ΕΡΗ
The Volturi
 Αριθμός μηνυμάτων : 6673
Registration date : 03/03/2009
Forks Student Profile
Team:  Edward - Bella
 Special ability: Influencing emotions
 |  Θέμα: Απ: APRILYNNE PIKE-Φτερα  Τετ 24 Αυγ 2011 - 11:13 | |
| Ειναι ωραια σειρα και διαβαζετε ευχαριστα! Deleted SceneΑπο το πρωτο:- Σπόιλερ:
So I've been promising to post this for a while: the scene where Wings originally started. It may constitute a very minor spoiler if you haven't read the book, but as this was the original beginning you're probably okay.
Honestly, I had a hard time letting go of this beginning. I enjoyed jumping right into something strange and mysterious! I mulled it over for a long time. (Like WEEKS, seriously!) But in the end, I decided that my editor was right to cut it.
The pulse thing did not come back into play until about a third of the way through the book, so it was like this pink elephant in the room. It also made the first fifty pages feel like a bit of a letdown because there was a Big Surprise!! and then things settled down and were normal for a long time. With the beginning I have now, there is a very realistic introduction to Laurel, and the weirdness builds gradually.
But thanks to the magic of the internet, you get to see some of the changes that take place after the book is written.
Enjoy!
***
"Hustle, hustle!"
Laurel bounded off the track, breathless from the mile run. She'd never particularly liked running--or sports of any kind for that matter--but a fitness test was standard procedure for all students on the first day of gym class at Del Norte High School.
"Come on over! Hurry, you got two minutes before we need everyone to take their pulse." The stocky female gym coach was waving the class over with a clipboard. "Okay, you can get your pulse from your wrist, but sometimes it's hard to find it there the first time. That's fine, two fingers to the side of your neck and you should feel a good, strong pulse, especially after that run. If you're still having problems you can check your pulse in your groin like this." Several people giggled as Mrs. Wilson stuck her fingers between her legs to demonstrate. "Now, find your pulse and when I say go, start counting. When I say stop, stop."
Laurel's fingers went to her wrist, but she didn't feel anything except the warmth of her skin from the sun. Her eyes darted around and she was relieved to see that several of her classmates had already moved on to their necks. She placed her fingers on the right side of her throat the way the coach had demonstrated and pressed gently. Then a little harder. She changed over to the left side and still felt nothing. Most of the kids around her were standing quietly with their fingers pressed to their necks. She tried to mimic their position but still couldn't find anything that felt like the beating drum Mrs. Wilson had described. She considered trying the groin pulse, but only for a second.
She started to remove her fingers so she could raise her hand when Mrs. Wilson blew her whistle and yelled, "Okay, get ready!" Laurel jammed her fingers back into her throat and tried to act like she was feeling something.
"Three, two, one, count."
Laurel kept her eyes on the ground as she pretended to count. She glanced around the group and watched the other kids from under her lashes. Several had their eyes closed and a few were mouthing numbers as they concentrated.
"Stop!" Fingers left throats and wrists and the whole class seemed to start breathing again as one. Mrs. Wilson circled the group asking for numbers. Everyone had an answer: ninety-four, one hundred and three, ninety-seven, eighty-two. Laurel listened carefully as her classmates rattled off numbers. Then the clipboard was under her nose.
"Name?"
"Laurel Sewell."
"Pulse?"
Laurel hesitated for only a moment. "Ninety."
Mrs. Wilson did not even glance at her. "Ninety," she repeated, then stopped.
Laurel sucked in a breath when Mrs. Wilson's eyebrows furrowed. "Sewell... Jacob Sewell's daughter?"
Laurel shook her head. "Mark Sewell's. We just moved here."
Mrs. Wilson made a small grunt of acknowledgment and moved on. "Name?" she asked the next student.
Laurel released the breath she'd been holding and attempted to wander off toward the locker room as casually as the other girls.
No one stopped her or called out that she had cheated and when the gym doors closed behind her, she felt safe. But as soon as she walked into the locker room she closed herself into a bathroom stall and tried again. Her wrist, her throat, and now that she was in the privacy of her own stall, her groin. Nothing. Maybe there was something wrong with her fingers.
Or maybe lots of people had cheated.
It didnΆt matter. No one knew.
She left the stall and hurried to her small locker, anxious to be back in her lightweight tank top and jean shorts. She hated sweats and the cheap gym t-shirts were heavy and stiff. It was a relief to stand in her bra and underwear for a few seconds and let the air cool the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and back. But the other girls, who were all dressing carefully with their backs to the group, eyed her as she stood so unclothed, so she yanked her clothes on, slipped into her flip-flops, and hurried out the door.
