tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19176677003254936862024-02-20T23:32:16.833-08:00Silk SongA Young Adult Fantasy Vote-Your-Own-Adventure Novel Emily Paxmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01219964022353172772noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917667700325493686.post-35715038354476380872016-09-06T20:08:00.000-07:002016-09-10T15:23:33.306-07:00Chapter Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41EAMprMUh81i93VKXn3ylREiRGS0_jgnQyb_TKp67lJTXpfgsOfOru4Jv-7JTHT5oxejvvke_Qi0xNgtisK3txp9_eYKlBXBd2yCrSPk1RhmbUU6QmfHn0ZFLKyw4o4QGWp4b1smrPk/s1600/Chapter+4.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41EAMprMUh81i93VKXn3ylREiRGS0_jgnQyb_TKp67lJTXpfgsOfOru4Jv-7JTHT5oxejvvke_Qi0xNgtisK3txp9_eYKlBXBd2yCrSPk1RhmbUU6QmfHn0ZFLKyw4o4QGWp4b1smrPk/s320/Chapter+4.2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let me come in, won’t
you? Won’t you?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Hosei strains against my grip, his
neck craning for the window. I wrestle him towards the couch, but it’s not the
most coordinated take-down. He’s got a few inches on me and what he lacks in
strength he makes up for in sheer wiriness.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Peter! Help me.” Sweat licks my
skin as I try to force Hosei away from the light. Maybe if he can’t see that
weird blue glow, he’ll go back to normal. Or normal for Hosei.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
It’s not Peter, but Tori who rushes
to my side. At first I try to block her. It must look like I’m manhandling her
brother, which, granted, I guess I am. Tears run down her cheeks, but when she
tugs at my arm, it isn’t in a way that feels like she’s fighting me. “His
ears!” she says. “C-cover his ears…”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“What?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Let me.” Tori throws herself onto
Hosei’s legs, finally unseating him so he falls to the couch. She slams a
pillow over his face and squishes the rest of him against the sofa. “HOSEI!”
she screams. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
For a moment, this is the most
psychotic thing I’ve ever seen. But whatever Tori’s doing, it works. Hosei’s
eyes roll backwards and he sucks in a huge gasp of air, like he’s surfaced
above water.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Son of a – all right, I’m fine!
Get off me, Tori.” He pushes her away and slaps his hands tight to his ears.
“Good call. It’s a siren.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“I – I thought so. You looked so
weird walking towards…” Tori rubs her eyes to flick away the last of the tears.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Sirens?” I repeat. Is that all the
blue light is? A squad car?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>“You think
it’s the cops?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“No! Sirens.” Hosei has to shout
everything. He jams his hands so hard against his ears that red edges form along
his cheeks. “Best known from Greek mythology. You know? Bird women who lure
sailors to their doom?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“We don’t have time for your weird
theories!” We’re all shouting now. So much for not drawing attention to our
position.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“We’ll be fine if no one opens the
door,” says Hosei. “Sirens can’t do anything unless you listen to them and
since you and Tori are both girls, you’re safe.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Are you kidding me?” This is the
most useless conversation of my life. I look around for a weapon and settle on
one of the spare two-by-fours we never used for the float. Maybe I’m paranoid
about the shadow outside the house, but I’ll be paranoid and prepared, damn it.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“No, he’s right. The sea was a very
sexist place for many generations,” says Tori sagely. “The Fey never learned to
enchant female sailors.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
This is insane. This is every crazy
thing about Hosei I’ve tried to ignore over the years, slapping me full force.
And worse, Tori’s absorbed more of his battiness than I realized. </div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let me come in, won’t
you? Won’t you?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The shadow by the window falls
backward, the silvery voice fading. For a second, I think it’s given up on us.
My grip around the two-by-four relaxes. But then I see it. Blue light, peaking
beneath the front door. And standing with his hand on the door knob is my
slack-jawed little brother. Hosei and Tori lunge towards the door, but like me,
they’ve noticed too late. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The latch clicks as Peter heeds the
call of the creatures outside the house. But it’s not some glorious siren that
waits on the other side. A demon hovers in the air, haloed in unearthly blue
light. But as my senses adjust to the shock, I see it walking towards us,
propelled not by its human legs, but by an extra, spidery pair that protrude from
its body. Tori and Hosei throw their weight against the open door, but the
spider’s legs snake through before they can shut it. One of the legs snaps
closed over Peter’s wrist. We both return to our senses. Peter screaming, me
rushing to his side.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Out of the way!” I push Peter
against the wall and take aim. Three times I bring the two-by-four down on. The
spider leg writhes and weeps blood, but holds on. Peter screams louder with
each twist of the clawed foot against his skin. I smack it again, and the beast
finally releases him, leg retracting. But instead of wriggling away, it digs
its claws into the door frame and pushes hard against the Yoshida’s.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Wood splinters off the frame as the
spider monster forces itself inside the house. The Yoshidas fly backward and
the beast chases me into the living room. I whack it away from Peter, but the
thing has more limbs than I can hope to manage. Black, bristle haired legs claw
at me from every direction and I stumble into a floor lamp. One of the legs wraps
around my two-by-four and tosses it across the room. Glass breaks as three of
Mr. Yoshida’s birds fall from their perches on the wall. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The human part of the monster
reaches towards me. Large hands throw me up against the wall, closing over my
throat. His face is dark like the rest of him, but white highlights cut down
from his eyes across his cheeks. He grins at me with sharp pointed teeth.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Eleni,” he says, leaning close and
tracing a clawed leg along my cheek. “I’ve got the one we came for.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Like Hell you do.” I curl my legs
up and kick him in the chest for all I’m worth. He topples backwards, legs
flying everywhere. I want to take a moment to gag, but I know an opportunity
when I see one. When you’ve got a spider belly up, you squish it.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I retrieve the two-by-four and smack
him on the stomach over and over, dancing away from his legs best I can.
