present. (If that isn’t a statement with larger implications, I don’t know what is.)

Many writing gurus tell you to keep a first novel simple by going with first person, past tense. This approach has worked for thousands of first novels (including mine, 2002’s Holy Hell), but I say go for whatever feels right to you, simple or not. I do, however, recommend that you select present or past tense and stick with it. Similarly, I advise against flashbacks and flash-forwards for first novels. Not that they can’t work, but they seem to be off-putting to agents and editors, who will invariably ask, “Couldn’t this story be told without altering the time-space continuum?”

The point is, you want your readers to feel your writing is smooth; you don’t want them to see the rivets in the hull, so to speak. And the easiest way to do that is to create fewer seams.

If you’re still unsure of your tense or POV choices, try these techniques:

Go to your bookshelf and take a survey of some of your favorite novels. What POVs and tenses are selected, and why do you suppose the authors chose those approaches?

Rehearse. Write a scene using first person, then third-person limited, then omniscient. What feels right?

Don’t forget to consider the needs of your story. If you plan to have simultaneous action in Fresno, Vienna and Pitcairn, and you want to show it all in living color, you almost certainly need more than one POV.

And if you’re still in doubt, don’t freeze up—just pick an approach and start writing. Remember, you can always change it later if you need to.


#3: CHOOSE A NATURAL STARTING POINT.
When you read a good novel, it all seems to unfold so naturally, starting from the first sentence. But when you set out to write your own, you realize your choices are limitless, and this can be paralyzing. Yet your novel must flow from the first scene you select.

Let’s say you’ve got an idea for a historical novel that takes place in 1933. There’s this pair of teenagers who figure out what really happened the night the Lindbergh baby was abducted, but before they can communicate with the police, they themselves are kidnapped. Their captives take them to proto-Nazi Germany, and it turns out there’s some weird relationship between Col. Lindbergh and the chancellor—or is there? Is the guy with the haircut really Lindbergh? The teens desperately wonder: What do they want with us?

Sounds complicated. Where should you start? A recap of the Lindbergh case? The teenagers on a date where one of them stumbles onto a clue in the remote place they go to make out? A newspaper clipping about a German defense contract that should have raised eyebrows but didn’t?

Basically, write your way in...

If you’re unsure where to begin, pick a scene you know you’re going to put in—you just don’t know where yet—and start writing it. You might discover your Chapter One right there. And even if you don’t, you’ll have fodder for that scene when the time comes.

Here are a few other strategies that can help you choose a starting point:

Write a character sketch or two. You need them anyway, and they’re great warm-ups for Chapter One. Ask yourself: What will this character be doing when we first meet him? Write it. Again, you might find yourself writing Chapter One.

Do a Chapter-One-only brainstorm and see what comes out.

The truth is, you probably can write a great story starting from any of several places. If you’ve narrowed it down to two or three beginnings and still can’t decide, flip a coin and get going... It’s OK to be extremely loose with your first draft of your first chapter. In fact, I recommend it. The important thing at this point is to begin.


#4: PRESENT A STRONG CHARACTER RIGHT AWAY.
This step might seem obvious, but too many first-time novelists try to lure the reader into a story by holding back the main character. Having a couple of subsidiary characters talking about the protagonist can be a terrific technique for character or plot development at some point, but not at the beginning of your novel.

When designing your Chapter One, establish your characters’ situation(s). What do they know at the beginning? What will they learn going forward? What does their world mean to them?

Who is the strongest character in your story? Watch out; that’s a trick question. Consider Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. The main character, Stevens, is a weak man, yet his presence is as strong as a hero. How? Ishiguro gave him a voice that is absolutely certain, yet absolutely vacant of self-knowledge. We know Stevens, and because we see his limitations, we know things will be difficult for him. Don’t be afraid to give all the depth you can to your main character early in your story. You’ll discover much more about him later, and can always revise if necessary.


#5: BE SPARING OF SETTING.
Another common error many aspiring novelists make is trying to set an opening scene in too much depth. You’ve got it all pictured in your head: the colors, sounds, flavors and feelings. You want everybody to be in the same place with the story you are. But you’re too close: A cursory—but poignant!—introduction is what’s needed. Readers will trust you to fill in all the necessary information later. They simply want to get a basic feel for the setting, whether it’s a lunar colony or a street in Kansas City.

Pack punch into a few details. Instead of giving the history of the place and how long the character has been there and what the weather’s like, consider something like this:

He lived in a seedy neighborhood in Kansas City. When the night freight passed, the windows rattled in their frames and the dog in the flat below barked like a maniac.

Later (if you want) you’ll tell all about the house, the street, the neighbors and maybe even the dog’s make and model, but for now a couple of sentences like that are all you need.

But, you object, what of great novels that opened with descriptions of place, like John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath or Edna Ferber’s Giant? Ah, in those books the locale has been crafted with the same care as a character, and effectively used as one. Even so, the environment is presented as the characters relate to it: in the former case, man’s mark on the land (by indiscriminate agriculture), and in the latter, man’s mark on the sky (the jet plumes of modern commerce).

Another way to introduce a setting is to show how a character feels about it. In Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov seethes with resentment at the opulence around him in St. Petersburg, and this immediately puts us on the alert about him. The setting serves the character; it does not stand on its own.