Aπο το δευτερο:- Σπόιλερ:
I have been promising to post this forever. Well, this is me, on the ball.  What follows is a scene deleted from Spells As with the original opening of Wings, this is a scene I had a hard time letting go of. In the end, I think the book flowed better without it. But, thanks to the magic of the internet, you can decide for yourself. This scene takes place between chapters 21 and 22. Enjoy--and, um, spoiler alert!  *** After accosting David, they all stood in the kitchen with sodas, watching the setting sun out the picture window. “Well, between Trick or Treaters, we have like four movies to choose from and my mom got a ton of candy. I donΆt even know what,” Laurel said. She turned her back to the group and opened the tall cupboard. She had just started reaching for the bag when she felt David press in close behind her. “Let me,” he said. Laurel--sensitive about her height since David had grown so much in the last year--opened her mouth to give him a few choice words about her ability to do things for herself when she felt his fingers grab the hem of her shirt and tug it down. She snapped her mouth closed and wondered with mortification just how much of her blossom had been sticking out. SheΆd bound it too quickly. David locked eyes with her for a moment as he handed her a bag of candy and turned to grab the rest. He tossed one bag to Ryan as Laurel faced Chelsea with what she hoped was a neutral expression. “Awesome!” Ryan said as he sifted through the candy. “KitKats, M&MΆs, Snickers, your folks have all the good stuff.” He helped himself to a candy bar. “Ryan, those are for the kids!” Chelsea scolded. “IΆm so sure theyΆre not going to get any if I eat one.” They continued to bicker playfully as they headed into the rec room, but from what she could hear, it sounded to Laurel like the argument ended once Ryan offered Chelsea a candy bar too. “How much was showing?” Laurel asked quietly. “Not much. But enough.” David glanced into the other room. “I could see the petals pretty clearly. If Chelsea paid much attention to your flower last year at the dance--and we both know she probably did--she might recognize it. ItΆs pretty distinct.” “If she saw it, wouldnΆt she have said something right away?” “Usually,” David said, slowly. “Do you think she saw?” They both looked at Chelsea playing keep-away from Ryan with a fun-sized Snickers bar. “No,” they said in unison. “I think youΆre probably safe,” David said with a smile. “Be sure to thank Ryan someday.” *** “Well,” Laurel said as the credit started to roll. “That was . . . something.” Against their better judgment, the girls had been talked into starting with a very bloody action flick. The moment Laurel caught ChelseaΆs eye she could tell she wasnΆt the only one who was relieved it was over. They had both insisted that there was no need to pause the movie when they got up to answer the door for trick-or-treaters. They had also started lingering in the front foyer. “Man, that was awesome!” Ryan said, bumping fists with David. “Oh, yeah. And that ninja chick was totally like Kl--” He stopped. “Kill Bill meets, uh, Hannibal,” he finished lamely. Ryan considered this. “I guess I can see that,” he agreed. “She did have a sort of ΅Uma Thurman meets Jodie FosterΆ thing going on.” He stretched, then put one arm around ChelseaΆs shoulders. “So what now?” David looked at his watch. “ItΆs only eight-thirty. The Trick-or-Treaters are thinning out, but we have time for another movie if you want.” “Only if itΆs one of the romantic comedies,” Laurel said sardonically. “WeΆre almost out of snacks though,” Ryan said woefully, staring at a half-empty bag of chips and the four completely empty bag of candy. Laurel wondered if he was really protesting the romantic comedy. Chelsea grinned as she opened a KitKat sheΆd hidden about halfway through the movie and popped it into her mouth, giggling when Ryan glared at her. Laurel laughed, but was distracted by a sound at the back door. Not a knock, but a small thump. She had just dismissed it as a trick of the wind when she heard it again. She tuned out the others and listened more carefully. It wasnΆt necessary; the next thunk was much louder and drew everyoneΆs attention. “What was that?” Chelsea asked. “It sounds like someoneΆs throwing rocks from your backyard,” Ryan said, getting up. Panic squeezed LaurelΆs stomach. “Stop!” Ryan and Chelsea looked at her strangely. “ItΆs my house; IΆll deal with it.” A loud crack made them all flinch. Laurel tried to look confident as she strode toward the door. With a deep breath she flung it open and peered out into the night. Before her eyes could adjust to the darkness, a rock whistled past, grazing her shoulder painfully, and shattering the glass in the Alton Kelley print framed on the wall behind her. Chelsea stifled a shriek and Laurel slammed the door shut, her hands shaking as shards of glass tinkled to the floor. “What the hell was that!” Ryan asked, scrambling over to survey the damage. “The pitcher of the baseball team, by the looks of it,” David said slowly, with a quick glance at Laurel. His hand was hovering a little too close to the holster hidden at the small of his back. Laurel studied the broken picture frame, dread rising in her chest. Her hand was clenched over the cut on her arm, and she could feel sticky sap starting ooze from it. “Do we need to call the cops?” Chelsea asked, eyeing the shards of glass that littered the floor. “On Halloween?” Laurel laughed nervously. “TheyΆre probably out with a dozen other calls. Stupid pranksters. I shouldnΆt have opened the door--bad timing.” Chelsea and Ryan stared at her like she was crazy. It seemed an appropriate response. “Let me see your arm,” Chelsea said, stepping forward. Laurel turned her shoulder away. “ItΆs okay. IΆll go upstairs and put a Band-aid on it. ItΆll be fine.” She hoped the tremor in her voice wasnΆt nearly as extreme as it sounded in her ears. She hoped Ryan and Chelsea didnΆt see how badly her hands were shaking as she turned to them with a nervous smile. “IΆll be right back,” she said, fleeing up the