“Peter! Someone, help me!” I don’t know where the Yoshida’s have gone. Maybe
they’re passed out behind the door.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Peter’s face is so pale, he
reflects the blue light, but he reaches for another spare beam. Shakily, he lands
a thud on the demon’s face. The beast swears and I quickly bring another hit
down on his stomach. The legs thrash about, but we’ve clearly found his weak
spot. The human spot.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
But the rush of success doesn’t
last long. Another creature swoops through the door and a woman’s body throws
me to the ground. Her hands go for my throat and mouth. Hands coated in…
feathers? My head slams against the floor boards and my vision swims before I
can make sense of it. Peter screams and I know the spider beast has him again,
but this time, I can’t save him. This feathered witch knows better than to give
me a chance to kick her away.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“She’s strong. Must have her
mother’s blood,” the woman says. Her fingers tighten as I try to jerk out of
her grip.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“What about the boy? Do we bring
him?” It’s the spider’s voice. He sounds winded, which pleases me immensely.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Why not?” she says. “Let’s get out
of here before-”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“BACK TO THE SHADOWS, VILE
FIEND!!!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Oh Hosei…</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
If I could speak, I would tell him
to run. Whatever these things are, they’ve come for me, not the Yoshida’s. But
wherever they disappeared to before, they’re back and they clearly didn’t bring
anything resembling weapons. They stand over my head, Tori clutching two tubes
of glitter glue and Hosei shaking a paper bag that sounds like it’s filled with
cutlery.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Our fight isn’t with you,
children.” The siren’s voice is soft and beckoning. I mean, I think it’s a
siren that’s pinned to the ground. Hosei’s eyes glaze over again as she speaks
and I wish now that I’d believed him sooner, not that it would have done us
much good. “Put your toys down.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Don’t you talk to him!” Tori
squirts both tubes of glitter glue in tandem. Ribbons of sparkles fly through
the air, landing half on my face, half on the siren’s hands. I want to cry,
this is so nuts. Though it’s not half so crazy as the fact that it works.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The siren releases me, instantly
fascinated with her bedazzled feathers. “Oh! It’s like the stars-” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“HIT HER WREN!!!” Tori fires
another round of glitter at the spider.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I deck the woman in the face, then roll
out of her stunned grip. This seems to be enough to rouse Hosei, who reaches
for my elbow and pulls me to my feet. “Here! Use these.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
He shoves a handful of rusty nails
towards me. Odd, but I’m done questioning his logic. I start by rounding on the
siren, swiping the nails at her when she tries to tackle me. I hardly break skin,
but the way she shrieks, you would think I’d dripped acid on her. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Retreat!” She stumbles towards the
door. “Luther, retreat!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Without the girl?” The spider
asks. Tori shoots glitter at him, but it’s not working the same way it did the
siren. He lifts Peter into the air, edging towards the door. But it’s one thing
for these beasts to try capturing me. Another for them to take my brother. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I leap towards him and drive a nail
through one of his spider legs, catching the tip between the floor boards so
he’s pinned down. He strains against it, howling in pain. Peter flies from his
grip. I grab another spider leg and pin it to the floorboards. I wish I had a
hammer. Poor Mr. Yoshida. I do not envy him the mess he’s coming home to.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
But this is working. The siren flees
and Hosei is close at her heels. For a second I think he’s going to run away
with her, under her spell once again, but instead, he slams the door and locks
it. Shaking. he spreads a layer of nails across the threshold. “People used to
use iron shavings to keep the Fey out but, I mean, whose got iron shavings
laying around these days, right?” Hosei jumps to his feet and then heads for
the window. He drops more nails there then dashes for the kitchen and I hear
the clatter of him lining another sill. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The lights flicker on and I draw a
breath in. The power outage seems so long ago, but I guess it was part of
whatever we just survived. What did Hosei call them? Fey? I can’t wrap my head
around it. The kids begin to get to their feet. Peter’s arm weeps blood and I
can see tears edging down his face. Tori is at his side instantly, asking him
if he needs a bandage. Worried as I am for Peter, the others need me to keep my
eyes on the monster trapped here with us.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Across from me, the spider beast thrashes,
but it can’t pull its legs from the nails. Its breathing labors and it drops to
its knees – or, well, two of them. The human ones.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“You’re killing me.” He wheezes.
“Is this how you welcome your own kind? With murder?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Hosei?” I hold a fistful of nails
up to it, but I have to admit, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Hosei’s littering
the whole house with nails, so does he want the spider to die here? And if he
does, how is he planning on hauling the body out?</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Press a nail against its neck,”
says Hosei as he dashes between windows. He grins at me like we’re at
Disneyland, like he’s been waiting his whole life for some kind of near-death
experience with the supernatural. Actually, he probably has. So this is what
Hosei looks like happy. “You’ll need to tape it down. Then you can pull the
nails out of his legs.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“So we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> killing it?” Stone cold, Hosei. Stone cold.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“No. But I’d like a prisoner who’s
a little easier to handle.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
The creature can hardly resist when
I press the nail against the back of his neck. He lets out another yelp as I
take some of the masking tape and fix it to him. Thank goodness we had art
supplies lying around when they attacked us. Then I leap back and whip the
nails out of the spider legs.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I brace myself, half expecting the
beast to lunge, but instead, the legs fall limp and he twitches against the
ground. Then something strange happens. His limbs shrink towards his body,
until he’s left with nothing but normal, human body. The black bristles retreat
into his skin. Even his eyes shrink to a more natural size. I catch my breath
as I find myself staring not at a monster, but at a boy. He can’t be that far
off of my age.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“See?” Hosei’s voice bounces with
delight. “He’s shifted back. All Fey have at least two forms. One beast, one
human.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
I nod, eyes fixed on our prisoner.
I keep searching him for signs of the spider beast before, but aside from the
iron nail sticking above the edge of his collar, he looks normal. His clothes
are oddly dated, but unless you associate spiders with the late Seventies, I
can’t see the connection. He’s dressed in a muddy colored turtleneck and his long
hair curls in a way that reminds me of old photos of Michael Jackson. He
reaches gingerly for his neck, but his hand flinches away when he touches the
nail. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“You’re monsters, you know,” he
says, taking a sharp breath.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We</i> are?” I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“I call it like I see it,” he says
with a smile that could only be called charming. Damn him, it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> charming. “You know more than we
were led to believe. Went and found yourself someone who enjoys torturing Fey
to help you out, I see.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Goes to show you shouldn’t make
assumptions,” I say to hide the fact that I don’t know what he’s talking about.
