#—— two steps ahead and staying on guard ↻ ⌊ dahlia brown ⌋

[starbcrn-kids]

Open Starter! Starring Dahlia

“So... this is a space station?” Dahlia wrinkles her nose. “Sorry. My friends kind of left me here like I’m not from the early 1980s and I’ll be fine on my own and I am... lost.”

#star trek rp #Star Trek Roleplay #all starfleet personnel #thread: space station #—— two steps ahead and staying on guard ↻ ⌊ dahlia brown ⌋ #☆ﾟ post hailey verse ↳ here’s to never growing up ◝

[artificialqueens]

She Plays Bass (Crygi) - Frankenvenus

Gigi Goode knew bassists were good with their hands, but her sister’s punk band’s bassist gave that thought an entire new meaning.

Read on Ao3

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Expression of sibling love wasn’t really Gigi Goode’s strongest point, but she admired her sister Stevie eminently. Because of their mere one year age gap, they had grown up best friends. They’d bicker on-and-off, as most sisters did, but for the most part, they were two halves of a whole.

That was until high school happened.

Gigi remembered the exact day Stevie emerged from the bathroom with silver hair and a mullet. Her mother had to stifle a scream and her father was dead silent. Gigi thought it was the coolest thing in the world, but Stevie didn’t seem to want to talk to her about it.

“Hey Stevie, do you wanna go to the cinema with me? I got tickets to see that new Tim Burton movie with the big aliens…”

“No way. It looks shitty. I’m going to a party at Nicky’s place. If mom asks where I am, tell her I’m staying over at Jackie’s for the night.”

A door was slammed on her face and it felt like her dignity was crushed with it. Little did she know, that was only the first of many slammed doors. For the next year, she wouldn’t understand what had happened to Stevie, but then she reached high school herself and it all made sense.

Gigi was quite the outcast during middle school. Her dark brown hair was frizzy and her large braces gave her a slight lisp, but when her braces were removed and she bought herself keratin treatment over summer, she went from ugly duckling to swan. The minute she stepped into her new high school with hundreds of unfamiliar faces, she was pulled into the popular group and it stayed that way.

Now it was 1998 and she was in senior year, questioning if her friends - the popular girls - were truly her friends at all. They were insolent and loud, and Gigi was constantly riddled with guilt at her passive manner towards her friends’ behaviour. She was too afraid to defend anyone they picked on, so instead, she’d slip them a discreet compliment in the middle of the hallway - only when she knew no one else was around.

Her sister was at community college right now, though still living at home. She and Gigi didn’t talk often. Their high school experiences had been so different, it was difficult to relate to one another. Stevie mastered the art of giving no fucks, but Gigi still carried herself in an untouchable princess-like way.

One thing they could relate to was their mutual lack of interest in men. Gigi was the only person in her friend group without a boyfriend, and she didn’t see that changing anytime soon, despite the constant harassment from her friends Dahlia and Violet. She couldn’t help it - there was just something about the sweaty jocks that made her want to run in the opposite direction.

Stevie called herself a feminist and was very outspoken against sexism, much to their fathers dismay. The girl had recently formed a punk-rock band called ‘Lady Disciples’ with some girls from campus. Gigi hadn’t met most of them, but the group consisted of five girls; Stevie, Nicky, Crystal, Jaida and Widow.

The newly-formed band would usually practice in Nicky’s basement, however, for some reason, their usual location was out of bounds one day, and Stevie announced that they’d be temporarily moving their rehearsal spot to the Goode’s garage. Somehow, their relocation of rehearsal space prompted Stevie to believe that Gigi was now her personal servant. The older girl had requested that when the band arrived, Gigi was to bring them a bowl of chips and cans of beer. Of course, Gigi said yes, the main reason being that she was afraid to say no, but also, part of her wanted to meet Stevie’s friends that she had heard so little about.

The sudden crashing of drums from the room below indicated to Gigi that the band was now set up, which was when her sister had asked her to come downstairs and waitress. Stevie was the lead guitarist of the band, which is why when Gigi heard a complex drum solo, she knew that the other members had arrived.

For some reason, Gigi caught herself checking her own appearance before going downstairs. Her bangs were sitting just above her painted brows, shiny and perfect. Her wavy chestnut locks were thrown over each shoulder. She looked presentable - prepared to impress.

She skipped down the stairs and grabbed five beers from the freezer, wincing at the icy temperature against her warm skin. It felt slightly refreshing, though. The Missouri summer heatwave was getting to her, despite her wearing just a loose white button-up blouse tucked into brown corduroy trousers.

She placed the cans on the counter before reaching into a cupboard for a bowl and some hot Cheetos. She filled the bowl up so it was practically spilling over, before realising that she’d have to carry all five beers plus the overflowing bowl at one time. Somehow she succeeded, but as soon as she entered the busy garage, she dropped all the cans onto the couch.

“Sorry!” she squealed, before looking up at the five pairs of eyes staring at her.

A girl with short scarlet hair and piercing blue eyes - that was Nicky, a girl with a golden afro and a sparkling smile - Widow, a girl with beautiful black braids wrapped up in a bun who Gigi didn’t recognise, and then the final girl.

The final girl was perched on a stool, tuning what looked to be a bass guitar, but her eyes were fixated on Gigi. Her hair was a beautiful light shade of blue that reached just past her shoulders and her slightly large ears poked through the sides. Her skin was an olive tan, contrasting against her oversized red band tee which had been tucked into a sinfully tight pair of denim bell-bottoms.

Gigi must’ve stared at the girl for a little longer than she should have because the girl began smirking before shifting her focus back to her strings.

“This is my sister, some of you already know her,” Stevie said monotonously, handing a can of beer to each band member. “J, Crys; go ahead and introduce yourselves.”

The tall girl with the braids approached her with a warm smile, “I’m Jaida. Drummer. Genevive, right?”

“Gigi,” the brunette mumbled, shaking Jaida’s hand. The girl was threateningly beautiful, but not nearly as threatening as the blue-haired girl approaching her slowly, her high platform heels echoing across the garage.

That was until she flashed a smile, and everything about her softened. Her teeth were bright, her lips were a glittery red, and her eyes were a hypnotic umber. She took Gigi off guard by pulling her into a hug, nearly knocking all the air out of the frail brunette’s lungs.

“Gigi! I’ve heard so much about you, I’ve been dying to meet you,” she chuckled breathily, blessing Gigi with the softest voice she had ever heard, “My name is Crystal!”

The tanned girl pulled back and shook Gigi’s hand, and Gigi’s gaze remained fixated on her short, black-painted nails for a little too long.

“Uh, can we practice now?” Stevie asked, plugging her guitar into the amp and causing a slight screech noise to fill the room.

Much to Gigi’s surprise (despite everything surprising her because this insanely attractive girl had her breathless), Crystal turned to her sister with a pout.

“Can she watch us practice for a little bit?”

The brunette couldn’t understand why someone as cool as the girl in front of her would want to spend any time around her, but she was absolutely down for watching the band rehearse. Jaida positioned herself behind the large drum kit, Stevie and Widow grabbed their electric guitars, Crystal returned to her stool and strummed her bass, Nicky spoke ‘1, 2, 3’ into her microphone to assure it was working, and Gigi plopped herself onto the tatty garage couch, placing her hands in her lap and waiting for the performance to start.

And when Jaida began to play the intro beat to ‘You Oughtta Know’ by Alanis Morisette - Gigi’s secret favourite song - the brunette knew that the performance would blow her away.

Nicky’s voice was like silk, Widow’s electric guitar was remarkable and Jaida’s ability to maintain the rhythm with so much passion was insane, but Gigi couldn’t keep her eyes off Crystal. The way her lips would part as she riffed under Nicky’s vocals, gently rocking back and forth to the beat of the music made Gigi swoon. Her eyes would darken with concentration as she watched her own fingers move from string to string with such intricate movements.

When the chorus hit, Gigi felt euphoric. She wanted to get up and dance, but she was far too aware of her sister’s piercing gaze. She instead simply tapped her foot to the beat, but her beam was apparent. She hoped no one noticed the way her thighs were tightly pressed against one another as she watched Crystal flex her slender, tan fingers.

Then the second pre-chorus arrived. Everything was going great until Nicky sang the lines, “It was a slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced, and are you thinking of me when you fuck her,” because suddenly Crystal’s eyes were staring down at Gigi with a look that could only be described as lustful.

Boys had looked at Gigi in that way before - when she was dancing around on the football field in her skimpy cheerleader’s uniform - but this was so different. Sometimes Gigi questioned if, perhaps, she was attracted to girls, but that entire prospect was unknown territory to her.

But now she felt as if her entire mind was being read by the blue-haired girl’s hazel orbs, like she was reading her every racing thought. When the song ended, Gigi managed to get out a few compliments before quickly excusing herself to her bedroom.

Her head raced with many thoughts - none of which were any she’d like anyone to hear. She knew she looked at girls in a way that she had been told she shouldn’t, but she had never gone further than checking someone out. One time, in middle school, Stevie had a bunch of her friends round in the basement. Gigi spied on them, just like any curious middle schooler would, and saw two girls - Nicky and another girl she had never seen before - making out on the bean bag. The most prominent thought in her mind was ‘I want to do that,’ and she carried that thought with her to now, at age eighteen.

Now she was so uselessly pretending she didn’t like women. Whatever amount of discretion she had was now futile, considering she practically drooled over her sister’s bassist in front of four other people.

“God. I’m such a joke,” she muttered, staring at the chipped baby pink paint on her ceiling.

Part of her had just accepted that she’d have to live the rest of her life in the closet. She swore she was the only lesbian in Springfield - until she saw Crystal, that was. Crystal looked exactly like the ladies in the Blockbuster DVDs she secretly rented every so often. She had watched a lesbian movie called ‘Bound’ and often found her mind wandering back to the sexual scenarios in the film. She wanted someone to have their way with her whilst she lay back, whining uncontrollably, but she told herself that she’d take those dreams to her grave.

She was on the verge of horny tears when there was a knock at her door. She shot up and told whoever it was to come in, but not without a nervous voice crack. The door pushed open slowly, revealing her mom stood there with her usual warm smile.

“Hey, Genevive. Stevie was wondering if you could drive one of her bandmates home. One of the girls lives a couple of miles out of the city and she can’t drive herself home because she had a couple of beers. I’m really busy with a wedding dress so can you please do it? I’ll give you five dollars for it.”