stairs. “Uh . . . IΆm going to make sure sheΆs okay,” David said, his footsteps close behind her. Laurel let him into her room and swung the door shut, removing her hand from her shoulder. The gash was shallow and a scant two inches across, but it stung like crazy. “I donΆt think IΆm ever going to get used to your blood not being red,” David said, peering at the cut with interest. Laurel grabbed a shirt out of her laundry basket and pressed it against the wound. “Can you hold this there?” she asked David, her head spinning just a little. David wrapped his warm hands around her upper arm and held the fabric firmly against the cut. With her free hand Laurel dug into her drawer for the rudimentary first aid kit sheΆd brought back from Avalon, grateful faeries were ambidextrous. Straining to remember how Tamani had bandaged her last year and trying to tap into her thus far non-existent intuition, Laurel pulled out some light green, webbed binding strips and laid them over the wound like tape. As she smoothed them into place she felt the material grow warm, reacting with her sap, and shrink, ever so lightly, pulling the wound closed. “How does that look?” Laurel asked, holding her arm out to David. He nodded soberly. “It looks good. YouΆre not bleeding . . . or whatever, anymore.” He hesitated and licked his lips. “It wasnΆt really a kid playing a prank, was it?” Laurel shook her head. “I only got a glimpse, but it was definitely a troll.” “Are Chelsea and Ryan safe downstairs?” “I think so. Something was tackling the troll right as I slammed the door.” “Do we need to send them home?” “No,” Laurel said firmly. “My sentries are out there. TheyΆre taking care of it. The house is warded and you have your . . . your gun. This is the best place for them right now.” “Do you think we should call Klea?” “No. Absolutely not. SheΆs not a faerie, they donΆt know her; theyΆd just consider her another threat. The last thing we need to do is confuse them.” No need to mention that Laurel still wasnΆt sure they should trust her. “What we need to do is go downstairs and try to convince Ryan and Chelsea that everything is fine and that they should stay.” David nodded. “YouΆll need something to cover that,” he said, pointing to the binding on her arm. “Oh, yeah,” Laurel said, stepping away from the door. David studied the door as Laurel walked to her closet, snatched up a shirt and pulling it over her tank top in one quick movement. “Am I showing?” Laurel asked, turning her back so David could check the tail of her shirt. He shook his head wordlessly. She double checked her three-quarter-length sleeves and reached for the doorknob again. “Wait,” David said. She looked up at him questioningly and he reached out and pulled her to him. Laurel wanted to melt into his embrace, but after a few short seconds, she pushed back. “I canΆt right now,” she said. “If I think about this too hard IΆm going to be an emotional wreck and I canΆt do that right now.” She forced a smile, choking back tears. “As far as they know, IΆm fine. Just fine.” DavidΆs jaw was tight but he nodded and pulled her door open. They came down the stairs to find Chelsea in front of the picture window in the kitchen, staring out into the back yard. Laurel pushed David toward the rec room and came to stand beside Chelsea, a smile plastered on her face. “It looked worse than it was,” she said cheerily. “Just a scratch.” She pulled on ChelseaΆs arm, trying not to show how desperate she was to get her away from the window. “DonΆt let it wreck our night. Come into the other room.” Chelsea shrugged her away. “Just a sec.” “What?” “ThereΆs someone out there.” “IΆm sure they left,” Laurel said. “They wouldnΆt hang around to get caught.” “No. ThereΆs someone out there,” Chelsea repeated. She didnΆt raise her voice, but her tone was insistent. With fear making a lump in her throat, Laurel stood beside Chelsea and peered out with her, pretending she didnΆt know what she might see. It didnΆt take long to see what Chelsea was looking at. Something, barely illuminated by the house lights, was moving through the trees. Laurel couldnΆt make out any shapes, but there was definitely someone out there--several someones, in fact. “Who is it, Laurel?” “I donΆt know,” Laurel lied. Chelsea didnΆt turn to Laurel; her gaze was fixed on the shadows darting through the trees. But somehow that was worse than if sheΆd been staring Laurel in the face. Laurel said nothing. There was nothing to say. Chelsea didnΆt move. After a moment, Laurel forced herself to speak. “Come on. Come watch the movie.” Now Chelsea turned to her silently. “Please?” Laurel said. Chelsea took one more look out the window and followed after Laurel. In the rec room Ryan and David were debating the virtues of the two chick flicks Laurel had picked out earlier--though their argument basically boiled down to which movie was more likely to have zombies. All the blinds were down and even though she knew the thin layer of fabric was no match for a rock with the strength of a troll behind it, Laurel felt better knowing they couldnΆt be seen. The couples separated onto different ends of the sectional, the guys with their arms protectively around their girlfriends. Ryan seemed to sense that something was wrong, but he didnΆt say anything. And neither did Chelsea. But at least they didnΆt insist of going home. Everyone watched the movie in silence, or at least kept their eyes turned toward the television. Laurel doubted David was paying any attention; she certainly wasnΆt. There really was no way she could tell David about the festival in Avalon now. SheΆd been on the verge of telling him earlier this week--she hated lying to him--but now she couldnΆt. HeΆd be too worried; heΆd insist that she skip it. SheΆd tell her parents she was studying with Chelsea. She hadnΆt come up with a good excuse for Chelsea, so she wouldnΆt tell Chelsea anything at all. With luck, David would never miss her. SheΆd leave the festival early if she had to. And not just to get back before David got off work; she didnΆt want to be anywhere but safe in her house when night fell.