I jab the nails towards him again. “Don’t move.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He
lifts his hands in a mocking surrender. “After all, those nails your friend dropped
around the house will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clearly</i> keep me
in and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clearly</i> keep all my friends
out.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“Hosei?” I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Hosei’s jubilant expression sobers a
touch. “Actually, he’s right. We should take him somewhere for questioning.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“You mean the police?” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
“No!” says Hosei. “Are the police
always your solution? You are such a cop’s daughter. I meant someone who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knows</i> something.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Someone who knows something.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
Maybe I wouldn’t have thought of it
if Hosei hadn’t mentioned Dad. But an icy weight fills my legs. These creatures
came for me and Peter, less than a month after Mom disappeared. Our prisoner’s
earlier words come back to me as I understand them for <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">the first time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Is this how you welcome
your own kind?</span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0px; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times";"><br /></span></i></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Hosei.” My voice shakes in a way that it never did while we were
fighting with the Fey. “I think we should at least consider the possibility
that the cops know something too.”</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><b>Today's Poll...</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Fey have arrived and they don't seem very friendly. Oh dear oh dear. Wren and Hosei clearly need to move their prisoner, and they need advice. Do they seek the help of...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">a) A contact of Hosei's, who is an expert on Fey</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">b) Wren's father, who is an expert on Wren</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>*** The poll should be in the upper, right hand corner of the page. If you are having trouble viewing it on your cell phone, click the "View Web Version" link at the bottom of the page and the poll should then be in the right place. Happy voting! ***</b></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0px;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>Emily Paxmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01219964022353172772noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917667700325493686.post-58276755822478373112016-08-15T07:36:00.003-07:002016-08-31T12:26:42.772-07:00Chapter Three<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwl1R7IezNO9ImechE5S7ABzmzcvMe85h1UJFPUCqShhL8y-SXHjlG72VZ0b8F0L5D0wGth2G063ZToh8SNUaPECwpagunoJyY2Q7kdJK8ZffEj-UaBiWktaWHxbc4u4M_kP8tVo5Kv7Y/s1600/Chapter+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="border:none" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwl1R7IezNO9ImechE5S7ABzmzcvMe85h1UJFPUCqShhL8y-SXHjlG72VZ0b8F0L5D0wGth2G063ZToh8SNUaPECwpagunoJyY2Q7kdJK8ZffEj-UaBiWktaWHxbc4u4M_kP8tVo5Kv7Y/s320/Chapter+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
According to Casey, all older
siblings are duty-bound to regale their younger kin with choruses of
“I-told-you-so” as often and enthusiastically as circumstance permits. It was
the soundtrack of my early years, Casey gloating every time I burnt my
scrambled eggs or didn’t have a raincoat to protect me from a freak downpour.
When Peter came along, he was supposed to be my chance to turn the tables and
finally sound like the “smart” one. But that would have required Peter being
less Peter. That would require him being wrong on occasion. Case in point, the
float looks frickin’ awesome. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We don’t have the budget for
anything larger than a shipping pallet, but Hosei turns out to be handy with a
drill gun and fixes on some wheels. After that, he retreats to the couch and
cracks open a book about hauntings in the Victorian Era.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Tori focuses on costumes. She’s a
wizard with fabric, never looking up from her pile of patterns as she sews up
everything from gala gowns to high-waist linen pants. She wanted to go with
tuxedos for the boys, but Hosei insisted they’d be too hot for the Victoria Day
Parade. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As for the rest of the float, it’s
all Peter. I mean, I’m there too, but mostly as support staff. First we build
up the scaffolding for the float, using Hosei’s collection of plywood. Why does
Hosei collect plywood? Well, wouldn’t it be nice if he answered questions like
that. Over the skeleton, we drape layers of black fabric and poster board.
Peter spray paints flecks of silver over the surface, so that it gradually
resembles the crackled texture of mica in the pavement. Then come the stars,
which we make by bending coat hangers with a pair of pliers. Peter stretches
gold crepe paper over them and gives each a generous coat of Tori’s glitter
before I’m allowed to hot glue the finished stars to the float. It makes my
heart ache to see Peter creating something so wonderful. He got his artistic
flair from Mom.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I snap a pic of the ongoing
preparations and text it to Casey with a caption: Can you believe this guy?????
</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I know better than to expect a
reply, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at the screen for five minutes
afterwards, hoping. Since Mom’s disappearance, Peter and I have clung to each
other for life, but Casey’s drifted further and further from the family. Dad
still gets the occasional call, but on the whole, she’s ignoring us. Maybe
that’s the easiest thing to do when you’re away at university, but I’m not
going to pretend I understand it. Dad says we all mourn in different ways, but
one of the biggest surprises for me has been how selfish grief can be.
Honestly, I’m as bad as Casey. I want my Mom back and I want my big sister to
text me funny gifs again and I want those things for me more than anyone else.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Suddenly, my phone buzzes and for a
euphoric second, I think Casey has actually cracked. I mean, it’s a pic of
Peter with a tube of glitter glue between his teeth. Who wouldn’t be a sucker
for that? But instead it’s Jaclyn, my best friend besides Peter, and it’s not just
a text, but a full-on phone call. Peter is in the zone with his float, so I
take a minute to step inside the kitchen and answer her.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hey, Jacks,” I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Where are you?” She sounds frantic
and at that, I know I’ve forgotten something.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Oh – um, at the Yoshida’s.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“The Yoshida’s? You mean you’re at
Hosei’s?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“It’s a Film Club meeting.” I meant
to say that in the first place, but I was staring at a photo of a harlequin
duck when she asked me.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Film Club? Wren, seriously?” Jacks
is a pretty understanding person, but right now she sounds annoyed. I know I’m
going to be apologizing for something in a few seconds, I just wish I could
remember what. “You promised you had this evening free. I even played the
cousin-card to get Jamie here and now April’s draped across his lap like a
total hoe because you didn’t show up for your own party! I taped a frickin’
Jay’s game for you!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Don’t call other girls hoes.” I
say because my face is going red, I’m so mortified. How on earth did I forget
this? Jacks has been trying to set me up with her cousin for months (she’s kind
of obsessed with the idea of us marrying into the same family and since Peter’s
thirteen, she says it’s my duty) and here I am, gluing stars to a pile of
plywood instead. She’s calling it my party, but it really was for her. An
excuse to bond us together. I’ve gone full turtle on her since Mom disappeared,
and that’s what makes the guilt kick me in the lungs. “Jacks, I’m so sorry-”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I called her a hoe for you! It was
a hoe of solidarity! Whatever. I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought your car
got speared by a tree or something.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Speared by a tree?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Have you seen the weather?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I glance outside. The forecasted rain
pelts the house with full force. It’s just hard to hear over Tori’s sewing
machine and the constant chatter of the younger kids. Come to think of it,
weren’t there supposed to be more of them? Didn’t Tori call the other Film
Clubbers? The wind gusts a large branch against the window pane and it rattles
ominously. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Jacks, I’ve got to go. I’m so so
sorry. I’ll make it up to you next week, okay?” I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“No! Just come over now. We haven’t
even opened the chips.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I can’t. I’ve got Peter with me.