Gigi thought for a second, before exhaling. A drive out of the city would be nice. She hadn’t been out all day, but the sun was bright and setting a golden hue across her street. She obliged and hopped off her bed, slipping her shoes into some scruffy Vans that were a hand-me-down from her sister - not unlike all her other clothes which she didn’t make herself.

She hopped downstairs, grabbing the car keys from the hallway table. She was about to turn around to go to the driveway when she clashed bodies with someone. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt her in any way, but it did cause her chest to erupt with embarrassment.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” Gigi gasped, before nearly dropping the keys on the floor. She saw the cerulean hair, the tan skin, and the red-painted smile.

“Apparently you’re my chauffeur!” Crystal winked, her voice filled with what sounded like excitement. For her age, she had the voice of a mid-pubescent boy, but Gigi couldn’t think of anything cuter.

“I am?” the brunette raised a brow before realising that Crystal was the girl she had been asked to drive home, ”Oh, I am! How far out of Springfield are you?”

“I’m just a little closer to the country - near the zoo.”

Gigi nodded before making her way out the front door, towards the black Subaru in the driveway. Thanks to the colour of the car, she practically burnt herself on the handle. Not wanting Crystal to make the same mistake, she quickly rushed over to the passenger side of the car and opened it for her.

“Wow. What a gentleman,” Crystal chuckled. Her laugh almost sounded like a cry, all breathy and quiet. The brunette wanted it on tape. She stepped into the car, leaving Gigi confused at how in-control she was of her body despite wearing huge platforms.

Gigi returned to her own side, hoping the older girl would see her blush and assume it was a sunburn. She slumped down in the driver’s seat and exhaled before starting up the ignition.

“Your shirt. It’s slipped,” Crystal said abruptly, cutting through the silence. She pointed at Gigi’s baggy button-up, which was falling down her shoulder slightly, displaying her baby blue laced bra.

“Oh. Shit,” the brunette’s face flushed crimson again as she felt the older girl’s eyes burn into her display of skin. She tried to suppress her inappropriate thoughts by beginning to drive. “You can put some music on if you want. There are some CDs under the dashboard.”

Crystal hummed softly and reached down in front of her, pulling out a sleeve of about eight CDs. After scanning over them with a captivating look of indecisiveness, she slipped one into the stereo. ‘The Boy is Mine’ by Brandy began playing quietly through the speakers, and Crystal began singing with the most off-tune, ear-splitting singing voice Gigi had ever heard.

“I see why you’re the bassist, huh?” Gigi joked, surprising herself with how nasty she sounded. “Sorry… I didn’t mean for it to sound like that-”

“Relax, princesa. You’re right.”

That was it. Gigi was nothing more than a puddle. Hearing Crystal speak Spanish almost made Gigi crash the car.

“So. You speak Spanish?”

“Yeah, but not much. It’s just kind of what I picked up from my mom. She’s Mexican. Do you speak Dutch? Stevie said you’re better at it than her.”

“Ja.” Gigi showed-off, earning a few beautiful giggles from the other girl, “I don’t speak much, but I’m learning. I think I wanna live with my family in the Netherlands, cause I heard they’re trying to pass a bill that will legalise gay marria-” Gigi cut herself off, wanting nothing more than to drive herself off a cliff.

She slowed the car down ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of Crystal’s lips in the rear view mirror, noticing the way they began to curl up into a smirk. Perhaps she dreamt it, but she swore she also saw the blue-haired girl swiftly drag her tongue over her lower lip.

“You like girls?” questioned the older girl, her voice an octave deeper than before.

Gigi somehow managed to squeak out a timid ‘mhm.’

Crystal smacked her lips together and shuffled around in her seat before saying, “Me too.”

If the brunette were in her room at that moment, she would’ve screamed into her cushion out of excitement, but instead, she did so internally. Her mind was racing once again.

Heart-shaped pillowy lips.

The gentle mole under her eye.

Faint freckles dusted across her nose.

Gigi had never seen someone quite like Crystal, and she found herself feeling disappointed when the latter was telling her to take a left as they had reached her neighbourhood.

The brunette pulled up onto the lane behind Crystal’s house, as the girl had requested. When the car stopped, the music automatically stopped, and the silence caused thick tension to bleed through the air.

Crystal was looking at her, and Gigi was looking at her own pale hands clasped around the wheel.

“Do you wanna come in?” the older girl asked suddenly.

“Huh?” Gigi responded stupidly fast, raising her gaze to meet the other girl and noticing how close their faces were.

“My guitar is kinda heavy. A second pair of hands might be helpful…”

If Gigi wasn’t so uselessly oblivious, she would’ve known it was just an excuse to spend more time with her. Either way, she would’ve said yes.

The two of them exited the car and made their way to the trunk, where Gigi carefully assisted Crystal whilst the latter lifted her bass and amplifier out. The brunette didn’t plan on locking the car, but quickly decided to do so when she was stepping into Crystal’s backyard - just in case she was in there for longer than anticipated.

The blue-haired girl’s home was filled with art. On every wall, there was a painting or sketch of some kind. She had multi-coloured lamps, disco lights, and fairy lights scattered around the place. The interior was straight out of a movie.

“Wow, it’s so cute in here!” Gigi gawked, her eyes overwhelmed with the number of bright colours surrounding her.

“Thanks! I cleaned it before I left this morning. Usually it’s a complete mess.”

Crystal led her into her bedroom which was just as Gigi had imagined it to be. There were multi-coloured tapestries pinned to each wall and the king-sized bed in the middle of the room had a large rainbow-crochet blanket thrown across it. The room smelt like peaches and weed - an odd mixture that somehow brought a lot of comfort to the brunette.

“That’s a pretty big bed you have there,” Gigi blurted, placing the amplifier down in the corner of the room. “You have a special someone you share it with?”

Crystal placed her guitar on its stand before turning to Gigi, folding her arms casually and shaking her head, “No. I just like a large, comfy bed for all the ladies I take home. I like to give them the best treatment I can, so they’re filled with regret when they run back to their boyfriends.”

Gigi felt faint once more, her breath hitching as Crystal slowly approached her, looking in her eyes like the cat who caught the canary. She watched as Crystal kicked off her shoes, going from 6’2 to 5’10 - something that would be comical to Gigi if she wasn’t soaking her underwear through.

“I saw the way you were looking at me, Geege,” she whispered, her face mere inches apart from the brunette’s, knocking the air out of the younger girl’s lungs simply with the use of a damn nickname. “I want you to tell me you want me.”

The taller girl felt her eyes water with desire. Crystal was so close - her lips could be on Gigi’s with a single movement.

“Please,” she managed to get out. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. Please.”

“Tell me how you want me,” Crystal purred.

“I want your…” Gigi blinked back tears, “I want your fingers…”

The older girl hummed, lifting her hand up to Gigi’s lips and tapping on them gently with two fingers, “Can you suck on them for me?”

Gigi nodded, parting her lips and allowing Crystal’s digits in, sucking on them gently and seductively, her eyes not leaving the older girl’s.

“So pretty, baby. Such a good girl.”

After a few seconds, Crystal withdrew her fingers before cupping the side of Gigi’s face.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her voice returning to it’s higher pitch. Gigi’s heart almost couldn’t handle it - Crystal actually wanted to take care of her. It was clear that the older girl didn’t see her as an easy fuck.

“It’s perfect,” she replied, finding herself being guided towards Crystal’s bed. She leaned back, hitting the blankets with a soft thud. Soon enough, Crystal was swinging a leg over her lips, straddling her in a swift motion.

And then she was leaning down, and their lips met. The tips of Gigi’s fingers brushed against Crystal’s jaw tenderly as they found a rhythm with one another. Gigi’s eyes fluttered closed and, at that moment, there was nothing else in the world except Crystal. The older girl’s plump lips pressed and pulled at her own, eliciting moans from the back of her throat. Gigi slipped a hand onto the nape of the tanned girl’s neck, pulling her in closer. Any notion of gentleness was gone.

Crystal pulled back, looking down at the brunette from her spot on her torso. Her hair was messy and her mouth was covered in red lipstick prints from Crystal’s own lips, but she looked absolutely ethereal.

“Is it okay if I take off your shirt?” Crystal asked sweetly, and Gigi nodded frantically.

After many quick pecks of the lips as they manoeuvred the way out of both their clothes, they were both completely naked, Gigi’s back against Crystal’s headboard with the latter sat in front of her on her knees.

“You have the most gorgeous body…” the older girl praised, tracing her fingers from down Gigi’s sternum down to her hips, watching the girl beneath her writhe with desperation.

Before Gigi could respond, Crystal’s plump lips latched on to one of her nipples, drawing her tongue over it slowly, triggering an orchestra of whines to fall from the former’s lips.

“Fuck, Crystal. I need you.”

“Where do you need me, baby girl?”

“Please,” Gigi cried out, “I want you to fuck me…”

Crystal smiled and began to trail her lips down Gigi’s body, softly and gently. No teeth were involved and she was barely rough enough to leave any marks. She held Gigi like a porcelain doll. Fragile. Delicate.

As Crystal was caressing her thighs, Gigi sat up slightly.

“Crystal I-” she began, but found herself trailing off.

“What’s wrong, hermosa?” Crystal pouted, pressing a quick kiss to Gigi’s forehead.

“I’ve never- I’m a virgin. I’ve never done this before… with anyone,” she stumbled, but was quick to react when Crystal began to pull her hands away slowly, “But I want you… so bad… like, I’ve never been more sure of anything. You’re so hot.”

The older girl blushed and she pressed her lips back onto Gigi’s torso, “Mi cielito. So cute. Let me make this extra good for you.”

Crystal’s lips kissed every bit of skin surrounding the place Gigi wanted her most. She was a tease, and her eyes were dark. The brunette couldn’t form words anymore - just pleasurable sounds.

Then Crystal’s tongue was on her clit and she almost screamed.

In her dreams, she had imagined a moment like this, but she thought she would die with that fantasy. Never would she have believed that she would get to experience it, and never did she think it would feel this good.

Crystal ate pussy like it was her job, lapping her tongue and coaxing more whines out of the girl beneath her. Gigi was leaking so profoundly, and combined with how Crystal herself was salivating, she knew the sheets would need to be thoroughly cleaned afterwards. The brunette’s back was arched and she clenched her thighs whilst Crystal swirled her tongue over her opening and began to edge the tip in.