Aπο το τριτο:- Σπόιλερ:
Un-Enticing Thus ends tour season! The launch of Illusions was a great success (New York Times best-selling series, woo!), I traveled to many wonderful places, met tons of fabulous fans, and got myself downright exhausted! Just in time to get back to work on Book 4. But while you're waiting for the conclusion of Laurel's story, please enjoy this short story from Tamani's point-of-view. As the winners of the Wings read-along challenge in May, the Mundie Moms got to publish the story as a blog exclusive. But it's June now, so, in case you missed it: here it is! Un-Enticing Tamani pushed his sunglasses up on his head as he entered the gelato shop. It was eleven in the morning; other than the brunette on the other side of the counter eyeing him, the shop was empty. Perfect. "Hi," Tamani said with a winning smile as he approached the counter. "How are you today?" "Good. What'll you have?" He paused, scanning the array of pastel-colored gelato. "What do you suggest?" he asked. He didn't really care--it wasn't like he could actually eat it. "Well," the girl said, pushing back from the counter to walk behind the tubs on display, "are you a chocolate person or a fruit person?" At least he could answer that one honestly. "Fruit." "Tart or sweet?" "Um . . . tart?" "Then I'd suggest the lemon, or maybe the cranberry." "Why don't you give me some of each," Tamani said, not even glancing at the dessert. Look them in the eye; everyone had stressed that. "I trust you," he added, widening his smile. "Okay," the girl said, glancing from him to the gelato as she scooped it into a small bowl. "That'll be two pounds fifty." "Well worth it," Tamani said, peeling a five-pound note out of his pocket. "Good dessert and better company." The girl tittered as she opened the cash register. "Where are you from?" Tamani asked, leaning on one elbow as she handed him his change. "Um, just around here," the girl said. "And what do you like to do in your spare time?" Her smile seemed a little hesitant now, and she grabbed a wet cloth and began wiping down the counter. "Haven't got much of that these days." "Do you, like, party?" Her face froze and for some reason she glanced around the store before answering him. "Not really, no." "Oh, I don't blame you," Tamani said, grasping for common ground. "What about rock and roll? You like rock and roll?" Apparently it was very popular these days. "Um, I guess so. Anyway, I better, ah, clean this," she said, turning to a counter on the opposite side of her work space--and giving her back to Tamani. Undeterred, Tamani leaned a little closer over the counter. I can do this. "I'm new about town," he said. "I'm staying a few kilometers west of here." "Uh-huh," the girl said, not turning around. "I'll be here for a couple more months," he added. "I'd love to find someone I could socialize with." The girl said nothing. "So how about it? Would you like to get together and do . . ." He realized he didn't have a suggestion. But he turned his smile sultry and finished with, "whatever it is you do around here for fun?" At last she turned to face him again, but her expression was doubtful. She didn't trust him; he'd have to figure out what he'd said to cause that. Or maybe he'd just forgotten something? Oh--of course! Stupid. Humans were so funny about names. Always so skittish, wanting a proper introduction. Sometimes Tamani wondered if the superstition was written in their DNA. "I'm Tam. Tam Collins." He thrust one hand out at her. She flinched back half a step. "That's . . . great," she said, ignoring Tamani's outstretched hand and edging toward a door that led deeper into the shop. "Enjoy your gelato, sir." And then she was gone. The sour taste of failure burned at the back of Tamani's throat. He looked down at his multicolored mound of gelato, liquefying around the edges of the cup. "Thanks," he whispered to himself, hoping he didn't sound too disheartened. "I can't actually eat it anyway." He stepped out into the bright spring sunlight. "That could have gone better," he muttered. He put his sunglasses back over his eyes and sneaked a glance through the window of the gelato shop. The girl had reappeared, joined by an older man; she was showing him the abandoned cup of gelato. He was shaking his head and looked troubled. Well, he didn't have to get everything right on his first try. No one could win all the time. But the girl had seemed almost afraid of him at the end. He would need to figure out what he'd done wrong and avoid doing it in the future. He walked down the sunny street, looking for a new target. He spotted two teenage girls--late teens, Tamani predicted--at one of the white tables shaded beneath the red awnings of Café Tabou. Perfect. They had drinks in front of them, but no food. Likely they were "hanging out" rather than having an intimate meal, which was probably to his advantage. Tamani took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, tucked his hands into his pockets, and strode toward them as casually as he could. "Greetings," he said when he reached their table. The girls looked up with suspicious expressions that melted away when they saw him. Being attractive had its advantages. "Hi," one of them said, leaning back against her chair and crossing her legs. "Do you mind if I join you?" Tamani asked. Then, with a flirtatious smile, he gestured to the nearly empty patio. "All of the other seats seem to be taken." The girls exchanged a quick look, then the one with short brown hair laughed and patted the seat next to her. "Sure," she purred. "I'm Moira; this is Jamey." "Tam," Tamani said. "I'm here on . . ." Tamani thought quickly. "Holiday," he