And I need to make sure a whole bunch of ninth graders didn’t get speared by
trees.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Jacks growls dramatically. Luckily,
she can’t hold a grudge. She’s all bluster, part of why I love her. “Fine! But
if I end up with April as an in-law, I’m blaming you!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I can live with that.” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I hang up and immediately start searching
my phone for numbers that belong to Peter’s friends, but I don’t have them.
Even if an inordinate amount of my social life is dedicated to Peter’s Film
Club, it’s still more his thing than mine. It never felt like my job to keep
track of these kids until now, but visions of branch skewered cars dance in my
head.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“They’re at home, you know.”
Hosei’s voice over my shoulder makes me jump.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“What?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Kimmy and Jonathan. Their parents
called a little while ago to say they wanted to wait out the storm.” Hosei
pulls a bag of Fritos out of the kitchen cupboard, his eyes only lingering on
me for a second. He probably just came in for food, but it still rattles me
to know he was listening in. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Okay… good.” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Thunder rolls in the distance, but
the hills and mountains keep the lightning from sight. I bite down on my
tongue, trying to calm my stomach, which still feels uneasy. Hosei shifts
between his feet, and I think he’s about to head back to the living room, when
instead he clears his throat. “You can go, if you want.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“What?” I’m not used to Hosei
talking to me, but he’s actually making eye contact right now. This is on the
edge of a full blown conversation.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Those were your friends, right? I
can watch the kids. Peter can spend the night. You don’t have to stay.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Oh. So that’s why he’s willing to
talk to me. He wants me to go away. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I will have you know I am a very
proud and committed Film Clubber,” I say in what’s meant to be a haughty,
imperial manner, but Hosei quirks a grin at me. He’s not buying it.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Seriously, what’s keeping you
here?” he asks, tilting the bag of Fritos towards me.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I’m in it for the chips. Thanks,”
I say, taking a large handful, but he keeps waiting for an honest answer, even
as I pop one into my mouth. It’s so weird to be talking with him, I find myself
wanting to tell him the truth. Besides, it’s not like he’s got anyone to blab
my secrets to. “Honestly? I’m kind of glad I don’t have to go. It’s easiest
being around Peter, since…”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I don’t have to finish, of course.
Even if our siblings weren’t friends, Hosei would have heard the details by
now. The whole school knows my Mom is missing. We’re short on teen-pregnancies
this year, so I’m the most interesting thing at Belmont High. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Hosei looks over his shoulder at
where Tori and Peter are still working. I think for a moment he’s bored of me,
but based on his soft tone, he just doesn’t want to be overheard. “I get it. I
felt the same way about Tori when we lost our Mom.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Lost?” As long as I’ve known the
family, Mr. Yoshida has been a single dad. I kind of assumed a divorce, since
the other option is so grisly, but I wish now I’d asked sooner what happened to
Hosei’s mother. “Did – did she die, then?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Nope.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’m about to ask the divorce
question, but Hosei’s gaze hardens in a way that shuts me up. His eyes are so
many things wrapped up in one. Black as ink. Steely and searching and just
daring me to ask what happened to her. Threatening me if I do. It’s like I’ve
never really looked at him until now. I don’t know if this view makes him seem
more or less crazy. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Well, I’m sorry for you. Both of
you. Losing a parent sucks,” I say and this seems to be close enough to the
right thing. Hosei’s shoulders deflate and he gives me a weak smile. That’s
twice I’ve seen him smile in the last five minutes. Will miracles never cease? </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He’s about to slouch off to the
living room when a wild idea seizes me and even though I think I know the
answer, I can’t help asking. “You know, Tori and Peter are probably fine
without us. If you want, we could both go to Jaclyn’s party-”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You’ve got to be kidding.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“C’mon, Jacks throws great parties
and-”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As I try to finish my pitch, the
wind picks up outside the window and branches smack the panes again. It’s so
loud, Tori yelps. I’m about to make a quip about the weather and Jacks’s tree paranoia,
but before I can, the light above me pops dead. It takes a beat for us all to
register what’s happened, but when we do, the house explodes in noise.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“The glue gun’s off!” cries Peter.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“My machine too!” Tori pumps the
pedal, but nothing happens.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“It’s a power outage, guys. Nothing
to freak out over.” I dust the tortilla crumbs from my hands and make my way
back the living room.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“But we need to finish this!” Peter
gestures to his float, which only has stars glued to one side.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Give the city an hour and it’ll be
back on.” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Do you have a back-up generator?”
Peter asks Tori.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Normal people don’t own back-up
generators, Pete,” I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hosei has some solar cells!” Tori
rounds on her brother with a hopeful face and I want to kick myself for the
“normal” comment. Fine, maybe there are some good reasons for Hosei to hate me.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They aren’t hooked up to anything or charged.”