“Fuck… Crystal…” Gigi’s hand was now in Crystal’s hair, tugging on the blue locks like they were her lifeline. She thanked the heavens that the older woman lived alone and not in an apartment, because Gigi was loud - something which she had just learned about herself that day.

Suddenly, Crystal pulled back, and Gigi moaned at the loss of contact. She needed it. She was beginning to get closer to her climax - she could feel it in the bottom of her stomach.

“Why did you- fuck,” she couldn’t finish her sentence because Crystal had pushed a finger inside of her and began to thrust at a steady pace.

“You like that, huh?” Crystal grunted, leaning over Gigi and admiring the younger girl’s large brown eyes, plump lips, high cheekbones and perfect nose, “Look at you. So beautiful. Eres la chica más bonita con la que me he acostado. Eres perfecta.”

Something about Crystal’s foreign tongue drew Gigi even closer to orgasm. She begged for Crystal to go faster, and she did exactly that. Her fingers pounded into her, shaking her whole slender frame with the intensity of Crystal’s digits. Gigi feels like butter in the older girl’s hands.

“Crystal I- I’m gonna- I’m about to-” she choked out.

“Cum for me, mi niña.”

The brunette’s jaw went slack and her lips parted, a whine leaving her as Crystal pressed their lips together again. Crystal’s fingers flexed inside her, and she moaned, swearing she was able to see stars behind her eyelids as pleasure surged all over her body - like blissful electrocution. Her hips buckled below the tanned girl, and Crystal fucked her through her orgasm until she couldn’t take anymore.

“Holy fuck,” Gigi whispered, her eyes still shut as she collapsed down on Crystal’s bed.

Crystal swung her leg off her torso and lay down beside her, “Was that a satisfactory first time?”

“Mhm. Better than I ever could’ve imagined.”

The older girl hummed a response, and they both lay there, completely naked.

“I feel like an absolute state,” Gigi blushed, turning her head to look at Crystal with a soft smile.

“You wanna eat me out in the shower?” Crystal asked nonchalantly.

“Yes.”

.

TRANSLATIONS

princesa - princess hermosa - beautiful mi cielito - my sky eres la chica más bonita con la que me he acostado. eres perfecta. - you are the prettiest girl i’ve ever laid with (fucked.) you’re perfect. mi niña - my girl

#rpdr fanfiction #crygi #crystal methyd #gigi goode #smut #frankenvenus #concrit welcome

[theoreticallyawriter]

Chapter 10: Round One

In which everything goes very badly, very quickly.

read on ao3

Monday comes far too quickly and from the moment we step into the training room things are different. The mat that used to be folded up near the wall is now laid out in the center of the floor where there used to only be concrete.

Though the morning and lunch both pass without incident, I know that once we step back into the training room things are going to become significantly less void of incident. Eric has been hanging around training more and more, which is enough to make me uneasy; but he seems especially giddy as we all stream back in from lunch.

“Maybe someone’ll vomit on the mat,” I hear him stage whisper to Four, anticipation dripping from his words.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun to clean up.” Four rolls his eyes.

“Your problem, not mine.” Eric pats his shoulder pseudo-affectionately and Four looks like he wants to break his hand.

A whiteboard has been rolled in on off to the side of the mat and that’s where all the matches are displayed. Before I can even find my name, Tris and Christina distract me.

“Ow!” Tris exclaims as Christina elbows her.

“Sorry,” she says. “But look, I’m up against the tank.”

“The Tank?” Tris asks.

My interest piqued, I find Christina’s name on the board; she’s matched up against Molly, the Candor girl who looks like she could crush my skull with her bare hands. Thus the nickname I guess.

“Yeah. Peter’s slightly more feminine looking minion.” She nods her head over to where Peter, Molly, and the other Candor boy – whom I have dubbed carrot hair until I learn his name – stand talking.

“Those three,” Christina moves her finger back and forth between them, “have been inseparable since they crawled out of the womb, practically. I hate them.”

“Al,” Will punches him gently in the shoulder, “I wish you luck, buddy.” The two of them have been matched against each other.

Al rubs his shoulder. “Thanks. Ow.”

My name is at the bottom of the board, I’ve been put up against Edward. So that’s great, you know because he’s been studying hand to hand forever. That will go well for me.

I’m brought back to thinking about Minerva again, how easily it came to her. When she tried to show me some things I was young and all but hopeless, but she was amazing. It never really occurred to me that I might be like her someday, like with Mark, we don’t exactly have a lot of similarities.

Dammit. I was really looking forward to winning my first fight. Guess I’ll just have to look forward to winning my second fight, because I’m sure as hell not going to win this one.

“Al and Will!” Four calls. “Let’s go.”

“Wish me luck?” Will says as he starts to walk away from us.

“Hope you lose,” I say.

“Kick him in the dick, Al! For me!” Christina yells and Al buries his face in his hands.

“Why do I even bother?” Will shakes his head.

“Good luck, both of you,” Tris amends for both of us.

The two of them stand across from each other on the mat and put their hands up to protect themselves just like how Four taught us. They shuffle in circles along each other and take jabs that barely glance off. Al is at least half a foot taller than Will and broad. He seems to have gotten the hang of Four’s teaching just like the rest of us, as much of dick as Four is I can’t argue with the fact that he’s a good teacher, but Al lacks the finesse that Will has.

“So what’s wrong with them?” Tris says, still looking at Peter and his friends.

“Peter is pure evil. When we were kids, he would pick fights with kids in other factions and then cry and say that they started it what an adult came to break it up; and because he was Candor, of course everyone believed him.” She wrinkles her nose. “Drew is essentially his sidekick. I seriously doubt that he has a single independent thought in his head.” So that’s Carrot Hair’s name. I don’t care all that much, but I suppose that it saves me a moment of embarrassment should I ever have to address him. “And Molly…she’s the kind of person who fries ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them flail around.”

Back on the mat, Al punches Will hard in the jaw so hard that it turns his head and I wince as do Tris and, weirdly enough, Al. Eric smirks at Al as he plays with one of the rings in his eyebrows.

Will stumbles back, one hand pressed to the side of his face and blocks Al’s next blow with his arm, though from the look that he gives it’s just as painful. Al is strong, but slow and Will takes advantage of that. He weaves around Al, until he’s just inside his guard and then jabs his fingers into Al’s solar plexus, before backing out of Al’s reach again. Al wheezes, but presses forward.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Peter and his friends putting their heads close together and whispering, casting furtive glances in our direction every so often.

“I think that they know we’re talking about them,” Tris says.

Christina shrugs. “So? They already know I hate them.”

“They do? How?”

“Because I’ve told them.” Christina flashes a saccharine smile at them and waves.

Will hooks his foot around one of Al’s legs and yanks him to the ground with a loud thud. Al scrambles to his feet as Will once again bounces back far away from his reach.

“We try to be pretty honest about our feelings in Candor,” Christina says, drawing my attention back to her. “Plenty of people have told me that like me and plenty have told me that they do. It’s no big deal.”

“We just…weren’t supposed to hurt people,” Tris says, “back in Abnegation.

“I like to think that I’m helping them by hating them,” she says. “I’m reminding them that they aren’t god’s gift to humanity.”

“I had a few Erudite classmates who could have used that particular kind of help,” I say with a chuckle as Dahlia surfaces in mind for the first time in a while. I know that it may seem like I pick on her specifically a little too often, but she’s a bitch to everyone and anyone she comes across that is not an adult or someone that she thinks she can use to get ahead. I very specifically remember her being nice as pie to me right up until the moment that I befriended Casey and Eliza, two people whom she deemed unworthy of even the most basic kindness.

As the fight drags on, Will and Al become more hesitant than they were before. They’re becoming worn down, not to mention that they’re friends and not at all interested in hurting each other too badly. Will flips his brown hair away from his eyes. They both glance at Four but he gives no response to their stares. Beside him, Eric checks his watch and fake yawns.

After a few more seconds of circling, Eric seems to grow sick of the lack of action and shouts, “Do you think this is a leisure activity?! Should we break for naptime?! Fight each other!”

“But,” Al straightens and drops his hands, “is the fight scored or something? How do we know when to stop?”

“You’ll stop when one of you can’t continue,” Eric says.

“Or until one of you concedes,” Four says.

“According to the old rules,” Eric corrects him. “In the new rules, no one concedes.”

“You really wanna break them on their first fight?”

“A brave man never surrenders.”

“A brave man acknowledges the strength of others.”

“No concessions,” Eric repeats.

“Lucky for you,” Four turns his head away from him. “those weren’t the rules when we fought.”

Eric’s eyes darken and his jaw clenches. He doesn’t have to say anything for us to know which one of them to listen to. Eric is a Dauntless leader, he has the authority. Therefore, concession is not an option.

Will and Al take up their fighting stances again; Al keeps his feet firmly planted as if he is made of stone while Will bounces back from foot to foot. Though it’s true that Al could knock Will out with one good shot to the head, his victory is entirely dependent on whether or not he can actually hit Will, who seems to have taken up the strategy of hitting once and then moving back out of range as fast as possible.

Will dodges yet another one of Al’s punches and quickly moves around behind him and kicks him hard in the back. Al grunts and stumbles forward, but manages to stay on his feet. Al whips around and charges at Will, latching onto his arm so that he can’t move away this time and then punches Will hard in the jaw while his hands are occupied trying to free himself.

Will’s pale green eyes roll back into his head and he crumples to the ground. It nauseates me and I lean back against the cement pillar, unable to tear my gaze from him.

“God,” Christina whispers.

Al’s eyes widen and he falls to his knees next to Will. He taps his cheek with one finger and the room falls dead silent as we wait for him to respond. For a few seconds, he just continues to lie on the ground with one arm bent beneath him at an odd angle. Then he sucks in a large breath of air and groans, bringing his arm out from beneath him and putting it over his eyes. He mumbles incoherently at Al and Al mutters back, clearing the hair from Will’s face.

“Get him up,” Eric says. He stares at Will as though he’s a meal and Eric’s half-starved.

Four circles Al’s name on the whiteboard to show that he won.

Al wraps his arm behind Will beneath his arms and helps Will get to his feet.

“I’ll help.” I begin to walk forward to them.

“You’ll stay right here, Blondie,” Eric says. “You’re up next.”

Four instead walks over to Will and wraps his arm around his waist. “I’ve got him,” he says to Al.

Al lingers in his place for a moment as Four helps Will toward the door, watching them go.

“Off the mat, initiate!” Eric yells at Al as I step up.

“Good luck, Mimi.” Al squeezes my shoulder as he walks back to Tris and Christina.