finished, remembering the word as he settled himself into the chair. A waiter hurried over. "Sparkling water," Tamani said, without taking the proffered menu. Something he could drink. No more leaving purchased food behind. That was apparently a bad thing to do. "So you're on holiday," Moira said, lifting her own glass, and eyeing him over the edge of it as she sipped. "From where?" "All over," Tamani said elusively. "Where'd you grow up? I can't quite place your accent." No doubt, Tamani thought ruefully. "Oh, up north," Tamani said dismissively, "but I spent the last few years in America. Hope the damage isn't permanent. And you two? From here?" "Our whole lives, both of us," Jamey said. "But we're going abroad after sixth year. For university." Tamani knew almost nothing about Scottish education, but he didn't find it too hard to puzzle together Jamey's meaning. That was good--it meant he was improving. The waiter returned to set a bottle and glass in front of Tamani. He poured himself some of the bubbly water and took a sip. Moira took over, leaning forward, her chin resting on her hands. "We both wanted to cop out early, but our parents said we'd do better in the long run if we pushed through. I was so mad; I'm already the oldest in the form." She looked up at him, her lips making a practiced pout. She was flirting with him now; Tamani was quite certain. That was good. He supposed he should just encourage her to continue talking. And this gave him an opportunity to use some of the technology vocabulary he'd been studying. "So," he said cheerily, "do you two like to surf over the internet?" The girls exchanged a quick look. "I guess," Moira said, looking a little confused. "How about the Facebook?" Tamani asked, leaning closer and smiling. "Do you have a profile there? That's always fun." "Facebook's okay," Jamey said after a brief pause. "It's getting a little crowded, though." "Oh lord, my gran is on Facebook now, did I tell you?" Moira said. "My gran! Did you see what she said to Tommy about that video? I wanted to die." That got Jamey laughing. "That was nothing. You should have heard my mum lose it when Dad got her an iPod. 'Oh, it can't play my cassettes, what good is it?'" Tamani was completely lost. Cassettes? At least he knew the word iPod. "Oh yes, iPods. I have an iPod on my"--what did they call it here?--"mobile," he finished, pulling out his iPhone. "That Rod Stewart, he's pretty hoppin', eh?" They both flat-out stared at him now. Tamani was starting to sense he'd said something wrong again. "Um, I guess," Jamey said. "If you're like, forty." "Ah, well, you know . . ." Tamani muttered. Were the intelligence reports outdated? Or was he just acting too mature? And if he couldn't pinpoint his mistakes, how could he possibly correct them in time? "Hey, vintage is cool," Moira said, shrugging. Tamani wasn't sure what she meant, but she seemed to be rescuing him from her friend. Tamani decided it was probably a good idea to agree with her. "Oh, absolutely," he said. "Vintages are my favorite." But even Moira's smile fell at that. "Are you okay?" she asked hesitantly. "Never better," Tamani said, raising his glass with a smile. "Can I get you two another?" he asked, gesturing to their mostly empty glasses. "I'm enjoying this chat ever so much." "Thanks," Jamey said, and Tamani noticed her subtly pinch her friend's arm. "But I actually have to go. We both do. You know how sixth year is. Homework." Now there was something he could talk about! Even in Avalon, home work was unavoidable. "Oh yes," he said. "Damned home work. My mum used to make me dust for hours. But you don't want to rush back home to that," he said, trailing his fingers over her arm. "Stay." "Sorry," Jamey said, her voice firm as she pulled her arm away from Tamani. "Come on, Mor, we've got to go now." She pulled on her friend's arm, but Moira was already halfway out of her seat. Tamani glanced at his newly acquired watch. Seven minutes. That hardly counted as a real conversation. "Can I walk with you?" Tamani asked, rising and tossing a few pounds onto the table. "Or perhaps I could give you a ride. My vehicle's just over there," he added, gesturing across the street to the decrepit Volkswagen van he'd driven from the Manor. Jamey looked up at the van and her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Listen, creep," she said, pushing one sharp finger into his chest. "We're not stupid. We're leaving. You take one step in our direction and I'll scream. And I am very, very loud. Got it?" Tamani nodded numbly. What had he done? "I--" he began. But Jamey and Moira were already scurrying away, Jamey occasionally looking over her shoulder to glare at him. The waiter was out on the patio now too, watching Tamani with concern in his eyes. Don't draw attention to yourself, Sym had said. Just blend in. He was obviously failing at that. Tamani ducked his head and dug his keys out of his pocket. He felt eyes on his back as he hurried across the street to the van. He should have listened when Sym told him he wasn't ready. Cursing under his breath, he jammed his keys into the ignition and turned them viciously, the engine starting up with a satisfying roar. Glancing at the nearly empty road, Tamani barely remembered to turn on his blinking signal as he let his foot off the clutch. A little too fast. The van stalled and lurched forward, slamming into the rear bumper of the car in front of him. The high-pitched whine of a car alarm began sounding and everyone within hearing distance turned toward him. Including, of course, Moira and Jamey. Tamani let his head fall against the steering wheel. This was never going to work.