A flush spreads over Hosei’s cheeks. “They’re… umm… for emergencies.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“This is an emergency!” Along with
Mom’s artistic talents, Peter also got her flare for the dramatic. “If we don’t
finish this float, the PTA will ban us from next year’s parade!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Calm down.” I place my hands on
Peter’s shoulders and force him to look at me. “It’s a power outage. Not the
end of the world.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The words are hardly out of my
mouth when the storm decides to prove me wrong. A giant, meteorological
I-told-you-so. Lightning snaps outside the windows, thunder following
immediately at its heels. My eyes burn in the afterglow, the fringes of my
vision swirling a hazy blue. We must be at the center of the storm. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Ow! Wren, let go.” Peter pries my
hands off him, and I realize I’ve got my brother in a vice grip. I’m about to
apologize – maybe try to laugh off the fright the lightning gave me, but before
I can, another bolt strikes beside the house. Only this time it isn’t thunder
that follows, but a voice, thready and lilting.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My heart, it grows weak
and my blood, it runs thin,</i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They tore out my hair
and they’ve stolen my skin,</i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll lie by you bare if
you let me come in.</i></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let me come in, won’t
you? Won’t you?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I have to grab Peter’s shoulder
again to steady myself. It isn’t the lyrics themselves that scare me, but the
fact that the song is so familiar. It’s like I’ve known the melody for years,
and yet I can’t place it anywhere. It’s as though whoever’s singing it is
trying to convince me I have a memory that can’t possibly be real. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
For a second, I’m sure I imagined
it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in the gloom, I see Peter’s
mouth hanging open. Shock colors all our faces, even Hosei’s, though he’s the
first to move. He steps towards the window, where the blue glow has
intensified. It wasn’t an afterglow. There’s really something outside. Hosei walks
towards the light. “It’s happening…”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A shadow slides across the blue
light and before Hosei can reach it, I lunge and drag him backward. “Get away
from there!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“What?” He tries to fight me off,
but I’m stronger than him.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“There’s somebody out there.” It
takes all my effort not to shout and draw even more attention to us. But I know
what I saw. And if Hosei thinks a strange person appearing on a stormy night
means anything other than trouble, then our Film Club clearly isn’t paying
enough attention to the horror movie selections.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike><br /></strike>
***<br />
<br />
<b>Today's Poll...</b><br />
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
What a mysterious storm!!! And who IS the dark shadow outside the Yoshida house? </div>
<div>
a) Wren is right! Bad guys are outside and they're coming for Wren!!!</div>
<div>
b) Wren is NEVER right! Good guys are outside and they're looking for Hosei. Duh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>*** The poll should be in the upper, right hand corner of the page. If you are having trouble viewing it on your cell phone, click the "View Web Version" link at the bottom of the page and the poll should then be in the right place. Happy voting! ***</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />Emily Paxmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01219964022353172772noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917667700325493686.post-91064198134511836442016-07-21T20:38:00.002-07:002016-08-31T12:12:32.841-07:00Chapter Two<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26BxoaoHgdDYJT-cZr-rMc5QcxdYEdinW6HtYEYXdE5gHRBTCrV_92BHCMXb9J4RFMzgf3ayxjkefgckYy0az8WN5FDZPHwl-aOj-7Nj905uWelPAzv-RcWyCz8eReuZMqFkzjO8gzTE/s1600/Chapter+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26BxoaoHgdDYJT-cZr-rMc5QcxdYEdinW6HtYEYXdE5gHRBTCrV_92BHCMXb9J4RFMzgf3ayxjkefgckYy0az8WN5FDZPHwl-aOj-7Nj905uWelPAzv-RcWyCz8eReuZMqFkzjO8gzTE/s320/Chapter+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Dad and I spend most of the drive
home grumbling at the radio for playing more commercials than songs. There’s a
grocery store advertising “Fresh Fish Friday” and an automotive repair chain with
an absurdly catchy jingle.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dad grimaces. “Do these people know
what they’re doing to me? I’m going to spend my next shift humming ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tune it up up up today’ </i>at every druggie
we book.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You’re going to need mental health
leave from work. You should definitely sue them.” I say encouragingly.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Dear jingle writers,” Dad says. “I
have seen men bleed to death in the streets, but thanks to you, I am no longer
in possession of my own mind.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We laugh easily, everything way
more natural than the so-called “bonding” we did at Fisherman’s Wharf. We’ve
made fun of radio commercials my whole life. Our words feel rehearsed, not that
it’s a bad thing. Lately I’ve found myself wishing that life ran on an actual
script; that it didn’t require so much improv. Maybe then I wouldn’t spend so
much time wondering what we’re supposed to do without Mom.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Speaking of improv, when we arrive
home, Peter is standing in front of the garage, very much in the way. Dad
doesn’t even bother taking the keys from the ignition. Instead, he chuckles
under his breath. “Well, what’s Petey dreamed up this time?” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Technically we both lied to Dad
about having a meeting, but until now, I hadn’t given what that meant a lot of
thought. Not so with Peter. My little brother waits for us with a tremendous
scowl on his face and a backpack the size of France. I got more than my fair
share of Dad’s “sporty” genes, but Peter practically went out of his way to
avoid them. He’s short and soft bodied, his hands tuned better to the rhythms
of paint brushes and video game controllers than a softball. The backpack looks
ready to eat him alive.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Are we going on a Film Club
camping trip?” I climb out of the car, almost expecting to see a collection of
his little Film Club friends carrying sleeping bags, but he can’t have
organized that, can he? Or is this one of those
doubt-not-the-force-of-the-Peter moments? What my little brother lacks in
athleticism he eclipses with sheer tenacity.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Peter
straightens his neck in an attempt to come eye-to-eye with me. He’s milking
this act for all he’s worth, the little stinker. “We’re decorating the parade
float, remember?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Ohhhhh…” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dad laughs at my feeble attempt to
hide my disappointment. Really, it’s my own fault. I asked for Peter’s help and
my options are to either look like a rotten liar or go along with whatever
scheme he’s dreamed up this time.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“The keys are in the car. Where are
you headed?” Dad asks.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“The Yoshidas,” says Peter, lugging
his bag into the backseat. “I think they’re gonna feed us dinner.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Sounds great. Keep your cell
phones on, okay kids?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Yup,” I say, not bothering to
resist. The Yoshidas. Plural. Of course.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It’s not a long drive, but even I
don’t want to carry Peter’s trail pack the kilometer or so it takes to get to
the Yoshida household. Both our families live in the same non-descript suburban
neighborhood near Belmont High, all modest, single family homes that haven’t
been updated since the Eighties. I turn the radio off, my fingers tapping
against the steering wheel to the rhythm of music that’s no longer playing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Peter tilts his seat back and
stares at the car’s felted interior, hands laced together over his tummy. “So,”
he says.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“So.” I feel my lip curl in a
smile.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Can you park somewhere? Just for a
few minutes?” he asks.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Oh, are we not going to the
Yoshida’s after all?” I keep my tone teasing, because it really will hurt Peter
if he picks up on how much that would please me.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“No, you’re not getting out of our
meeting.” He smirks. “I just wanted to ask… what made you leave? Did Dad say
something or…?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I pull into a stranger’s driveway.