#6: USE CAREFULLY CHOSEN DETAIL TO CREATE IMMEDIACY.
Your Chapter One must move along smartly, but in being economical you cannot become vague. Difficult, you say? It’s all in the context.

The genius of books as diverse as Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote and Robin Cook’s Coma lies in the authors’ generosity with good, authentic detail. Cervantes knew that a suit of armor kept in a junk locker for years wouldn’t merely be dusty, it would be corroded to hell—and that would be a problem to overcome. Likewise, Cook, himself a doctor, knew that a patient prepped for surgery would typically be given a calming drug before the main anesthetic—and that some patients, somehow, do not find peace even under the medication, especially if they have reason not to.

If you’re an expert on something, go ahead and show that you know what you’re talking about. One of the reasons my novel Damn Straight, a story involving a professional golfer, won a Lambda Award is that I know golf, and let my years of (painful) experience inform the book. I felt I’d done a good job when reviewer after reviewer wrote, “I absolutely hate golf, but I love how Sims writes about it in this novel. …”

Let’s say your Chapter One begins with your main character getting a root canal. You could show the dentist nattering on and on as dentists tend to do, and that would be realistic, but it could kill your chapter, as in
this example:

Dr. Payne’s running commentary included the history of fillings, a story about the first time he ever pulled a tooth, and a funny anecdote about how his college roommate got really drunk every weekend.

Bored yet? Me too. Does that mean there’s too much detail? No. It means there’s too much extraneous detail.

How about this:

Dr. Payne paused in his running commentary on dental history and put down his drill. “Did you know,” he remarked, “that the value of all the gold molars in a city this size, at this afternoon’s spot price of gold, would be something on the order of half a million dollars?” He picked up his drill again. “Open.”

If the detail serves the story, you can hardly have too much.


#7: GIVE IT A MINI PLOT.
It’s no accident that many great novels have first chapters that were excerpted in magazines, where they essentially stood as short stories. I remember being knocked to the floor by the gorgeous completeness of Ian McEwan’s first chapter of On Chesil Beach when it was excerpted in The New Yorker.

Every chapter should have its own plot, none more important than Chapter One. Use what you know about storytelling to:

Make trouble. I side with the writing gurus who advise you to put in a lot of conflict early. Pick your trouble and make it big. If it can’t be big at first, make it ominous.

Focus on action. Years ago I got a rejection that said, “Your characters are terrific and I love the setting, but not enough happens.” A simple and useful critique! Bring action forward in your story; get it going quick. This is why agents and editors tell you to start your story in the middle: They’ve seen too many Chapter Ones bogged down by backstory. Put your backstory in the back, not the front. Readers will stick with you if you give them something juicy right away. I make a point of opening each of my Rita Farmer novels with a violent scene, which is then revealed to be an audition, or a film shoot or a rehearsal. Right away, the reader gets complexity, layers and a surprise shift of frame of reference.

Be decisive. A good way to do that is to make a character take decisive action.

Don’t telegraph too much; let action develop through the chapter. It’s good to end Chapter One with some closure. Because it is Chapter One, your readers will trust that the closure will turn out to be deliciously false.


#8: BE BOLD.
The most important thing to do when writing Chapter One is put your best material out there. Do not humbly introduce your story—present it with a flourish. Don’t hold back! Set your tone and own it. You’re going to write a whole book using great material; have confidence that you can generate terrific ideas for action and emotion whenever you want.

If you do your job creating a fabulous appetizer in Chapter One and follow it up well, your readers will not only stay through the whole meal, they’ll order dessert, coffee and maybe even a nightcap—and they won’t want to leave until you have to throw them out at closing time.

You know what I did after reading this? I started writing the first chapter of my next book. :) Once I'm done, maybe I'll post it for you guys to critique.
Till next time!

The Worst Enemies of Writing

I know, I know- it's been a while since I'm updated. Sorry. Again.

Things aren't going so well on my side of the block, and it prompted a question- what are a writer's worst enemies? My theories, in no particular order, are:

1) Fear.
2) Rejection.
3) Bad Writing.
4) Time (or lack thereof).
5) Writer's Block.

Let's just say my week has been full of them. On Tuesday, I found out my short story didn't make it in a contest. I had been waiting for 4 months only to get bad news. Lovely. Naturally, I went back over that short story and ripped it up (editing it, at least). And realized it sucked. Wonderful. And now I have a strong case of writers block.

I have plenty to write, and the time for it, but when I pick up the pencil.... nothing happens. The last time I had writers block this bad was two summers ago, when I spent about nine weeks over five pages in my first book. Ugh. That's about five hundred words, right? Yeah. Nine weeks. It was bad.

I know how the scene I'm working on ends, but not how the situation gets there. I find myself writing scenes for books I'm not even interested in- even fanfictions, which by definition can't get professionally published. I'm just so sick and tired of this book- 653 pages in, and it just keeps going.... I can't believe I actually mapped this all out in my head. I must be insane- five plotlines in one book? Yeah. I must be going crazy.

So now I'm not really sure where this is going.

But that reminds me of WEbook- this great site a friend of mine (I don't know how to tag people- sorry Anna!) showed me. And it has 911 writer's block. Check it out! http://www.webook.com/911writersblock

Is anyone else suffering with writers block? Or has recently? Or ever has?

On a happier note, congrats Christina about finishing The Magician's Inheritance! I've been reading it! :D