- Σπόιλερ:
Starting Fresh Sorry it has taken me so long to post this--it is the last little "prequel" I wrote for Illusions. This one was bonus Nook material for Barnes & Noble while electronic copies of Wings were being given away free in their stores. The story takes place from a new point-of-view... one I guarantee you've never seen before. Starting Fresh "I am a regular girl,” I whispered. It felt silly, speaking aloud in an empty bathroom in an empty house. "A regular human girl,” I revised, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. I certainly looked human. That was all most people cared about. I hoped it was enough; everything depended on today, depended on my ability to pass myself off as human. And where would I end up if I failed? There was no way to know for sure. It didn't really matter--if I failed, Klea would be angry, and there was no safe place for that. In the mirror I saw my bottom lip begin to quiver and I closed my teeth on it, the sharp sting stilling the tremor. My eyes still looked too wide--afraid. Would a kid notice something like that? Surely not . . . Besides, I had plenty of reasons to be afraid. New country, new home, new school. It was time. I grabbed my pre-packed lunch from the fridge and dropped it into my backpack, pausing in the front room to touch the delicate petals of a white egret orchid that stood on a short table by my front door. It was one of the few things I'd brought with me from Japan, carrying it on my lap like an organic security blanket. The delicate-looking blossom was firm and smelled sweet, even though its short blooming season was past. Green thumb, I joked to myself, giving the orchid one last pat before walking through the doorway. I pulled the door shut behind me and locked it. A useless gesture; not only did I live in the smallest house on the block, there was nothing of worth inside. At least nothing that would be useful to a human thief. They wouldn't be interested in my plants, and even the small television Klea let me have would hardly be worth the trouble. No, the most valuable thing in the house left with me. But it wasn't the time to think about that. It was time to be human. I threw a leg over my bike and pedaled, enjoying the cool air on my face. I was glad Klea had decided not to escort me to my first day of school. We'd toured the building together with the counselor last week, but yesterday Klea had driven away and left me alone at the house with assurances that I could handle the first day on my own. And I would. My confidence wavered when Del Norte High School came into view. It felt strange to be intimidated by the tiny place--this school was downright miniscule compared to the ones I attended in Tokyo and Osaka. It was probably even smaller than the youchien I'd attended in Hokkaido as a three-year-old But in Japan things seemed different. It was easy to blend in. Not only were there more students, but matching uniforms made it hard to stand out. My light eyes sometimes got me noticed, but a few other students had them too. I looked different here--so I felt different. Foreign. Which, technically, I was. But today I needed to show them I was like them. Highlight similarities, not differences. Klea had pounded the phrase into my head. After locking up my bike, I followed the current of students to the front doors, ducking in behind a tall guy, trailing in his wake until he veered off to his locker. Then I had to jostle my way though the crowd to the counselor's office. The door was open. Inside Mr. Robison was speaking very slowly to a Japanese boy about my age, maybe a little younger. A rather frazzled-looking woman--from his host family, I assumed--sat beside him, looking as helpless as Mr. Robison. After spending all morning preparing to blend in with the Americans, I was a little surprised to see someone else from Japan, so I stood silently in the doorway for a few seconds before Mr. Robison looked up and saw me. "Oh good! I'm so glad you're here,” Mr. Robison said, rising from his desk. He came over and gestured to the boy who had turned to look at us. He looked about as lost as I felt. "This is Jun,” Mr. Robison said. "He's from Japan, like you. Kyoto,” he added, pausing expectantly. "There are nearly two million people in Kyoto,” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. I should have just held my tongue. People would overlook a lot from a foreign exchange student but it was too soon to be testing the limits of that. But if Mr. Robison noticed my rudeness, he shrugged it off. "He's not quite as far along in his English studies as--” awkward pause as he met the host-mother's eyes-- "we had hoped,” he finally finished. "Are you able to . . . assist me?” What was wrong with using the word translate? But I simply put on the half-smile I had practiced in the mirror and nodded. "Of course.” I turned to Jun. "Hajime mashite,” I said softly, inclining my head in a half-bow. Jun's eyes brightened at the sound of his native tongue and he smiled with relief. It wasn't something I could really relate to; I'd spoken English and Japanese interchangeably since birth. But I still felt sorry for him. Being here was hard enough without a language barrier. Jun and I exchanged a few pleasantries before I turned back to Mr. Robison. "What were you trying to tell him?” I spent the next few minutes not only translating but repeating the English words for him so he could begin to recognize them. I didn't notice the sound of steps approaching behind me until I felt the unmistakable tingle that told me someone else was in the room. Mid-sentence I turned to look at the figure standing in the doorway. My tongue seemed to dry in my mouth as my eyes traveled the length of him, from his wiry limbs and slim frame up his sculpted shoulders to his smooth, open face. His cheekbones were high and chiseled and his mouth was full and cocked into a half-grin so fitting and natural I knew he'd never had to practice it in front of a mirror. His hair was short and black, gelled into a tousled, casual look, but it was his eyes that made my breath catch in my throat--eyes that seemed to see through me--into me--for an instant before his gaze flitted about the room, taking everything in. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I felt like I couldn't look away--almost as if my gaze was held to him by magic. I was suddenly glad he hadn't looked at me very long--I wasn't sure I could even speak if he talked to me. I tried unsuccessfully to swallow and finally remembered that I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly, trying not to make a sound. Finally he looked at me again. His eyes analyzed me for an instant before warming and turning friendly. Ignoring Mr. Robison, he thrust his hand toward me, and I wondered if he was offering it to me, feeling the same pull that I was. Luckily I managed to gather my wits quickly enough to realize that he just wanted to shake--a traditional American greeting. Stupid, I chided myself. "Hey,” he said. "I'm Tam.” His voice, a rich baritone, sent shivers through my whole body. And something else. It took me a moment to put my finger on it. Realization dawned a moment later and I had to force my teeth to not chatter. This was not in the plan. Hoping I wasn't shaking too noticeably, I took his hand, feeling something like a spark jump between us as the soft, cool skin of his palm pressed against mine. I smiled up at him. "Dozo yoroshiku. I'm Yuki.”
- Σπόιλερ:
Where Do We Go From Here?
I've been meaning to post this for a while! But it has been an eventful couple of weeks. The following is a story I wrote from Chelsea's POV, and is the third of the three "extra" shorts I've been promising. I will post the others here later for those who missed them!.
Enjoy!
Where Do We Go from Here?
Chelsea lay beside the pool, her head resting against Ryan's stomach, trying to enjoy the last few days of September. It wasn't really hot enough to swim, but it was warm enough to lie in the sun and try to wring just a tiny bit more color out of her very-almost-nearly-slightly tanned skin. With her pale complexion, even that had been a huge accomplishment. It came with more new freckles than she would have liked, but two steps forward and one step back was better than her usual shade of "fish-belly white," as her mom called it.
Chelsea considered that an insult to fish.
Ryan was half-reclined in his deck chair, playing some fighting game on his Nintendo DS. Chelsea was used to watching Ryan and David play while she and Laurel "watched"--which mostly involved chatting and ignoring the boys. But today Laurel and Tamani had faerie business to attend to in Avalon, so it was David's job to sit at home and wish he were with Laurel, and Chelsea's job to keep Ryan out of the way.