If someone asks what we’re doing here, I’ll tell them I stopped to admire the
rose bushes. I don’t respond quickly. Of all people, Peter is the one I’m most
determined to be strong for. Dad’s about as emotionally available as a blender
these days and Casey’s worse. The reason I’m getting through this at all is
because Peter needs me.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“No,” I say finally. “It just got
to be too much.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“It’s Fish n’ Chips, Wren,” says
Peter, picking up the empty cardboard container left over from my fries. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Yeah? Then why didn’t you want to
come, too? Hmm? No one has that much homework in ninth grade.” I put the car back
into gear. I’m ready for this discussion to be over, enough so that the
Yoshidas are sounding like good company.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I dunno, I thought…” Peter tugs
absentmindedly on his seatbelt. “Maybe he’d say something to you? Something he
wouldn’t say to me.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“He hasn’t.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“But you’d tell me? If he ever…?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Peter, you know I would.” I give
him the fiercest big sister look I can; the kind that’s meant to inspire confidence
when his dreams are filled with nightmares about Mom. “You’re my partner in
this, one hundred percent. I’m sure Dad knows that. It’s probably why he hasn’t
told me anything.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Peter nods, still not meeting my
gaze. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drive the rest of the way in
silence, because we don’t need to speak in order to know we’re mulling over the
same things. I wish I could be that child Dad wanted to confide in, but since
I’ve got ulterior motives, it’s probably no surprise I’m not. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Both Peter and I agree Dad doesn’t
tell us everything about the investigation. He’s a police officer, so he must
hear chatter from the guys working on Mom’s missing person’s case. He’s not
supposed to, but you can’t convince me it doesn’t happen. And even if he
weren’t a cop, the police must be asking him tougher questions than the rest of
us. In a disappearance like Mom’s, the husband is always the prime suspect.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The last time I saw Mom it was
Wednesday night, April 23<sup>rd</sup>. You can’t forget the details once you’ve
had to restate them to the police a hundred times. By the time my alarm woke me
up at 7:30 am, April 24<sup>th</sup>, she was gone. Weirdly enough, I left for
school more worried about Dad than her. What if something happened on his beat
and he was in a hospital somewhere, Mom gripping his hand at his bedside? I was
being stupid for worrying, but your mind can play games with you when your
parents don’t turn up where they should be.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then I got a text from him at lunch
hour. “Where’s your mother?” Where indeed.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Disappearances are the worst way to
lose someone. The tragedy hits you nice and slow. You can feel yourself
swallowing it, like a dry pill. I spent the first day in denial. She wasn’t
picking up her phone, but maybe it was for a fun reason. Maybe we were on a new
reality TV show and our reactions were being filmed right now. We’d win a
million dollars if I didn’t panic. I only fell asleep that night because I
talked myself into believing things were okay. She’d show up tomorrow, with
some crazy story and her excuses would be so funny, none of us would be mad she
vanished.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But you can't hold on to dumb
fantasies like that forever. Soon we were filing a missing person’s report and
her picture was on CHEK news, asking people to phone in if they sighted her. I
dragged my mattress into Peter’s room and held his hand at night, because I
couldn’t stand the sound of him crying through the wall. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I only cried once. The first time
the police interviewed me, I held it together right until they said, “thank
you, sweetie. You’ve been so helpful.” And it was such a lie, I couldn’t take
it. I sobbed for an hour. My face looked like a fried tomato, but I couldn’t stop.
I hadn’t helped anyone. I couldn’t help anyone. What can you do when your mother
slips away without a trace? They tore our house apart looking for evidence, but
there was no sign of foul play. No sign of anything other than an empty family.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve got one lead – one hunch I can’t
let go of, that maybe can help my mom. But it’s something I can’t tell the
police. They’ll take it the wrong way. But I know my father’s hiding something.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so resigned to what happened. He actually uses a
different word than the rest of us when he talks about Mom. She didn’t disappear,
she left. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Left</i>. You have no idea how
much that word riles me up.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I turn into the Yoshidas’ driveway,
still morose, and not paying enough attention to my dippy younger brother. Against
my wishes, Peter leans across my lap and honks the horn, a fresh grin on his
face as I shove him away. I swear, if slamming the horn every time we come to
the Yoshidas’ didn’t make him absurdly happy, I would have so many words for
him. At our overblown entrance, the front door opens and Tori Yoshida bounds
out, dark black hair tumbling like an ocean wave behind her. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Petey Petey Petey!” she shouts,
greeting him halfway to the car. “Best idea! I’ve got, like, ten pounds of
glitter glue we can use. Ten pounds of glitter!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“That definitely won’t be enough,”
says Peter.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I called Johnathan and Kimmy.
