Generations 2.7 kindle

by Folkman, Lori

  Wilder Times

  Book One

  Generations

  by

  Lori Folkman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  2nd Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Lori Folkman

  Dreams are memories of days long past

  Haunted by that which will never last

  Dreams are thoughts of what may be

  Wishes finding their way into reality

  Chapter One ……

  He’d ditched her. Again. Katrina Hayes didn’t have enough fingers to count the number of times she’d been stood up within the past twenty-four hours. It was an odd thought to have, but she wished she was a mutant with ten fingers on each hand. That would make it easier to track just how many times Jackson Scott hadn’t been where he was supposed to be. Plus, double digits would make for a really cool slap mark across his cheek. Which was what he deserved right about now.

  The halls were nearly empty: everyone had gone to lunch. Everyone but Katrina. She felt like a pathetic loser, standing friendless at her locker. Apparently Jackson wasn’t meeting her here today—even though he’d met her here every day for the past two-and-a-half years. She slammed her locker shut and stormed to the cafeteria.

  The lunch lines were ridiculously long. She looked toward the cluster of tables near the center of the lunch room. There he was, setting out his sack lunch. A growl escaped from her clenched mouth—the kind of growl that Jackson said made her sound like Marge Simpson’s sister. Katrina knew she should avoid making this unflattering noise, but this particular growl was warranted. Not only had Jackson come to the cafeteria alone, he was also eating lunch without her. If she went through the lunch line, he’d be gone by the time she got her food. And obviously that was his intention.

  Katrina ignored her rumbling stomach and went straight to their table. She slid up next to Jackson, bumping her hip on his. “Thanks for waiting for me,” she said, not even bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

  “Sorry,” he said with a cracker crowding his mouth. “I was starving.” He chewed the cracker and gave her a smug grin—a grin that said he wasn’t one bit sorry.

  “And it would have killed you to wait five minutes?” she asked.

  “Probably. I didn’t have breakfast.”

  Ooh. Perfect set-up. “So where were you this morning, Jack?”

  “I slept in.”

  Right. Jackson sleeping in? That was about as likely as Katrina waking up on time. “Because you were out too late last night?” she prodded.

  “Nope. I got home on time. I just couldn’t … sleep.” Again, the smug grin.

  “So …”

  “So what?” He played blonde. It was decidedly irritating.

  “Who is it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘who’s it?’ Are we playing tag?”

  “Jackson!” She bumped him with her knee. Why was he keeping this from her? This was like the biggest news, ever. Nothing could top this. And he seemed to want to keep her in the dark.

  Well this much she knew—Jackson had won this amazing contest through the school’s videography club. It was sponsored by a state-wide foundation of the arts. The fact that Jackson had won this contest out of thousands of other teens was a huge honor. Huge. But. There was one major drawback: mystery. The winner was to “write and co-direct the video treatment for a CJ recording artist.” And that recording artist could be anyone. So either this could be the most amazing opportunity for Jackson, or it could turn out to be the worst kind of torture imaginable. Like if he had to do a video for the cheesy country band Slim Pickins. Jackson had sworn he’d gouge out his eardrums if that were the case.

  Last night, Jackson was supposed to meet with the execs from CJ Records. So he would have found out which artist he would be working with. But he hadn’t told Katrina. And he’d promised (more than once) to meet up with her and give her the low-down. Now that she had him cornered, she still didn’t know anything more than she had five minutes ago. With the exception that Jackson had a tiny nick on his chin from a razor—and she’d never known before now that Jackson was mature enough to shave. So that was something new.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” she asked. It probably didn’t sound like a question as much as it sounded like begging. Or desperate pleading.

  “Too many people around.”

  “But nobody knows about it.”

  “Exactly. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

  She hated it when he did that—went all formal on her. Like he was an English bloke or something. “Jack, just tell me the name of the band. No one will figure it out.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Was he making sure no one was close enough to hear? She felt her stomach bubble. This was it. The band is ….

  Nope. He shook his head. “Not now. After school.”

  Big, hopeless sigh.

  If he wasn’t going to tell her, maybe she could guess. After all, she’d been the one who made a list of bands who were the most likely candidates. It had been her way of helping Jackson prepare for his meeting last night—so he wouldn’t walk in blindly. Plus, having the candidates numbered on paper helped Katrina keep her zealousness at a manageable level. But that could only last so long.

  Essentially, four recording artists had release dates coinciding with this project. Now all she had to do was guess the right one. She’d say the name and Honest Abe Jr. would have to acknowledge it. Easy.

  While Jackson immersed himself in de-crusting his PB&J (In public. In the junior section of the cafeteria. And he cared not.), Katrina began to scrutinize his appearance. There had to be a clue ingrained in his behavior.

  He did look tired—like he should have slept in a bit longer. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and underscored with darkness. But there was a happy sparkle to them. Like he was excited. And he looked well groomed. Not at all frumpy like he typically looked when he was depressed or overly stressed. So that meant that she could cross the cheesy bands off her list. He would be grumpy if he had to spend the next few weeks with a band that he loathed.