“I’m gonna need it,” I whisper.

Edward and I are still for a small infinity before the fight begins and then he rushes me. I back up three steps and then twist, trying to get behind him. But he’s as quick on his feet as I am on mine and there’s hardly a moment where he isn’t facing me. I punch, aiming for his sternum but he catches my wrist and bends my arm back. I try to twist my arm out of his grip, but then he tries to do to me what I just watched Al do to Will. When his punch comes at my head I turn away and bring my other hand up and at the angle I am I know that I won’t be able to land an effective punch. Instead, I elbow him as hard as I can in the mouth.

We exchange blows and though I would like to say that mine were perfect and always landed on the weak points that Four made us memorize, I would say that I could only manage to do that a fifth of the time. Edward hits as hard as I expected to and his technique is nearly perfect.

He brings his leg up and kicks the back of my knees, but as I fall my fingers manage to snag the collar of his shirt. Caught unaware, I feel him bend and his nose smash into the top of my head. I shove him back away from me as my knees hit the ground to buy me a few seconds to get back to my feet.

“Will you two get on with it already!” Eric shouts.

“Would love to, unfortunately-” the rest of my sentence is lost because Edward punches me in the stomach.

His nose is dripping blood and he looks annoyed. I’m sure that this fight has already dragged on much longer than he would have expected or liked it to. He tries to punch me in the face but I duck under his arm and go for his side. As his guard drops down to protect himself there, I straighten quickly and punch him in the throat. He makes a gagging noise but neither stumbles nor falters. He punches me in the face and I can’t shake off blows like he can so I stumble back. Using this to his advantage, he knocks my feet out from under me and my back slams into the ground. He drops down but I roll to the side before he can pin me and sit up to kick him in his exposed ribs. I kick him hard enough that it knocks him down onto his side. I scramble over, not bothering with getting to my feet and try to pin him, placing one knee on his chest and trying to get his arms under control like we were taught. He flails and one of his hands catches in my hair. He drags my face toward his and then head-buts me. When I snap back, he has the opportunity to shove me back. Despite how strong he is, I don’t go very far; I wind up still on his legs, but he can sit up now and he manages to free himself relatively quickly. We both jump to our feet and I punch him in the face. My nose has started bleeding too and fatigue is starting to get to me. I try to put some distance between us with an array of different punches, but he scarcely lets me out of an arm’s reach. He punches me in the jaw and then grabs my shoulders to hold me still while he knees me in the stomach. When I double over, his knee comes up again and this time it hits my face. I fall a second time and don’t quite make it away when he drops down to pin me. One of his hands locks my upper right arm in a vice grip and holds it to the ground while the other tries to land a hit on my face despite the fact that I keep moving my head. I can’t hit very hard at this angle and my left arm isn’t as strong as my right anyways, which Edward must have figured out, so it’s like my attempts to fight back are doing nothing.

Seemingly annoyed with my struggling, Edward stops trying to punch me in the face and uses that hand to pin my left wrist. He head-buts me and it’s not something that I can dodge.

The next thing that I’m aware of is someone’s hand on my face. I grab the wrist that it’s attached to and open my eyes.

“Hey, she lives.” Edward looms above me looking very, very smug. “Take it easy. Fight’s over.”

I huff and very quietly say, “Fuck.”

“Here.” Edward stands and offers me his hand. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet. “I don’t need to go to the infirmary. I’m good.”

“Uh.” Edward gives me a quizzical look. “I…knocked you out.” There’s a slight upturn at the end of his sentence that makes it sound like a question. “You weren’t fine just a minute ago and, from one person who’s been knocked out before to another, you’re not fine now.”

“Fine,” I concede. “If only to make sure that you didn’t knock something loose.” I take a step and then immediately realize what Edward meant about not being fine because the world feels like I’m spinning and going to be sick. I grab his shoulder to try to stop myself from collapsing again.

“See.” Edward wraps an arm around my waist to keep me upright. “Not fine.”

“Not fine,” I mumble. “Got it.”

“Tris and Myra!” Eric yells as Edward helps me off the mat. “You’re up!”

Tris and I exchange smiles and we pass each other.

“Kiss for good luck?” Myra says and Edward nearly drops me to give her that kiss.

We walk through the winding hallways together in silence for all of about a minute.

“So why does Four call you Ice Queen?” Edward asks.

“’Cause he’s a dick-bag.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

Edward snickers. “Never mind. I think I’ve figured it out.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh really? And why, pray tell, would that be?”

He hums, tapping his finger against his chin as though he’s deep in thought. “Well, and I might be totally off base here, but just as a guess; it might have something to do with positively subzero personality.”

“Don’t also be a dick-bag, Edward. I have taken one too many hits to the head to deal with that. Or maybe not enough.”

He chuckles. “Go with one too many. Can’t have you passing out on me again, Ice Queen.”

“Oh not you too,” I groan.

His chuckle turns to a laugh. “Guess I’ll just have to think of an obnoxious nickname of my own for you.”

“If you try then I swear that the next time we’re up against each other, I’ll turn you into a fine powder.”

“Oh please, I’m already fine. And I think that you might have a bit of trouble doing that considering how fast you went down this time.”

“Yeah, and your bloody nose was just spontaneous and not at all because you hit it on the top of my head of all things. I didn’t even have to punch you.”

He snorts. “There’s blood in your hair by the way. Like, a lot of blood in your hair.”

“I figured. That’s gonna be a bitch and a half to wash out later.”

He hums in agreement and we arrive at the infirmary. He opens the door and we have to go through sideways because I’m still having a bit of trouble standing up on my own.

“Oh great, more of them,” says the aqua haired nurse who’s checking over Will. She turns to Four. “I hope that this isn’t going to become a regular thing.”

“Initiation, Phyllis. Can’t be helped.”

“Can’t be helped my ass,” Phyllis mutters. “Just stop making them punch each other into unconsciousness and you’re golden.” She smiles at me. “Come here, Darling. Let’s see how bad you’ve been damaged.” She hands Edward and I both tissues to clean up the blood flowing from our noses.

“You’re good to go back, Edward,” Four says.

Edward leaves and I take a seat on the bed next to Will’s, who is now awake.

“Mmm, I thought you were supposed to win your fight,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, that was before I got matched up against Edward. You weren’t kidding about his skills.”

“Oh not at all. Looks like you fucked him up a little, going off of his face and your hair. Wish I could have seen it.”

“Deep breath.” Phyllis presses her stethoscope to my chest. She does that five more times and then sets the stethoscope off to the side and pulls the curtain out between Will and I. “Take off your shirt, I’m sure you’re already bruising.” I do as she says.

“Hey,” I say to Will, “you know that I didn’t actually mean what I said about hoping that you lost, right? I really didn’t think that you would.”

“Yeah, I know that, Mimi. It’s Christina that I’m concerned about.”

We share a laugh that turns into me groaning in pain.

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Phyllis says. “It’s gonna hurt a lot more tomorrow morning, by the way. But nothing’s broken, you and the other one are good to go.”

“Thank you, Nurse Phyllis,” I say and then pull my shirt back on.

“Thanks,” Will calls from the other side of the curtain.

“It’s what I’m here for. I’m sure as young Dauntless you two will find yourselves in here quite a bit. I wish you both the best of luck in initiation and that you’re not in here often.”

“I’ll wait here for the others,” Four says.

The last thing that I hear before I walk out the door is Phyllis saying to Four, “You’d better be making sure that they’re eating right. They’re growing kids and that boy is built like a string bean.”

“If it’s any consolation,” I say to Will as we walk down the hallway, “you looked really good. I wouldn’t be surprised if Four gave you points based entirely on how great your technique was.”

“Wow,” Will says, “that sounded like a compliment. I will take it.”

Our conversation is cut short when we pass Tris in the hallway being supported by Edward.

Will chuckles. “You would think with all that pent up aggression from years of Abnegation repression, she would have been able to win that fight.”

“Shut up, Will,” Tris mutters, barely heard over our laughter.

Back in the training room, Peter and Drew are fighting and not at all evenly matched. Peter is beating Drew into the ground, but he hasn’t passed out yet.

We walk over to Christina and Al and I sit down, leaning back against the pillar to feel the cold of the concrete against my skin. I still feel nauseous, but I flatly refuse to throw up because that would just be embarrassing.

“How’d Tris look?” Will asks.

“Good,” Al says. “Really good.”

“Guess she’s not quite as helpless as we thought,” Christina adds.

“Yeah, neither is Myra. I mean the girl’s the size of a leaf, but I guess Edward’s been showing her some things,” Al says. “It was…wow.”

I curl into a ball trying to stay awake and keep my lunch down. My head is killing me

Tris comes back right as Peter knocks out Drew and sits down beside me. In the passing hours while the others complete their fights, I start to feel marginally better. I’m sure I look like hot garbage but it doesn’t hurt to have my eyes open anymore.

The last person before Christina goes town like a sack of potatoes and she tilts her head back against the pillar. “Oh shit.”

“You’ll do great,” Will says.

“We’ll cheer if you want us to,” I say.

Christina rolls her eyes. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

She tucks her short black hair behind her ears as she steps up onto the mat and then cracks her knuckles. Her nerves show clearly on her face, though I can understand why. Will, Tris, and I just got done getting knocked the fuck out by our respective opponents.

I miss the beginning of the fight because another wave of nausea forces me to rest my head back on my knees and close my eyes because those fluorescent lights are definitely not helping.

My head snaps up when I hear Molly wheeze as Christina kicks her in the side. Molly grits her teeth and I half expect her to growl. Her hair falls into her face and she doesn’t brush it away; instead, she smirks and then dives at Christina’s middle with her hands outstretched. They both go crashing to the ground and Christina thrashes underneath her, but Molly is much heavier than she can manage to escape from.

She punches and Christina jerks her head to the side, but Molly just keeps trying until she finally manages to land a blow to her jaw, then her nose, then her mouth. I cover my mouth with both hands and watch in sheer horror.

“Jesus Christ,” Will slides down next to me.

“Don’t, uh,” I cringe when Molly lands another punch, “she’s not done yet.”

Blood runs down Christina’s face and drips onto the mat; she’s still conscious so Eric won’t call the fight. She screams into her teeth and I wish that she would just pass out so that we can get her to the infirmary already. Molly doesn’t even show a hint of remorse as she continues to beat Christina.