They’re gonna come over in an hour. David has a track meet, so he’s out, but
he was super bummed. I promised we’d make him an awesome costume. I was so
scared we weren’t gonna do this! I mean, you know, because of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stuff</i>.” Tori looks at us meaningfully,
which could be a really uncomfortable moment if she stopped talking for longer
than five seconds. The reason we’re so late finishing the float is because Mom
wanted to help us. Peter insisted she’d come back on time. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“But here we are!” Tori throws her
arms wide. “Floating! Floating to the staaaaaars!” She spins in a circle
laughing and Peter immediately copies her. I don’t know how middle school
didn’t manage to beat the enthusiasm out of her, but she is the most adorable,
hyper-active fourteen-year-old I’ve ever known. You can’t help liking Tori,
even if her attack-hugs get annoying on occasion. If she were the only Yoshida,
this would be a great place.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But the ongoing commotion draws out
Yoshida #2. Hosei frowns at our whirling younger siblings, looking about a
thousand times too serious for the “I Want To Believe”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> X Files</i> shirt he’s wearing. The May weather has prompted him to
don a pair of too-short shorts, which you can tell he hasn’t replaced since
last summer. Hosei grew about a foot this year and he still looks incredibly
uncomfortable in his brand new stork legs.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Are we gonna work on this thing,
or what?” he asks, fists stuffed inside his pockets.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hosei’s excited too!” says Tori,
completely sincere, and for all I know, she’s right. I have literally never
seen her brother look anything besides perturbed, but he must have a larger
emotional range underneath the scowling.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hi, Hosei. What are you planning
on putting on the float?” I ask, but I only get a nod back. Friendship attempt
number five thousand sixty-seven… rejected. He shuffles inside the house,
leaving the door ajar so that we know to follow him in. Behind me, Peter and
Tori hoist the hiking pack from the backseat, already making plans for the junk
inside.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When Tori and Peter decided to
start the Belmont High School Film Club, they needed backing from two
upperclassmen in order to get approval. And the one thing Hosei and I have in
common is that we’re both suckers for our younger siblings. He shows up for
every club function, but he isn’t what you would describe as engaged. He puts on
his headphones through most of our post-movie discussions and fell asleep
during <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jurassic Park</i> last month,
which, frankly, felt a bit personal since it was my turn to pick the movie. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He probably wouldn’t annoy me so much
if I didn’t feel like it was my job to include him. I can sometimes convince my
friends to attend our meetings, if we happen to watch a movie they’re
interested in, but Hosei never brings anyone. Truthfully, he hasn’t got anyone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> bring. He’s a total loner at school
and I know some of the guys tease him. I make my friends lay off him, but…
well, it’s not hard to guess why it happens. He’s a weirdo. Last year in
Planning 10 we had to present a project on what careers interested us and he
legitimately got up there and said he wanted to track Big Foot one day.
Everyone but me laughed. I’ve seen his bedroom. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What I’m saying is he doesn’t have
options, so you would think he would like me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You would think.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Inside, he’s got a stack of books
on the paranormal opened on the coffee table. They’ve got titles that belong on
romance novels like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Dance For The Devil
And You</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Messages From Beyond The
Beyond.</i> I’d tell him to get a hobby, but clearly, that’s where the problem
started. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Mr. Yoshida doesn’t appear to be
home, but he’s got a touch of his son’s obsessive nature. He’s an avid birder
and his house is covered with photos he’s taken at parks around the city.
Between the picture frames, I think the walls are beige, but who can be sure? During
one Film Club meeting, he cornered me and went into lengthy detail about each
one. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To
your left, you can see the yellow crested nightwarbler and above the mantle are
a pair of blue feathered tit tweeters. </i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So fine, I made those up.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But he’s a nice man and likes to
order us pizza, so I shouldn’t complain about being here. Most of the prints in
isolation are quite beautiful. My favorite is a large crane he photographed on
a trip home to Japan. You’d almost think the photo was an ink drawing, the
lines are so stark, but above the crane’s eye is a blood red mark. She hangs in
the bathroom across from the toilet because, as Mr. Yoshida says, “isn’t that
where we all like to stop and have a think?” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Tori pushes aside the living room
furniture, spilling Hosei’s ghost books and unseating a letter opener shaped
like a duck. “Hosei! Get the tarp out of the garage.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Did Dad say we could use it?” he
asks, but heads for the door.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You think he wants glitter glue on
the rug?” Tori fires back.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Shouldn’t we be doing this
outside?” I ask.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Can’t. Rain in the forecast.”
Peter rubs his hands together, breathing deeply. “Okay… so guys, this has to be
good.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I bite my lip. “Peter…”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Amazing, even! I’ve got a whole
plan.” He slaps his hand on top of the hiking pack. Tori responds to this like
she’s taking orders from a general and starts unloading rolls of construction
paper and coat hangers from inside. “We’re going to make it look like Hollywood
stars. The Walk of Fame. And then all of us are going to dress up like Golden
Era icons.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“It sounds amazing, Pete, but we
should be realistic,” I say. “The parade is on Monday.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Nope. No way. We’re going to prove
to them we can do this.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Prove it to who?” Hosei asks,
arriving back with a tarp rolled under his arm.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Peter flushes self-consciously, and
I almost want to kick Hosei for embarrassing my little brother, but Tori saves
face for everyone. She throws all four limbs into the air and crows. “To the
world!”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Ladies and Gents, welcome to Film
Club.<br />
***<br />
<b>TODAY'S POLL...</b><br />
Clearly, a lot is on the line when it comes to decorating this float. But how does it turn out for everyone? Do things go...<br />
a) Better than hoped, but they are cruelly interrupted by a mysterious, massive power outage.<br />
b) Worse than feared, but they are mercifully interrupted by a strange, frantic call from Wren's Dad.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>*** The poll should be in the upper, right hand corner of the page. If you are having trouble viewing it on your cell phone, click the "View Web Version" link at the bottom of the page and the poll should then be in the right place. Happy voting! ***</b></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Emily Paxmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01219964022353172772noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1917667700325493686.post-59771879196100090192016-07-03T00:46:00.000-07:002016-08-31T12:12:01.219-07:00Chapter One<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58MijX8-yhIZiqneICvTis6X2ZDtHWbjVH6leMp7OK43y_oZRDWZhj_BNrHkg39nBJwlwoONeJfvjaIjpPKho5SCLKFTAev10Tct5Q_8JHCBmckurGjUfiOBhd0om7Lh2chUsCNvrN4c/s1600/Chapter+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58MijX8-yhIZiqneICvTis6X2ZDtHWbjVH6leMp7OK43y_oZRDWZhj_BNrHkg39nBJwlwoONeJfvjaIjpPKho5SCLKFTAev10Tct5Q_8JHCBmckurGjUfiOBhd0om7Lh2chUsCNvrN4c/s320/Chapter+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The dock shifts and sighs under my
feet, like a giant beast taking a long breath. I lean against the railing,
dangling a french fry over and trying to catch the attention of the seals
below. Their plump, gray bodies twist around the dock pilings, but the only interest
I’m getting is from the seagulls. Jerks.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I swear, the fattest seals in
Victoria hang out at Fisherman’s Wharf, glutting themselves on the good graces
of tourists and locals alike. Behind me, a one-hour line up of cruise ship
passengers places their orders at the fish n’ chip shop and in front of me are
the candy-colored houseboats that call this dock home. They’re like something
out of a westcoast faerie tale and keep the visitors coming back year after
year. Further down the dock, a little girl pulls on her mother’s hand, begging
her to buy some chum to throw to the seals. Lucky, chubby devils.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You gonna eat those, Wren?” Dad pokes
me directly on the elbow, which has always felt weird, no matter how many times
he does it. He’s got this super human gift that makes him hit the nerve that
runs across the joint every single time. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So I squirm away, but with a smile
on my face. Or at least half of one. “I dunno, they’re kind of soggy.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You dumped half a bottle of
vinegar on them.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I like vinegar, okay?” I say and
shove ten fries in my mouth at once. My eyes screw up, but I’m too proud not to
swallow. Plus, I want to see him laugh. My throat is burning when I finally gag
them down. “See?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And sure enough, he does, dimples
pulling his red, scruffy beard into a mess of prickly ripples. He hasn’t shaved
since Mom disappeared. “Wren, we’re out in public.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Let them take photographs. They're here to sight-see, aren't they?” I wave
another fry around like a baton and a hopeful seagull hops closer. I eat it for two reasons – to annoy
the birds and keep Dad laughing. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Eurgh… This one is mush, it’s so
wet, but I don’t dare say more. Today is a big deal for Dad. We’ve gone out.