It was a great job, and she was very good at it.
Not even the game's machine guns sounding in her ear or the temptingly firm abs doubling as her pillow could distract Chelsea from thoughts of Avalon. Laurel and Tamani were surely there by now, walking among the fae in the legendary land of eternal springtime--a land Chelsea could only experience vicariously through Laurel.
She sighed, not realizing she had done so until Ryan glanced away from his game. "You okay?"
She startled. "What?"
"You sighed. Bored?"
She shook her head minutely, knowing he would feel the movement even if he didn't see it. "No, just thinking about . . . school."
The one drawback to being in on Laurel's secret was that it meant a lot of lying, and lying wasn't something that came naturally to Chelsea. She was getting better--practice makes perfect and all that. But she had to keep reminding herself that it was okay to lie, because this wasn't a bad secret. Actually, it was a very good secret--but blabbing about it would probably bring on the fae-pocalypse.
And possibly the human-pocalypse as well.
Still, she wished she could shout it to the world. Surely there were more people than her who would like nothing more than to hear that faeries were real and, in some cases, walking among them!
Though not flying. Chelsea had been disappointed to find that out. After getting a good look at Laurel's "wings" at the sophomore Halloween dance, Chelsea had been certain they were flightworthy. But, sadly, no--though they did smell really good.
"You work too hard."
"Huh?"
"At school. You work too hard."
Oh yeah, she'd claimed she was sighing about school. This was why she was a rotten liar. She couldn't even remember the lie she'd told ten seconds earlier! "I know," she said. David told her all the time. But usually it was in an effort to get her to work less hard so he could catch up.
Or get more ahead.
Anyway. "Can't help it," Chelsea said, more to break the silence than anything. She wasn't a fan of silence. It was always one step closer to awkward than idle chatter. And she was a good chatterer, if she did say so herself. It was one of her best features. "I have big plans. Big plans that involve good grades."
"Yeah, Harvard," Ryan said distractedly. "I don't know, don't you think your, like, eight-point-nine GPA and three million on the SAT are enough to get you in?"
Chelsea paused. "You know, Harvard has one of the best med schools in the country. Premed too, I bet." Chelsea would never say it out loud, but she couldn't really see Ryan as a doctor. Not that he wasn't smart enough or wouldn't have a great bedside manner or anything . . . he just didn't seem the type. But Ryan was determined to be an MD just like his dad. He never questioned Chelsea's dream, so she wasn't going to question his. Seemed fair.
"I know."
Was there an edge to his voice, or was he just into his game? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Ryan didn't say what was on his mind the way Chelsea did. She had to deduce his meaning from tones and body language and subtle word choices. So inconvenient, Chelsea thought. People should just talk. "Maybe you won't want to go to UCLA when you graduate."
He glanced down at her, then back up at his game. "Maybe. But Dad's a UC man, and you know how much he wants me to go there. And when he's writing the checks, well . . . Harvard is expensive."
She had nothing to say to that. If anyone knew how much Harvard cost, it was Chelsea. She had spent the last four years watching tuition rise slowly but steadily. And unlike Ryan, she didn't have a rich dad to cover it. A scholarship was the only way she was getting to Cambridge, MA. Her mom and dad could praise her work ethic all they wanted--she wasn't busting her butt in school out of personal pride.
Well, maybe a little. But that was more about her eternal goal to do better than David. Until he'd moved to Crescent City, she'd always been number one.
"Maybe you could get a scholarship," she said halfheartedly.
Ryan raised an eyebrow at her tone. He was smart and his grades were good. Maybe even good enough to get into Harvard. But he wasn't scholarship material and they both knew it.
Chelsea felt butterflies in her stomach, then chided herself for feeling nervous about talking to her own boyfriend. "You know," she blurted, "just because you apply somewhere doesn't mean you have to go."
"I know that," he said, not looking away from his game.
"So . . . I think we should apply to both schools."
"Come on, senior year just started; I'm not even thinking about applications till Christmas. No exceptions." He kissed the tip of his finger and pressed it into the middle of her forehead, making a smile curl across her face. "Not even for you."
Chelsea's applications--all two of them, his school and hers--were already filled out, in the envelopes, with appropriate postage affixed. She was just waiting for her most recent set of scores to arrive before sending them in. She'd retaken the SAT over the summer just to see if she could do any better. It was worth a try. She wished for the millionth time that Harvard still did early admissions.
And yet . . . the comforting rhythm of Ryan's breathing, the warm California sunshine on a sleepy Saturday afternoon . . . it was enough to make Chelsea question her plans, and not for the first time. Would it be so bad to go to UCLA instead of Harvard? If she could get a scholarship at Harvard, she could get one at UCLA, too.
If.
Or maybe she could go to Stanford. It was closer to home, and she was pretty sure she could qualify for free tuition there. San Francisco was a lot closer to LA than Massachusetts, after all. And she would probably have other friends in the Bay Area, too. Laurel sometimes talked about UC Berkeley.
Chelsea hated that her dreams were threatening to come between her and Ryan. Why couldn't their goal schools be closer? They didn't necessarily have to go to the same college--but she wanted to be able to see him every day.
Maybe twice a day.
And once in the evening.
That wasn't too much to ask, was it?
She just thought it would be good for them to apply to both colleges, just in case. In case they changed their minds about school.