After a few more agonizing moments, Christina screams and drags one arm free and punches Molly in the ear to knock her off balance. When Molly teeters, she manages to wriggle free and crawl away. She puts one hand over her face and the blood covers her fingers in seconds. She sobs into her bloodied hands and then screams again when Molly kicks her and sends her sprawling onto her back. I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away; all I can do is watch in horror and at some point during the horror, Will and I wind up clinging to each other while Tris and Al do the same.

“Stop!” Christina wails, holding out her hands as if they will protect her as Molly pulls her foot back again. “Stop. I’m…” her cough is mixed with a sob. “I’m done.”

Molly smiles and backs up. My friends and I breathe a collective sigh of relief and, ignoring my dizziness, I stand to go help her and Will moves with me. I take a step forward but stop dead when Eric stalks toward the mat. He looms over Christina with his arms folded.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he says quietly. “You’re done?”

Christina moves into a more stable sitting position and then nods, the tears that run down her face mix with the blood and then drip from her bruising jaw onto the mat.

“Get up,” he says with icy calm. I would not expect such an intensely Dauntless man to be so chillingly quiet. Dauntless are loud, explosive; like the Candor. Angry Dauntless scream and fight, I’ve seen the occasional fight break out over practically nothing. I know what Kira tells me. I also know exactly what Eric’s doing, that quiet rage and unerring calm that can sometimes be the most fear inducing thing it is. It’s the tone that my mother uses when she’s upset with people, it’s a very Erudite mannerism.

He grabs Christina’s arm as she is wobbling to her feet and then yanks her to her feet himself.

“Follow me,” he says to the rest of us and nods his head toward the door.

We do so in dead silence down the stone corridors. I would actually like Four to appear right about now, round the corner and cut us off. Maybe, just maybe, he might be able to talk Eric down from whatever he is about to do.

Once again, I hear the Chasm before I see it. I feel it as a vibration in my chest and the roar fills me ears.

Most of us all stop by the railing, before the bridge, but Eric grabs Christina and pulls her up the stairs and out to the middle of the bridge. There’s no one around but the eleven of us; the sun filters down through the skylight and casts the whole space in a washed out white light that’s too bright for my recently punched head to deal with very well.

Eric shoves Christina against the railing and she groans, almost crumpling again but managing to support herself against one of the metal bars.

“Climb over it,” he says.

“What?” she gasps and gapes at him with wide eyes.

“He wouldn’t,” I hear Myra whisper.

“No,” Edward gasps.

“No fuckin’ way,” someone else whispers.

“What?” another initiate claps their hand over their mouth in shock.

“He can’t,” Al whimpers.

“He can’t actually do that,” Will mutters.

“I think he can,” I whisper back.

“Shut up!” Eric snaps at us. He whirls back on Christina; enunciating each word he says, “Climb over the railing. You have three options; hang over the Chasm for five minutes and I will forget your cowardice, fall and die, or give up and leave.” As he finishes her sentence, more water splashes up from the raging river below and coats the thin metal rails in what has to be absolutely frigid water. Even if she does choose to do it, there’s no way to know if she’ll be able to hold on. Even without just having been beaten to hell and back it would be highly debatable whether she’d be able to do it. She’s looking at a choice between factionlesness and death.

The image of her slipping is enough to almost make me burst into tears.

“Fine,” she says with a tremble to her voice. She places her feet on the bar closest to the ground, gripping the top bar as hard as she can. She shakes as she climbs over and then lets her feet hang in open air. She looks over at us and I can see the fear in her eyes.

Al sets his watch and then it becomes a waiting game.

For the first minute and a half, everything is fine. Christina keeps a firm grip on the railing and her arms don’t tremble. She doesn’t so much as spare Eric a glance; she looks only at the nine of us, or probably just at me and her other three friends.

But then the river crashes up again, splashing the bridge and soaking Christina’s back. She cries out as her face strikes the barrier and her hands slip until she’s hanging only by her fingertips, she tries to get a better grip but now her hands are wet.

None of us can move a muscle to help her. As brave as we’re supposed to be, none of us are willing to cross Eric. I don’t think that anyone is willing to cross Eric. I would not think that Dauntless would be the ones to just let a person risk death because they’re – we’re – too afraid to anger a single person; but here we are.

Christina lets out a sob louder than the river that snaps my heart in two. Another spray of water coats her body and she shakes violently. One of her hands slips from the railing and she can’t get it back up again no matter how she tries.

“Come on, Christina,” Al says with surprising volume. “You can do it! Grab the railing again!”

Christina swings her arm up and fumbles for the railing again, straining for it and everyone is dead silent but Al cups his hands around his mouth and hoots.

“You’ve got this!” Will exclaims.

“We know you can do it!” The words break from my throat with more power than I knew that I had.

“Hang on!” Myra yells.

Drew makes a noise that dies when Peter elbows him in the ribs.

“Come on,” Tris says barely above a whisper. She clears her throat and says much louder, “One minute left.”

She manages to grab the railing again just barely and a cheer ripples through the crowd that makes Eric glare daggers at us. Christina’s arms shake so hard that I wonder if the bridge itself is shaking, but even so she twists her head and stares at us again.

“Come on, Christina,” Tris and Al’s voices join together, then mine and Will’s, Edward’s and Myra’s. It becomes a chant.

“Shut the fuck up!” Eric roars and stomps on the bridge just as another wave of water splashes her. She shrieks as she slips of the railing and half of us scream with her.

But she doesn’t fall. She manages to grip the bottom of the bridge at the very last second, hard enough to keep her from falling to her death. She’s much closer to the splashing water now; the next big wave could drag her down with it.

“Time!” Al almost spits the word at Eric. “That’s five minutes, let her up.”

Eric looks down at his own watch, taking his sweet time examining it from different angles as though it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day.

“Fine,” he says after too long. “You can come up now, Christina.”

Al walks toward the railing.

“No,” Eric says. “She has to pick herself up.”

“No she doesn’t,” Al growls.

“Fuck you,” I sort of mutter under my breath. Sort of because everyone around me hears me and Eric may have also heard me.

“She did what you said,” Al continues, “she proved that she’s not a coward. You never said anything about her having to get up on her own.”

Eric doesn’t say anything as Al storms toward the railing with the three of us right on his heels. Will and Al reach over and are able to pull Christina up from the bottom and once she’s high enough, Tris and I assist them. We haul her over the safely onto the bridge and she immediately drops to the ground, knees clanging against the metal. She breathes heavily, her face is still smeared with blood from the fight and now her entire body is soaked and she’s shivering. We go down with her and catch our breath together, saying nothing and only forming a protective little circle around her as she begins to sob.

#divergent #The Anthem Series #guess who's back #it's been a while

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teasers: Read an Excerpt of THE DISAPPEARANCES by Emily Bain Murphy!

THE DISAPPEARANCES is truly a book with something for everyone: an historical mystery with fantasy and paranormal elements and, of course, a breathtaking romance. Here, we’ll let this STARRED REVIEW from @publishersweekly explain it better: “Sumptuous worldbuilding, richly developed characters, and a swoon-worthy romance elevate this delightful, fantasy-tinged mystery."

Here’s the synopsis, and you can read the first two chapters right after!

What if the ordinary things in life suddenly…disappeared?

Aila Quinn’s mother, Juliet, has always been a mystery: vibrant yet guarded, she keeps her secrets beyond Aila’s reach. When Juliet dies, Aila and her younger brother Miles are sent to live in Sterling, a rural town far from home--and the place where Juliet grew up.

Sterling is a place with mysteries of its own. A place where the experiences that weave life together--scents of flowers and food, reflections from mirrors and lakes, even the ability to dream--vanish every seven years.

No one knows what caused these “Disappearances,” or what will slip away next. But Sterling always suspected that Juliet Quinn was somehow responsible--and Aila must bear the brunt of their blame while she follows the chain of literary clues her mother left behind.  

As the next Disappearance nears, Aila begins to unravel the dual mystery of why the Disappearances happen and who her mother truly was. One thing is clear: Sterling isn’t going to hold on to anyone's secrets for long before it starts giving them up.

 CHAPTER ONE

Aila

Gardner, Connecticut

September 27, 1942

  I want something of hers.

There’s a teacup downstairs, the last one she used before she died. She didn’t finish her chicory coffee that morning, and what she left stained the porcelain in a faint ring. Her lipstick remains smudged in Red Letter Red along the rim. It’s been three weeks and I still haven’t been able to wash it away.

But I shouldn’t choose the teacup. Nothing fragile is going to survive today.

“Aila?” Cass opens my bedroom door, her white blond hair pinned up in a plait, her wide eyes darker than normal. “Your father says I can come with you to the train station, but we have to leave in five minutes.”

“I’ll be ready,” I say softly. “I would be more worried about Miles.”

She nods and disappears back into the hallway. Her footsteps fall on creaking boards and then the house returns to its solemn hush, so quiet you can almost hear the dust settle. As if we have all already left it.

Five minutes.

I go to my parents’ room.

It’s been tidied since the last time I was here; the day of my mother’s memorial. Now the bed is made. All of the flowers have been cleared away. Her vanity is free of her compacts and even the precious glass vial of “Joy” she always displayed but hardly ever wore. I open her drawers, run my fingertips over her jewelry, but it’s all tangled and gaudy and I want to leave it there, just as she left it. As if she could come in at any moment and clip on her big, ugly earrings, as bright and jagged as suns.

I turn to the bookshelf. It, too, has been sorted, but I prefer the way it used to look, when the books were all jumbled and wedged in at odd angles, threatening to fall onto my feet.

My eye catches a large leather volume, its spine dwarfing all of the rest. I’ve never seen it before. I kneel down in front of it, my knees finding the threadbare place where the rug has worn almost through to the floor.

I pull out the book and flip through the pages. They whisper against my fingers, thin and delicate like moth wings. It is Shakespeare, a collection of his plays and poems, and my mother’s handwriting is everywhere in it, littering the margins and cluttering the white gaps between sentences in different colored ink. The pages are yellowing, as if Mother has had this book for a long time. I wonder where it’s been hiding until now.

An envelope is taped to the back cover. It is blank, and unsealed, and there is a note inside.

“Aila! Miles!” Father’s voice rings out from the kitchen.

“Coming!” I call back.

The note was written recently; I can tell by the way her handwriting shakes like it did when she was nearing the end.  It says:

Stefen: You will find what you asked for within this. I will always love you.

Your Viola

 My attention snags on the two names. Because the first one does not belong to my father. And the second, though it is definitely my mother’s handwriting, was not her name. My mother was the other well-known Shakespeare heroine. The one who also died young.