We’re bonding. And nothing brought our family together quite like fish n’
chips. Mom and I used to spend hours arguing about who made the best in town,
my older sister Casey covering her ears and begging us to shut up. I don’t know
if Dad did it on purpose, but we’re at Mom’s favorite chip shop, not mine. The
place on the harbor causeway has the better fries and yes, they can handle my
preferred levels of vinegar drenching.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But Fisherman’s Wharf has the seals.
And Mom never cared what her food tasted like so long as she could see the damn
seals.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The little girl I noticed a few
minutes ago has finally cajoled her mother into submission and they’ve bought a
pile of scraps from the on-dock fresh fish market. The kid is so excited, she
jostles the plate and a piece of salmon skin flops into the water. In a second,
the seals smell the meat and glide to her spot on the dock. Whiskery noses
break the water and she squeals as one goes for a large hunk of fish in her
hand. She drops it out of excitement, thank heaven. No toddlers with seal bites
today. They’re wild animals, no matter how much they look like underwater puppy
dogs. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s why Mom never let us buy the
plates of scraps. “Lazy old codgers,” she’d say. “They should be out hunting.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I never actually fed the seals with
my mother, even with all the hundreds of times we’ve come here, but I can’t
handle watching this little girl do it. It isn’t fair she’s got this memory
with her Mom and I don’t. My eyes sting, but not because of the vinegar. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What’s wrong with me? I’m jealous
of a four-year-old. The soggy fries, the seals, Dad laughing. It’s just too
much. A bubble rests at the bottom of my throat and I know if I stay here any
longer, I’m going to break down. And I haven’t done that for over a month. Not
since Mom disappeared.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dad’s busy dunking his cod inside
the tartar sauce, so I seize the opportunity to fish my cellphone from my
pocket. I work fast, texting Peter.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ME: </b><i>I need an escape ASAP.</i> </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I thought they put more dill in
the tartar sauce,” says Dad, brow furrowed.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“No, that’s the one in the harbor.”
I stash my phone in my pocket and try to look innocent, but it’s wasted effort.
Dad’s still focused on his fish.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Really? Huh. Why is it you like
coming here, then?” he asks.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I struggle to think of a response,
but he doesn’t seem concerned with the answer. His eyes are swallowed up in the
ocean, both a murky shade of gray. Dad was always the thoughtful one in
the family, or at least I assume he is. That’s what people do when they’re
quiet and don’t have a movie on, right? Think? It’s the assumption I’m working
on. Luckily, my phone buzzes, saving me from the ramblings of my own mind. </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PETER: </b><i>Why? Where are you?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ME: </b><i>With Dad. Doesn’t matter. PLEEEEEEAAAAASE</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PETER: </b><i>You’re a terrible daughter.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’m about to text something grumpy
back at him, but before I can get the message off, Dad’s hand flies to his
pocket. His ring tone is set to Gladys Knight’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight Train to Georgia,</i> a song I’ve never understood his
fascination with but kind of makes me adore him.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Hello? Oh, Peter!” He smiles,
because like all rational people, he loves Peter. “No, Wren didn’t mention a
meeting. Maybe she forgot?”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dad looks at me and on cue my hands
fly to my mouth. Bless you Peter, you’re a miracle worker. “I did! Dad, I’m so
sorry-” </div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dad nods in understanding and yes,
I feel horrible like I should, but not horrible enough. “We’re about done with
lunch. I can get her there in fifteen minutes. Okay, see you.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I really am sorry,” I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Not a big deal.”</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
He hangs up and dumps the rest of
his half-eaten fish in the compost bin. It’s not like him to leave food
unfinished or to hurry away from something before he’s done. But judging by the
bounce in his step, he’s relieved we’re leaving too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re off the dock and in the parking lot
faster than I’d dared hope, which seems awful the moment we reach the car.</div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
As Dad fires the ignition, I suck
the vinegar off the end of one of my fries. I kept mine. Even if they aren’t
that great, they’re french fries, for goodness sake! You don’t treat french
fries lightly. As we pull out of the lot, the rooftops of the Fisherman’s Wharf
houseboats bob in the distance, all shades of cherry and lime. Usually I love
them. But today, they seem to be waving goodbye.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
***</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b>TODAY'S POLL...</b></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
There's nothing like a friend you can count on to pull you out of an awkward situation. But who is this mysterious Peter? He clearly means a lot to Wren, but why? Is he...</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
a) Wren's Ex-Boyfriend</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
b) Wren's Younger Brother</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Vote on who you think Peter should be. The poll is located in the top, right hand corner of the page. Then tune in next time to see Peter in action!</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>*** The poll should be in the upper, right hand corner of the page. If you are having trouble viewing it on your cell phone, click the "View Web Version" link at the bottom of the page and the poll should then be in the right place. Happy voting! ***</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Emily Paxmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01219964022353172772noreply@blogger.com0