  She did a double-take when she realized what shirt he was wearing. It was the one she gave him for his birthday. The one that she had seen him wear an exact total of zero times. He said it was a little “mod” for him. Probably because it had buttons. He looked like he had spent a few extra minutes on his hair. Maybe even blow-dried it. All in all, he looked good. Dang good. She’d even go as far as saying he looked hot. Except it was Jackson.

  If Jackson looked rather impressive, then he must have hit the big time. “Rosie Hearst,” Katrina thought out loud. Rosie had won last year’s American Star. And Jackson had said that he thought Rosie was gorgeous. That totally had to be it. No wonder Jackson had started shaving. He had to look manly for the diva. “You met her, huh? What was she like? Was she pretty in person?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jackson grumbled, keeping his eyes on his food.

  “You at least have to tell me what song it is,” she demanded.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything, Kat.”

  She stifled another growl. This wasn’t working. She needed to push it—she had to get something out of him. “I’m just going to yell it,” she threatened, “to the entire cafeteria. I’m going to tell everyone that you are doing a video for Rosie Hearst.”

  “Would yo
u? That would save me from having to make the announcement. Thanks, chum.”

  English again. She bit on her cheek. Who would have guessed that Jack could be so good at evading interrogation? Shy of learning telepathy, she didn’t know that she’d get this figured out. He was being completely obstinate.

  She tried another approach, “So you wouldn’t care if I stood up right now and told everyone that you met Rosie Hearst?”

  “Not at all. If you feel like making a fool of yourself, go right ahead.”

  “So it’s not her?” Katrina slouched. Dang. She was so sure.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you said …”

  “That you should go ahead and make a fool of yourself.” Then he turned his body away from her and rested his elbow on the table. He made a wall with his head and arm. Rude! He was shunning her!

  So she stomped on his foot. He didn’t even say “ow.” And that was his most used word. He was busy eating his sandwich. Busy ignoring her. Kat was dumfounded. She couldn’t believe the way Jack was treating her. It was … preposterous. Absurd. Uncalled for. After all she’d done to help him get ready for this project! She felt like laying him out right here in the cafeteria. She’d get him to say “ow.”

  She had to figure this out. There was no way she could wait until after school. Three more hours! That was forever.

  “Well, I know it’s not Peppagirlz.” She tried to sound triumphant. Like she knew something.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “Because you’re not bummed.” And Peppagirlz would be even worse than a country band. Because their songs essentially consisted of the same lyrics, repeated over and over and over again. Kat could feel her mind melt when listening to Peppagirlz.

  “I’m not? I missed two classes today. I was so depressed I couldn’t even get out of bed.” Even as he said this, his lips curled up. He couldn’t tell a lie even under the threat of death. Or worse: pain.

  “Right,” Kat said. “I can also count out Slim Pickins … and,”—her heart fluttered just thinking about the next one—“Ben Wilder.” She watched Jackson closely when she said that last name. He had to give away something. But nope. He didn’t even flinch.

  “For the same reason?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Well, sort-of. You’d be complaining like a pregnant lady.”

  Jackson laughed. “Right. Because Slim Pickins might as well pick their own noses to make music … it’d sound better.”

  She’d heard that one before.

  “And Ben Wilder … why would I do a video for a guy whose name is a homonym? It’s like Ima Hogg. Or Dusty Rhoades. Only worse.”

  She’d heard this one before too. And she’d given the same response. “It’s not like he can do anything about his given name. And his full name is Benjamin. That doesn’t have the same connotation.”

  “Oh. Come. On. His parents so knew what they were doing when they named him. The great Dan Wilder settles down and marries an opera singer. He leaves behind his wild, partying days. And the child, of course is named for this change in lifestyles. Ben Wilder. No one can argue the meaning of his name.”

  “But what can he do about it? Change his name? That would be even more ridiculous.”

  “What would be more ridiculous?” It was Hannah. She sat down, along with two more friends, Toby and Macey. Hannah had just included herself—and the other two—in the conversation.

  Kat saw Jackson flinch. So she seized on the opportunity, keeping her eyes on Jack, hoping he would reveal more clues. “It would be ridiculous for Ben Wilder to change his name to something less … obvious.”

  “Shya,” Hannah said. “That would be absurd. Everyone knows who he is. His entire life has been documented in every gossip magazine. Not like he wouldn’t be recognized if he changed his name to Peter Parker.”

  Macey added, “Hide those incredible blue eyes from the rest of the world? I don’t think so. No one else has eyes like that … anywhere. His name could be Waldo and people would still think he’s hot.”

  The conversation soon turned away from Ben Wilder’s name and toward anything that had to do with his looks. Mostly, it was the three girls at the table talking about Ben Wilder’s “dreamy” attributes. Jackson and Toby groaned and mocked the conversation occasionally.