Juliet.

“Aila!” my father calls again. This time, it’s more of a warning.

Leave it, I think. You don’t even like Shakespeare.

And maybe I don’t want to know who this Stefen is.

I put the book back on the shelf and decide that I want the teacup. It is my mother just as I remember her: safe and familiar and still marked by her touch. I’ll bring it even if I have to hold it on my lap, cupped in my hands like a butterfly for the entire journey.

I hurry down the narrow stairs, which seem to slope more and more to the right each year. I’ve never lived anywhere but this house—what we fondly call “the Tilt”—and I know just where to place my hand on the banister to keep my balance and where to step so the stairs don’t creak. When I reach the landing I hear my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Reid. She’s in the kitchen with Father, taking final instructions for watching over the Tilt while we’re gone. She’s opening drawers and closing them, and I’m sure she’s the one who organized my mother’s books. Maybe out of guilt.

“I’m sorry, again, Harold, that we aren’t able to take the children,” she says. I pause on the staircase, in the shadows. All I can see are her stockinged calves and the worn leather of her pumps, but I picture her lips pursing down, her white hair wispy and always looking as though it’s being swept heavenward by the wind. “With Earl’s health,” she continues. “I just didn’t feel like we could manage them both.”

She means that she would have taken me, but not Miles. She doesn’t want to be responsible when he inevitably steals something or sets a fire. The creases in Mrs. Reid’s pumps deepen as she shifts her weight. “I thought someone else in town would surely be able to help, but….” She trails off.

“Well, thankfully we’ve found other arrangements,” Father says stiffly. Then he turns away to yell again, but I appear in front of him before he can say my name.

“I’m here,” I say. My eyes fall from Mrs. Reid’s overly rouged cheeks to her hands, where she’s been anxiously fiddling with something. A tea towel embroidered with green leaves—and my mother’s teacup, scrubbed shiny clean.

I swallow. “I forgot one thing,” I say, turning, and running back up the stairs. I touch my mother’s dresses one more time, hanging in neat, still lines in the closet, knowing they will be packed in storage or given away by the time I return. Then I grab the book of plays, stuffing it into my knapsack without another thought.

#

Father drives us to the train station in our mud-streaked Studebaker; he and Miles in the front and Cass and me in the backseat, my knapsack with the book laying heavy on the seat between us. “Think Mrs. Reid can handle the Tilt while we’re away?” Father asks. He smiles at me in the mirror and reaches over to ruffle Miles’ hair, but Miles just stares straight ahead. I don’t let myself look at the browning dahlias in Mother’s flower boxes as we pull away.

Everything is in motion when we arrive at the station, like the air itself is anxious. Posters flutter on the walls, pigeons flap and peck, tow-white strands of Cass’s hair whip loose from her braid. She helped me set my wave this morning because I’ve always liked the way she does it best, but I can already feel it starting to fall. My dress clings to my legs and my ankles are sweating inside my bobby socks. It’s unseasonably hot for late September. Cass and I step into the shadows of the eaves while Miles and my father purchase our tickets. I lean against a war poster that warns, “Telling a friend may mean telling THE ENEMY.” An advertisement over Cass’ head promises an “ALL-AMERICAN sugar with energy crystallized by the sun!”

Overhead, the clouds swirl like soup.

“You’ll come back soon,” Cass says.  

“You’ll write,” I answer.

“I wish you could stay with me,” she says, tears brightening her eyes. She is my oldest friend, the one who climbed into bed behind me on the day my mother died and braided my hair until I fell asleep. The next morning I found she’d woven in her favorite ribbon, the cerulean one embroidered with flowers, that she’d always planned to wear to our first school dance.  

“I wish I could, too,” I say. Being stuffed in a room with Cass and her three older sisters sounds better than the unknown ahead, even though I’ve always been a little frightened of Cass’ mother.

Cass stares at the suitcase at our feet. “You’re not going to fall in love with some swoony out there and never come back, are you?”

I squeeze her hand. “Maybe now Dixon Fairweather will finally realize what a dish I am.”

She starts to cry-laugh as my father joins us on the platform, looking down at the newly purchased tickets in one hand and clutching my brother’s suitcase in his other.        “Where’s Miles?” I ask, and my father glances up with the pained look of someone who has spent too long staring at the sun.

“He was just here,” he says.

Our train is coming down the tracks, its white smoke pillowing up into the sky.  The brassy clang of the bell grows louder.

“I’ll check the entrance,” I say, snatching up my bag.

“Lavatory,” my father says.

“I’ll take the staircase,” Cass volunteers.

There are people everywhere in the depot, mostly women and children, now that so many of the men have been plucked away to fight. I walk through the snaking line and peer out into the street, the heat and train bell in my ears, my heart quick and light. He is not there.

I’m searching for the burnt copper of his hair but on the way back to the platform I glimpse the tweed of his cap instead. Miles is sitting on the floor of the station, eating a half-melted Peppermint Patty he must have hidden in the pocket of his shorts.  

I want to jerk his arm, or at least rip the candy from his hand. Instead I stand and let my shadow fall over him.

“Golly gee,” he says flatly. “You found me.”

“Miles,” I hiss. “We were looking for you. Why did you run off?” I ask, although part of me wishes that he had actually gone far enough to make us miss the train.

“Use your eyes,” he mumbles. “I was hungry.”

“Use your head. This is why no one here was willing to take us,” I say, but I soften the words by offering him a hand up. He follows me, dragging his feet, back out to the platform, to my father and Cass.

“Found him,” I say unnecessarily.

I can tell my father doesn’t want to yell at Miles in these last moments we have. He squints at us and picks up our suitcases, his broad, tall frame sharp against the sagging leather. He won’t leave until tomorrow, heading in the opposite direction. A plane to San Francisco. Then out to the endless Pacific.

“It’s time,” he says.

I embrace Cass first and try to think of the perfect words to say but Father’s foot is tapping, his eyes never leaving the nearest conductor, and somehow Miles has managed to ruin even this. “Well,” I say, suddenly shy. “Goodbye.” I take out one of my own ribbons and push it into her hand.

Then I turn to my father. He’s shaved for the first time in weeks and his cheek is so smooth I want to stay there for just a moment longer; breathe in that smell of star anise and lather. I used to lay awake at night, fearing that he’d be called up in the draft. But now that it has happened, I know that he will not die in the war—because my mother just died, and that will serve some sort of protection around him, like a halo. This makes perfect sense to me. So I press my cheek against his one last time, and then let him go.

“It won’t be long before I’ll see you again,” Father says. Miles sets his chin, but then drops his bag and throws his arms around our father in a hard hug. “It’s only temporary,” Father says. He swallows, his voice catching. He lets go of Miles and leans down to whisper in my ear: “my little elf.”

Miles and I board the train and Cass stands just below the window, tears streaming down her face. She’s tied my ribbon into her hair. As the porter loads my suitcase its tag turns over like a browned leaf, and I catch the swirl of my mother’s handwriting.

I wave to my father, but he has already turned away. Now there is not a doubt left that I will see him again. Because this can’t be my final memory of him, with his shoulders weighted under a sky the color of graphite; with my reflection flickering and fading as I wait for him to turn back one last time and watch us go.

#

The train ride north to Sterling is six hours. I don’t mean to fall asleep but halfway there I do. My neck has a crick in it when I jerk awake. Every dream is the same. The bright puffs of flowers around Mother’s bed; how still she is, her hands like marble when I reach up to touch them; and then the chill that echoes through to my bones until I gasp awake.

For a moment I think we’ve missed our stop, but Miles is sketching across from me and there’s nothing out the window but fields and sky.

I reach for the hidden tip of my knobby right ear, a habit of childish comfort I’ve been trying to give up. I can tell Miles notices by the way he smirks down at the notepad in his lap. His fingers guide various pencils over the page until the familiar curve of our mother’s headstone appears, wreathed with a rainbow of flowers.

It’s all he draws lately, the same picture repeating, just like my dream. I wonder which one of us will stop first.

“Are you hungry?” I ask. I unwrap the peanut butter sandwiches Mrs. Reid packed and hand a half-smashed one to Miles. The train car is almost empty now. We eat without talking, and when I tire of staring out the window, I pull out the Shakespeare book.

The cover is thick and bound with burgundy leather. I flip through the pages, wondering where to start. There are pen markings under certain lines and she’s written nonsensical notes in the margins, circling words like “nose-herb” and “Sounds like Var’s….”

The play Twelfth Night seems to have the most markings. Some of the pages are bent and the ink is smeared. I flip to the end again but this time I ignore the envelope. The back cover is lined with velvet and my fingertips leave patterns on it like they would on a frosted window.

And then I notice the smallest tear fraying at the corner.

I glance at Miles. He is absorbed with drawing the yellow burst of a sunflower, and so I pull on the cover’s thread. It comes away and I realize it’s been sewn on in faint stitches. My curiosity catches like a white flame and I work out the stitches with my nail, staring out the window so that I won’t draw Miles’ attention. When the flap is loosened enough, I slide the book back into my knapsack to hide it. Then I sweep my fingers into the opening.

Even before my fingertips feel glass, I know it.

There’s something hidden inside.  

          CHAPTER TWO

  I tear the opening a little more to give my fingers space to work. Whatever is hidden there feels cold and smooth. I draw it out and examine it in the palm of my hand.

It is a colorless jewel, clear as water, with a teardrop suspended inside and set in a gold band. The familiar chill from my dream suddenly seeps through my fingertips. It’s my mother’s ring. I never saw her right hand without it, and I assumed it had been buried with her. Her rings were usually caked with dirt from her garden, but this one looks as though it’s been thoroughly cleaned. It stings a little, to see it now. This is what I would have wanted to take with me, if she had given me the choice. Why would she hide it in a book and plan to send it off to some stranger named Stefen?

I slip the stone onto my finger but it’s too big, so I hold it in my palm. It takes not half a minute for Miles to notice.

“What’s that?” He looks up from his drawing, eyebrows knitting.

“It’s Mother’s ring. She gave it me,” I lie, and hurriedly unclasp my necklace, exchanging my small heart pendant for the stone. It clinks against the buttons lining my dress.

“Next stop is yours,” says a gruff voice behind me, so near that I jump. The conductor’s breath is stale with coffee, staining the air around us. I haven’t seen any signs of a town since I jerked awake from my dream, and fields stretch out endlessly from beyond the window, only occasionally split by a farmhouse or barn. Gardner had been a small town to grow up in, but this feels like being dropped in the middle of an ocean. An ocean of cornstalks, burnt gold by the sun.