Or worse, changed their minds about each other.
The thought made Chelsea want to grab Ryan's hands and pull his arms around her. But she didn't want to break the casual mood they'd been enjoying for the last hour.
That, and Ryan's mom kept checking on them through the kitchen window.
"So," Chelsea said hesitantly, "you did have your test scores sent to Harvard just in case, right?"
"Sure," Ryan said, his eyes on his game.
"And Princeton?" she asked, knowing that was the last place he would ever consider going.
"'Course," he said, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration.
"And SOCC?" Chelsea asked, suspecting he wasn't actually listening anymore.
"Yeah," Ryan said.
"And Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts?"
"Uh-huh."
Chelsea rolled her eyes and turned away from Ryan's face, enjoying the feel of his sun-warmed skin on her cheek. There would be another day to pick this particular battle. For now, she was content to scope out the scenery.
For now.
- Σπόιλερ:
Deleted Scene: Hanging Out The following scene takes place in Illusions shortly after Klea introduces Yuki at Laurel's house. As always with these deleted scenes: potential spoilers follow! When I'm writing, sometimes I write scenes that are just a little too... meta. I really liked the idea of Chelsea and Laurel using a creative writing class as a cover so they could discuss Laurel's secrets out in the open. Originally I used this scene to set up the later scene in Illusions where Chelsea does talk about Avalon in front of Ryan. But when writers write about writing, it can come across as navel-gazing--or worse. Even knowing this, it was hard to cut this scene. Laurel, Chelsea, Ryan, and David actually hang out a lot, but most of those gatherings take place "off screen" and I wanted to address that. In the end, though, it was too Mary Sue. I think the book is better for the cut, and honestly it wasn't even much of a cut. But that doesn't mean I'm above sharing it here.  *** "Cover me. Cover me. Cover me!" said Ryan, his voice rising as the sound of gunfire echoed through the room. "Dude!" "I was reloading!" David dropped his controller into his lap and stretched his hands above his head, groaning in defeat. Then he grabbed his controller again and leaned forward in his banana chair. "Okay. Grenades first this time." "So," Laurel said, pulling Chelsea's attention back to her. "I had the best idea for our story today." The biggest problem with Chelsea knowing about Laurel was keeping everyone in the loop--between her parents, David, and Chelsea, Laurel couldn't always remember who had heard what, and it wasn't always easy to get Chelsea one-on-one. Laurel and David could talk whenever, but when they got together with Chelsea, Ryan was usually there, too. Talking on the phone worked okay, but between cross country practice and hanging out with Ryan, most of Chelsea's home time was spent doing homework. Chelsea had proposed that their creative writing class provided the perfect cover. When Ryan was around, instead of talking about Laurel, they talked about Rose--student by day, troll-hunting faerie by night, and the subject of Laurel and Chelsea's creative writing assignments. "Tell me!" "Well," Laurel said, glancing over at David, "we talked in class about Rose's faerie guardian going undercover at her school. But what if there was another faerie?" "Another faerie? Like, another friend." "Not a friend.” She hesitated. "Maybe a spy?" Chelsea's face went white. "But maybe not a spy," Laurel said quickly. "A mystery." "Where does she come from?" "Well, that's how I got the idea. We got new foreign exchange students today. What if the new faerie was being passed off as a foreign exchange student?" "A girl faerie or a boy faerie?" "Girl." Chelsea stared at Laurel. "Iiiinteresting," she finally said. "Why?" David asked suddenly. "Why what?" Laurel asked. "Why would someone do that?" David's attention was still fixed on the sixty-inch plasma screen, but he appeared to be having trouble with his aim. "Even though it's fiction, there has to be a reason. Who sent her, and why?" "That's for Rose to figure out," Laurel said. "But wouldn't it be interesting if the new faerie came from someone Rose had met before. Someone she owed something to. Maybe someone who saved her life." "So . . . the faerie's not a spy?" Chelsea seemed confused. "I don't know," Laurel said, frustrated. This form of communication did have its limits. "IΆm just . . . brainstorming." "I can't believe you're letting them drag you into this," Ryan teased. He took one hand away from his controller just long enough to shove lightly at David's shoulder. "Get out while you can, man. I'm telling you." "They need a good editor," David said. "Because no matter how cool it sounds, it doesnΆt make a lot of sense." "Maybe it's for the new faerie's protection," Laurel countered. "I mean, Rose knows what she's doing--kind of, at least--and whoever sent the faerie thinks Rose can help.” "Dude, you can't cover worth crap! You take point this time." David nodded, but continued talking to Laurel. She could hear the strain in his voice as he asked, "Does this person know Rose is a faerie?" "No," Laurel said. At least I don't think so. "Rose works very hard to keep her identity a secret." "Then why introduce a new faerie?" Laurel shrugged. "I know," David said, his face focused back on the television again. "She could be a love interest for the guy faerie--the protector." This plunged the whole room into tense silence. Even Ryan looked away from his game, momentarily, looking confused. "IΆm kidding," David said, darkly. "Ryan, you can't snipe these guys! Use the shotgun or something." "No, I think you're right," Laurel said. "ItΆs a dumb plotline." "It's not dumb," David said, his voice soft now. "You just need to figure out the ending. Then it'll all make sense." He turned to Laurel. "Just make sure you donΆt let her hurt Rose. That would ruin everything." She met his eyes and smiled. He died again. "Dude, bow before my leet skills," Ryan said, breaking through the line of soldiers on the screen.
| |
|
Ημερολόγιο