  Eventually, Jackson seemed to grow tired of the topic. He went on attack. “So essentially, you are supporting my stance. Ben Wilder has no talent. It’s all about his looks. He could stand on stage and twiddle his thumbs and girls would still faint.”

  “Yep, pretty much,” both Hannah and Macey agreed.

  Not Kat. “I like his music,” she said, somewhat quietly. If she were sitting with a pack of freshmen, she wouldn’t have worried about stating her opinion. But here, amongst the juniors, her view would be considered a little juvenile. When his last CD had been released two years ago, all her friends liked it. Now they seemed to have outgrown it. It still held its appeal with all the tweens, but she was above that mind-set now. Or at least she was supposed to be. But there was something about his music that … ignited her. Made her feel passionate. Excited. Motivated. She had also felt that same connection with his earlier album—the one that had been released when she was only twelve.

  Jackson patted her back. “We know you do, Kat. And we’re sorry that your taste is so unrefined. Maybe someday you’ll grow up.”

  Everyone laughed, except for Kat. Some things just weren’t funny. Ben Wilder was one of those things.

  ……

  After school. The much anticipated hour. And Jackson continued to stall. He had promised to give Toby and his younger brother a ride home. So of course, Jack still couldn’t talk. Kat was about to blow a fuse.

  Jackson promised to meet her at her house, in just ten short minutes. She had threatened him with every pain imaginable if he didn’t show. So she did the only thing that she could—she sat on her front steps with one eye fixed on the road and one eye fixed on her watch, figuratively speaking. But still, it gave her a headache. She didn’t know how chameleons managed that rotating eye thing without needing massive amounts of Tylenol.

  When he finally came—two-and-a-half minutes late—she practically flew off the porch. In just a few giant leaps, she was at Jack’s side. “So?” she asked.

  “Hi, Kat,” Jackson said. “Nice to see you too.”

  “Who is it?” she asked again, totally impatient.

  “Not here. Backyard.” He grabbed her by the wrist and led her around the side of the house. He opened the gate and brought her to the grassy area next to the pool. Then he put his hand on her shoulder as he stood on his tippy toes, trying to peer into the neighbor’s yard. Like someone would be watching them. And like standing on his tippy toes would really make it so he could see into the Christofferson’s backyard.

  “Why are you being so weird?” she asked.

  “Because I’m sworn to secrecy. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  She shrugged his arm away. “Jackson! Stop being so dramatic. You are acting like you’re being spied on. This is a stupid little music video. You’re not writing the screenplay for the next Twilight movie for Pete’s sake.”

  Jackson looked hurt. His mouth twitched a few times, like he was trying not to frown. Maybe she was too harsh … but! She wouldn’t have to be if he would act normal.

  “You’ll change your mind about that,” he said. “This is bigger than you think. Than I ever imagined.” He pulled his iPod and earbuds out of his pocket. “I have to act like I’m being spied on. I can’t do anything to blow this. Telling you … letting you listen is a huge risk.”

  Something about his voice told her to cool it … and quick. Whatever was making Jackson act like this—like a paranoid schizophrenic—was something he believed in. It was important to him. Kat needed to respect that.

  He put one earbud in her ear, then he seemed to hesitate. “I can trust you, right? You can’t tell anyone. Not a soul. You can’t hum this song, do
odle the lyrics on your notebook: nothing. Pretend like you never heard it, okay?”

  She agreed, but she still wanted to know what she was going to listen to. “So whose song is this? Is it a new artist or something?” It had to be. That was the only thing that made sense. Some really cool debut album. Something in the alternative genre that Jackson so loved.

  No answer from Jackson; instead he put in the other earbud. He touched the screen of his iPod. He looked super excited. Like he was getting a new car or something.

  Music poured into her ears. At first, it was just a rapid drum beat, followed by a deep, fast moving bass. An awesome bass. Soon, an electric guitar joined in. Great intro: great beat, great sound. But it didn’t have a particular band’s signature. It sounded original. Fresh. No wonder Jack was so excited. He was going to be a part of some new band’s huge uprising.

  Singing finally started. It was a guy. A nice, smooth voice.

  Time

  It fell away from me

  Mine

  The only life I see

  I

  Can’t change this destiny

  So stop

  You’re blocking me

  You don’t want me to see

  Where I came from

  What I’m going to be

  You’re hiding history

  My life’s a mystery

  I want to go back

  Go back

  Find the past

  ‘Cause…

  Every generation feels your joy

  Knows your pain

  Every generation falls in love

  That takes the blame

  Every generation rises up

  Makes a name

  They feel the joy

  Know the pain

  We are the same

  It took until the chorus for Kat to recognize the voice. His voice had changed some; it was deeper now. But it had that same silky, peaceful tone that had lulled her to sleep thousands of times. She screamed.

  Again and again.

  Her feet suddenly had a life of their own. She ran in place … like ultra fast football feet. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” And more screaming. Then she started bounding around. Like she was Tigger on Red Bull.