“The finishing word,” Miles says, putting his boots up on the seat next to me and closing his notepad. “Go.”

I play with the clasp of my tortoiseshell barrette. The finishing word was Mother’s game and I’m not sure I ever want to play it again. But as the train slows I think of Cass going home to her sisters, and of my father spending his last night in our home, alone. I jiggle the clasp back open. Every mile on this train, every minute that passes, is taking me farther away from my old life. The life I still want to be living.

A thought comes to me gently, and it is in my mother’s voice. That ship has sailed, honey. Now you can either drown or hitch a ride on the next one.

Will anyone put flowers on her grave while we are all away?

Even though I’m only half-thinking, I have a stroke of genius. “My finishing word is ‘Palimpsest,’” I say. I snap the hair clip triumphantly.

Miles slumps back in his seat. “I’ve never heard of that word. You probably made it up.”

“No, I didn’t. You know tabula rasa?” He gives me a vacant stare. “We’re starting over with a blank slate, but we haven’t completely left our past.”

He chews on his cheek as if he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. “What’s yours, then?” I ask over the train’s shrieking brakes. A patchwork of fields is rolling into the paved streets of a small town center.  “My finishing word is ‘forsaken,’” Miles says.

“How dramatic.”

“Fine. Then I’ll make it ‘emprise.’ A fancy word for adventure.”

“That’s a good one,” I admit. “You win.” It’s a strong finishing word, especially for an eight-year-old—even if I hadn’t already decided that I would let him win. “Grab your bag.”

Miles’ eyebrows arch together and then his green eyes narrow.

“What will you do if I don’t get off?” he asks.

“You will,” I say, picking up his bag along with mine. I pretend they aren’t as heavy as they are.

“No one would blame me, you know,” he says, but he shimmies down the aisle toward the exit. “My mother just died.”

“Right, because I have no idea what that feels like,” I say, and when Miles pauses on the train step, I give him a shove. Then I take a deep breath of my own and step down onto the platform.

There are only two people waiting in the shade of the station’s overhang: a middle-aged woman and someone I assume is her son. I recognize Mrs. Cliffton from my mother’s funeral. She was the only person not from Gardner, so she had stuck out in the blurred line of mourners who went through the receiving line that day. She had been formal and reserved when she took my hand. “Matilda Cliffton. I was your mother’s best friend from childhood,” she’d explained, and I recognized her name. “My mother was always so pleased to get a letter from you,” I told her, and I had already moved on to greet the next person when she suddenly hugged me, as if she couldn’t leave until she had done it.

I overheard her offer to help my father however she could. I’m guessing she probably hadn’t envisioned Miles and me stepping off this train three weeks later.  

“Hello!” Mrs. Cliffton calls, stepping towards us. Her black crepe funeral dress has been replaced with a day suit the color of plums and a matching hat. Her red hair is pulled up in a smart bun.  She is more handsome than I remembered. But maybe it’s because this time she’s smiling. “Welcome!” she says. “Aila, seeing you here is like stepping back in time. You look just like Juliet did when we were young.”

“Thank you,” I say. I am grateful that she can say my mother’s name. That we can still talk of her. “You remember my brother, Miles.”

Miles sticks out his hand. “Miles Quinn,” he repeats solemnly as Mrs. Cliffton takes it. Our father’s pomade has evaporated and Miles’ cowlick now stands up like a missed clump of grass.

“Welcome, Miles. And this is my son, William. He’ll get your bags,” Mrs. Cliffton says.

“Will,” the boy says, extending his hand. He looks to be about my own age, with dark hair that is slightly overgrown, and I can’t help but notice it covers the tips of his ears. His teeth are slightly crowded in his mouth, and his eyes are a blue I’ve never seen before.

He’s sort of handsome.

“So this is Sterling,” I say quickly, glancing around.

“Actually, no,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “Sterling’s still a good drive from here, but this is our nearest station.” She glances up at the darkening sky. “We’ll want to try to beat the rain.” Will takes our bags from the porter and Mrs. Cliffton leads us to a Ford station wagon with wood paneling so smooth it looks glazed.

Miles nudges me. “Just so you know,” he whispers, “your ear is showing.”  

My hand flies to the right tip of my ear, but it is still hidden under the carefully arranged layers of my hair. Miles’ face breaks into a grin wide enough to reveal the small space between his two front teeth.  

“The finishing word just became ‘insufferable,’” I hiss. I ignore his wiggling eyebrows and climb into the car.

Mrs. Cliffton opens the driver’s door and takes her place behind the steering wheel. She starts the engine and pulls out onto the road, hunched forward, her gloved fingers wrapped around the wheel. She doesn’t make much conversation, and when the car heaves and jerks, the corners of her mouth tighten. It takes her a moment to find the windshield wipers once the raindrops begin to splatter like paint against the window glass.

“Thank you for bearing with me,” Mrs. Cliffton says, her foot easing and catching on the clutch. “We recently lost our driver. I suppose we’re all doing our best to adapt.” She colors as if she realizes how this must sound to us. I nod rather than answer. “We are all so hopeful that the war will be over quickly,” she adds.

This is just temporary, my father’s voice echoes in my head.

My mother’s ring is warming with my touch.

The Clifftons’ car sends up thick plumes of dust behind us on the road and we don’t pass any other drivers or dwellings for miles. “We’re largely farm country,” Mrs. Cliffton explains.  

“What does Dr. Cliffton do?” I ask politely.

My question provokes the slightest moment of hesitation. “He’s a scientist,” Mrs. Cliffton says. She glances back at William. “He… looks for ways to improve our quality of life. Now, dears, look ahead—here is Sterling.”

     I peer out the window as we come into town. The main street is lined with American flags. There are a handful of stores, all crowned with tan awnings. Letters are painted across the glass windows of a tiny diner.

     “That’s Fitz’s,” Will says, nodding toward the rust-red bricks of a general store. We pass a bank, a hardware store, a milliner, a bakery, an empty Texaco station. It looks like any other sleepy farm town, but this is the one where my mother grew up. Maybe something of her is still here for me to find, like sunlight catching a handprint on glass.

     “Home’s just a bit farther,” Mrs. Cliffton says, humming, and turns onto a smaller road. Houses and farms are scattered along it like jacks between fields and a thick patch of forest. The sky is wide and laden with heavy clouds. Mrs. Cliffton turns off the road and Will jumps out to open a large cast-iron gate. When he returns the rain has speckled his white shirt with gray. Then the car climbs the curving drive, and the Clifftons’ house comes into view.

The house falls somewhere between the cramped and cozy nooks of the Tilt and the sprawling mansions my Father once took us to see on the cliffs of Rhode Island. Lights blaze from a first floor window through the shimmer of rain. Four chimneys rise from a slate roof and rooms spread from the central house in two glass-covered wings. The red bricks glow as if they would be warm to the touch. I suddenly notice a faint stain blotting the hem of my dress and move my hand to cover it.

“I’m sorry, we seem to have forgotten the umbrellas,” Mrs. Cliffton says, pulling around the circled drive to the front of the house. “We’ll have to make a run for it. The three of you go on in, and I’ll be right behind you.”

Will opens the door to a crack of thunder and even though Miles and I sprint up the stone steps behind him, the rain soaks my dress until it clings to me. The careful wave Cass set in my hair this morning is now slicked to the side of my cheek.

Will pulls open the heavy front door to a bright yellow foyer and I hurry inside. The rainwater runs down my legs into a puddle on the checkered marble floor. A chandelier hangs two stories above our heads, twinkling like the sun.

“Wow,” Miles says, gaping at the raised ceiling, his boots squeaking against the polished floor. At least the rain has masked the stain on my hem.

Raindrops bead on Will’s forehead and drip down his lashes. He reaches a hand to brush them away. “I’ll get us some towels,” Will says, and by the time he returns with them, Mrs. Cliffton is coming in through the front door. She starts when she sees us still standing there and heavily sets down our luggage.

I look again down at the water that has pooled at my feet and narrow my eyes.

The wind has taken on a shrieking tone. The rain continues to beat against the windows. Yet Mrs. Cliffton and our leather suitcases are perfectly dry.

#

We towel off and meet the Clifftons’ only remaining staff: a live-in cook and housekeeper named Genevieve. She is tall and rail-thin and has hair the color of smoke.  The tea she offers us is scentless but strong. It feels like embers going down my throat, heating me from the inside as we follow Mrs. Cliffton on a tour of the house. I try not to compare it to The Tilt, but I can’t help noticing that the door handles are made of curved brass rather than our rounded glass knobs. There’s no beautiful grandfather clock that clicks and bongs throughout the night, no collection of frog knickknacks with little pieces of paper wedged beneath them so they don’t slide down the slope of the shelves. Instead there are decorative books and patterned curtains and tiny painted porcelain boxes that sit in perfectly level display cases. The hallways bear paintings of vases and bowls spilling over with fruit rather than Father’s nautical maps and sketched prints of archipelagos. Maybe he’ll get to see more of the ocean while he’s away, I think. Maybe he’ll bring new pictures back with him.

Some of the furniture looks as though it’s never even been used. But Mrs. Cliffton is enthusiastic when we round a corner and she points out a wooden chair.

“Will built this for me when he was thirteen,” she says proudly.

“It’s really more functional than beautiful,” Will says.

“I adore it,” Mrs. Cliffton says.

“You’re my mother,” Will says, smiling at me with a hint of embarrassment and running his hands along the scruffy hair at the back of his neck. He trails behind as we tour the sunroom and formal dining room and Dr. Cliffton’s library, where books cover the walls with spines as ordered as piano keys. I’m examining an old Victrola and a tidy line of wooden canes when Miles reaches out to twirl the large, midnight orb of a celestial globe. I grab his wrist. He still has peanut butter smudged on his hand.

I shoot him a look before turning to Mrs. Cliffton. “Your home is lovely,” I say.

“Yes,” Miles echoes. He wipes his palms on the tail of his shirt. “Thank you for having us.”

Mrs. Cliffton waves this off. “Your mother was like my sister,” she says. She blinks rapidly and for a moment I worry she’s going to cry. Miles stiffens like a rod next to me. “So you and Miles are almost family,” she finishes, and smiles instead, and Miles’s shoulders relax again.

“Shall we head upstairs? You can get settled in.” Mrs. Cliffton leads us back to the foyer, where I grab my knapsack from the floor and Will collects our suitcases. “Aila,” Mrs. Cliffton says brightly, leading us up the stairs, “do you remember the time I came to Gardner? Not for the funeral, but years back? You were still very young then. Actually, William was with me as well. Do you recall meeting as children?”

“No,” I say after a beat. The pins in my hair are starting to tug and I want to find my room and take them out.

“Juliet and I turned our backs for one minute,” Mrs. Cliffton says, reaching the second floor, “and the next thing we knew you were both down in the field covered head-to-toe in dirt.” She stops in front of the first door beyond the balcony. “We promptly threw you both in the tub.”

When I realize that this means Will and I have seen one another in our unmentionables, and possibly even less than that, I do everything I can to avoid his face. Miles makes it worse with a muffled snicker.

“That’s right,” Will says quickly, juggling our suitcases for a better grip. “We were burying something we’d found in the field, some treasure. I can’t remember what it was. Maybe with some Mind’s Eye we could….”

The way he cuts off makes me look up to catch the most peculiar expression cross his face. His mother’s hand jerks back from the doorknob, and the air strains and crackles with a sudden tension, as if they are waiting for some sort of reaction from us.

“What is Mind’s Eye?” Miles asks, and Mrs. Cliffton gives Will an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

“Oh, just something we can talk about later,” Mrs. Cliffton says to Miles, pushing open the door to the first guest bedroom. “Aila, that’s a lovely necklace,” she continues, changing the subject as she ushers us inside. “I remember that ring. Wasn’t it your mother’s?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Did she really give it to you?” Miles asks quietly as Will places my suitcase on the floor. I nod, uncomfortable with how intently both he and Mrs. Cliffton are looking at my neck.

“She didn’t give me anything,” Miles says, and I wait until their backs are turned, and then hide the ring behind the collar of my dress.

#

My bedroom is simple and cheerful, with yellow walls that are cozy even with the storm beating against the window. There is a white four-poster bed with an embroidered quilt and a window seat that looks out on the branch of a large oak. Mrs. Cliffton has placed tight puffs of cabbage roses and a picture in a silver frame on the bureau. The image holds younger versions of her and my mother. Juliet and Matilda wear matching school uniforms, their arms slung around one another, their faces caught in openmouthed laughs.

I’ve never seen a picture of Mother at my age. Her hair was a lighter auburn than mine, but she has my gray eyes that are a bit too wide, small nose, and sharp chin. It’s startling how much I look like her.

I unpack my dresses and line my toiletries on top of the milk-white sink, then shelve the poetry volumes I’ve taken from the castaway pile at the Gardner library over the years. Stevenson, Frost, Dickinson, Yeats, and Wilde, each missing its cover or spidered with stains the color of light tea. I can’t bring myself to unpack my winter clothes just yet. Maybe we’ll be home by then. Instead I arrange my father’s dulled throwing dart, Mother’s Shakespeare volume, and Cass’ ribbon on my nightstand. Then I run a bath in the porcelain claw tub and dress for dinner. There are no mirrors in the bathroom--odd for a house that has just about everything else. I wonder if it would be too forward to ask Mrs. Cliffton for one.

I do the best I can with my hair, feeling only by touch, and head downstairs for dinner.

Dr. Cliffton stands from the mahogany dinner table to greet me when I enter the dining room. He is an older, softer version of Will, with blue eyes that aren’t quite as striking and are framed by wire-rimmed glasses. I make polite, stilted conversation—”I’ve never been this far north before;” “The rain sure is coming down”—over a dinner of watercress and grilled peach salad, roast chicken, and some sort of squash tart, all served by Genevieve. We did not eat like this even before the war and the rationing started. “One of the benefits of living in farm country,” Dr. Cliffton says as he notices me eyeing the small pat of freshly churned butter. I want to smear it, salty and smooth and creamy, all along my slice of bread, but I pretend that I don’t care for it and pass the plate on. Miles takes my cue and declines as well. We are impinging on the Clifftons enough without eating their precious butter.

Dr. Cliffton clears his throat. “Did your mother speak often of Sterling?” he asks me. He pauses in cutting the tart. His knife and fork hover over his plate.

“Only a little,” I say. In truth, she’d barely spoken of it at all. There is a long beat, as if this wasn’t the correct answer. For a moment all I can hear is cutlery scraping; the sound of my own chewing.

“She told me once she didn’t much like it,” Miles offers, followed by a yelp as my heel catches his ankle.  

Dr. Cliffton laughs graciously but there is something else in it as well. He pushes his chair back in concert with a loud crack of thunder and says, “You know, I believe I’ve just the thing for this occasion.” His right foot drags as he leaves the room, and I recall the collection of canes I’d seen during my tour of the house. I suppose that means the draft will never come calling for him.

Dr. Cliffton reappears a moment later trailing bright strains of Glenn Miller from down the hall. It helps to drown out the steady patter of the rain. “Shall we move into the library?” Mrs. Cliffton suggests. “Genevieve could bring us some coffee, maybe even some ice cream?” Miles jumps up with a nod.

They are all trying so hard, I realize. But I don’t have the energy to keep up. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in,” I say.

“Long day,” Mrs. Cliffton says, nodding. The lights flicker.

The four of them move on to Dr. Cliffton’s library and I climb the stairs to my room. “Goodnight, Miles,” I call from the balcony, and he gives a short wave without really looking.

I change into my nightgown and brush my teeth, staring at the blank wall in front of me. Tomorrow I’m going to ask about the mirror.

I climb into bed, rolling my father’s dart between my hands. I hear Will challenge Miles to a game of checkers, followed by an amused “Hot dog!” barely five minutes later. Miles rarely loses games. He never loses at checkers.

Someone changes the record to Billie Holiday, drowsy and warm. She was Mother’s favorite. I return my dart to the nightstand and use my pillow to block out the music and sound of the rain.

It’s the first night in three weeks I do not dream of her.

                                                            ***

Well that certainly left a chill running down our spine! Want more? Pre-order THE DISAPPEARANCES at the links below.

Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-a-MillionHudson IndieBound Powell’s

#hmhteen #hmh teen #ya lit #ya excerpt #yaexcerpt #yalit #books #booklr #booknerd #book nerd #ya romance #YAromance #historical romance #historical fiction #quotes #book quotes #teen #excerpt #excerpts

[starbcrn-kids]

@unscrxpted​: Aphrodite held the small box out to Dahlia. "Since your daughter is currently too young to fully grasp the concept of Mother's Day... I would like to give you a gift." Mother’s Day Asks Starring Dahlia

Laughing softly, Dahlia smiles as she accepts it. “Thank you, Aphrodite. Your mother is raising a saint, I hope she knows that.” She smiles as she opens it... blinking and gasping softly, a hand coming to her mouth.

It was... her family. Her full family. She closes her eyes and smiles softly, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, c’mere, you--”

She pulls Aphrodite into a hug, smiling. “Thank you. I love it.”

#* content warning {mother's day} #* partner {unscrxpted} #thread: family picture #—— two steps ahead and staying on guard ↻ ⌊ dahlia brown ⌋ #☆ﾟ turn of the century verse ↳ we could be legends after all ◝ #* answered ask {incoming transmission}

[starbcrn-kids]

@unscrxpted​​ from x

James smiles softly as he looks back at the kids... his, kids. Shaking his head, he sighs a bit, looking back in to check in on everyone, pausing and chuckling. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Grayson groans, sitting up slowly, still chuckling a bit but taking deep breaths, trying to settle himself and get back on track. “What, what is it?”

Dahlia smiles a bit, looking satisfied in this situation, in its outcome.

#—— make no plans and none can be broken ↻ ⌊ s’chn t’gai james ⌋ #—— two steps ahead and staying on guard ↻ ⌊ dahlia brown ⌋ #thread: that's complicated #* guest muse {s'chn t'gai grayson} #* partner {unscrxpted} #☆ﾟ post hailey verse ↳ here’s to never growing up ◝

[starbcrn-kids]

How do you tragically die?

Buying Time for the Hero

Your comrade is the one who needs to save the world. Their quest is too important to fail and you knew it, so when the risk was greatest, you fought with everything you had to keep it at bay. In the end, you lost your life, but you did so in the most badass way possible. Be proud!

Tagged by: Thanks for the invitation to borrow, @parallaxedcaptain​ Tagging: @unscrxpted​, @riseofthemuses​, and anyone else!

#* content warning {death mention} #* dash meme {life is a trip and it's full of misadventure} #—— two steps ahead and staying on guard ↻ ⌊ dahlia brown ⌋

[starbcrn-kids]

Tag Dump - Muses 1/2

#—— you’ve got the heart of a phoenix; let them see you rise ↻ ⌊ addi janeway ⌋ #—— you know what they say; no guts no glory ↻ ⌊ angie mccoy/tigan ⌋ #—— everyday a little more alive with all that i leave behind ↻ ⌊ audrey parker ⌋ #—— like a kid playing pretend in his father’s suit ↻ ⌊ chad dax rozhenko ⌋ #—— two steps ahead and staying on guard ↻ ⌊ dahlia brown ⌋ #—— bring on any challenge ↻ ⌊ dakota pike ⌋ #—— even if the whole world thinks i’m crazy ↻ ⌊ doug karidian ⌋ #—— no matter what they tell you the future’s up for grabs ↻ ⌊ acyi elaine ⌋ #—— woman in total control of herself ↻ ⌊ emma mitchell ⌋ #—— i got fire in my soul ↻ ⌊ genevieve dax rozhenko ⌋ #—— i don’t think; i’m just acting impulsively ↻ ⌊ ginger ⌋ #—— maybe i’m just a girl on a mission but i’m ready to fly ↻ ⌊ gwen ⌋ #—— sending my love from the other side ↻ ⌊ s’chn t’gai hailey ⌋ #—— i am a diamond on the inside; just add the pressure ↻ ⌊ hannah mccoy ⌋ #—— you can’t raise hell with a saint ↻ ⌊ holly chekov ⌋ #���— i never miss a beat; i’m lightinin’ on my feet ↻ ⌊ iris chekov/kirk ⌋ #—— make no plans and none can be broken ↻ ⌊ s’chn t’gai james ⌋ #—— i got a rock ↻ ⌊ jared mccoy ⌋ #—— they say i did something bad; then why’s it feel so good? ↻ ⌊ jesse riker troi ⌋ #—— but me i’m still a sunbeam ↻ ⌊ kai ⌋