by N. A. Cash
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
Discussion Questions
About the Author
MY NAME IS
KARMA
N. A. CASH
My Name Is Karma
Copyright © 2017 by N. A. Cash
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-0-9990774-3-6
Mobi ISBN: 978-0-9990774-2-9
ePub ISBN: 978-0-9990774-4-3
Published by Duho Books. Printed in the United States of America.
www.duhobooks.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would, first and foremost, like to thank my Father. Without Him, nothing would be possible.
A huge thanks goes to my mom, who has always been my biggest fan. Thank you to my sister and niece, who helped inspire characters in this story.
Thank you to my publisher, Wendy and Duho Books, and her wonderful team for taking a chance on me.
Thank you to Lia for being such a great friend and helping to make this possible.
A big shout out to Jello, Machelle, Adlai, my beta readers and everyone who took time read through parts of this book to help make it what it is.
Finally, thank you to all who are reading this novel. I hope you enjoy Karma's journey as much as I have.
CHAPTER ONE
The school bell rang. High-pitched giggles and screams erupted from the closed red painted door of the elementary school. Thirty little bodies excitedly bumped into each other as they exited the building and dispersed into various areas of the playground for recess. The teachers dispensed at the rear of the rambunctious group in twos, barking orders.
“John, don’t push Lisa!”
“Susie, put down your skirt!”
“Oh, Tim, stop trying to push that pencil up your nose!”
In exasperation, they almost ran to the offenders. None of them took note of me. I was used to this by now. I stood in the doorway of the building and watched my fellow classmates, run, jump, scream, and play. A game of Red Rover started on the left side of the tiny playground. Mick led it. Mick always led the group games. I didn’t know much about leadership back then, but if I had, I would have identified Mick as a leader. He stood taller than the rest of us in second grade and his thick, round body made him seem larger than life. When he spoke, everyone listened and obeyed his every command. I also didn’t know a lot about bullies, but if I did, Mick would have been the very definition of one. He used his authority to get whatever he wanted, including my lunch every Thursday. Why on Thursdays? I’m not sure. I guess I was just a part of the rotation. So was Susie, who I saw sneak off behind the bathrooms to kiss him on Tuesdays during first break, and George, who I saw gave him money on Friday mornings.
I hated Mick. Being average height but skinnier than most of my classmates, though, I could do nothing about it. Plus, I guess I should be thankful that taking my lunch was the only thing that he did to me. It could have been worse because of my particular peculiarity. I have one hazel eye and the other emerald green. That alone was the source of torture from kids in my class since we could hold conversations. They would stare at me and call me bad names like “freak” or “weirdo”. None of these things bothered me much really. What did bother me was the isolation. The names were bad, but being sentenced to being alone because of my defect stung. I guess, in thinking back on that, I should thank Mick for being one of the first ones to break the ice to talk to me in first grade. Never mind it was only to demand that whenever he wanted my lunch, he could take it. That rise in hope of having a possible friend was demolished by the embarrassment of having my brown paper bag containing my lunch snatched out of my hand, and being subsequently pushed to the floor, led me to glare at Mick and his comrades now, as I always did when they weren’t looking.
I moved silently along the outside of the building, taking care to stay as much in the shadows as possible. I had a banana in my hand and was excited about relishing the sweet and grainy mushiness. I found a spot on the side of the building under a huge pine tree, where the architect of the playground saw fit to place benches and tables for students to sit and eat. I knew I could still be seen by the raucous crowd and the teachers, but I felt hidden enough to enjoy my treat in peace.
As I sat on the wooden bench and spread the book I held on the table, a shadow passed over me. I peered up and around, seeing nothing but the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the empty parking lot on the other side of the chain linked fence that encased the school. Glancing behind me and seeing no one, I explained the shadow away to a bird or a squirrel. I placed my elbow on the book to hold it open and started to peel my banana.
“You didn’t think to share?”
The snide comment came from to my left, further alongside the school building. He was standing there, leaning against the wall with a threatening smirk on his face. I wondered how it was possible for him to get there so quickly.
“Mick,” I replied calmly, “I didn’t have breakfast. Can I please have this?” I felt a pang of anger because of the weakness in my voice. I shouldn’t have to be asking him to have my own snacks! I kept my anger at bay, however, knowing that his arms alone could hold down a student and cause them to cry.
“You didn’t want to share with me?” He walked slowly towards me, allowing his hands to sway loosely at his sides. He stopped right next to me, towering above me, his round belly pushing against my arm.
“But Mick!” I protested in earnest.
“But nothing, you selfish freak!” He grabbed the banana out of my hand and shoved me so hard, I slid off the bench and tumbled to the floor. I fell on what I assume
d to be a sharp rock and felt the prick of it pierce the skin on my arm. My head bumped the ground hard and for a moment, I felt as if I was going to black out. I lay there for a moment, feeling the tears from my helpless situation rise up within my throat and spring to my eyes. I could hear his laughter mingled with the continuous noise of the others on the playground. I didn’t want to cry, but the dam of hot tears burst within me. Through my blurry eyes, I watched Mick stroll off towards the others on the playground, eating my banana. I slowly pulled myself into a sitting position, knees drawn towards my chest and cried. I wished and wished and wished, at that moment, that Mick would die.
CHAPTER TWO
The next day, I protested my parents’ insistence that I go to school because I could not prove that I was sick, despite all of my efforts to try to convince them otherwise. I was dropped off to the opening in the chain link fence that served as an entrance for all student arrivals. I felt sick to my stomach. I could not face him again. I had made up in my mind that even if my parents could see through my façade, my teachers wouldn’t care enough to investigate my claims; therefore, I could spend all day in the nurse’s office. I walked up to my class, trying to make myself appear as miserable as possible. A huddle of two teachers and our principal, Mrs. Knowles, stood outside the door. They were positioned closely together, all their faces pale and frightened. I didn’t want to have my opportunity for my grand dramatic performance of illness to be interrupted by another issue, so I hung back behind a nearby wall and listened.
“Is it really true?” The voice of my teacher, Ms. Greene choked out.
“Yes, they found him last night in a dumpster outside of the Blue Diner on Market Street this morning.” Mrs. Knowles’s voice, which usually sounded loud and commanding, appeared small and constrained. I heard the other teacher, Mrs. Boone let out a small cry before she audibly slapped a hand over her mouth.
“But how? When? What happened?” Ms. Greene asked shakily.
“He never showed up to his house last night. His parents called the police around six yesterday evening and they searched for him all night. One of the diner workers said they saw him in there with an old man around nine before closing time. They assumed it was his grandfather. Both of them left together and another worker found his body in the dumpster this morning.” Mrs. Knowles spilled this information quickly. A group of students ran past me to enter the class before the bell rang skidded to a stop in the front of the gathering.
“Go into class students! Quickly!” Ms. Greene tried to sound as authoritative as possible despite the shakiness in her voice. I peeped my head around to see the students usher into the class. It was at this time, Ms. Greene spotted me and called.
“Miss Patel! What are you doing outside? Class is about to begin!”
I built up my courage and dragged my feet towards the group. All my efforts to look forlorn and downcast fell on blind eyes as I was grabbed by my shoulders and gently shoved into the class. The door slammed behind me. I wasn’t about to let go of my façade just yet. I heaved myself to the back of the class, where I usually sat. A bubble of whispers stirred around me like a hive of bees. Kids were leaning their heads towards each other as nervous excitement stirred. I glanced around the room, curious as to what was happening. I noticed Susie in the corner with her hands pressed over her face as she sobbed, and three of her friends stood around her comforting her. I noticed several of the boys in class huddled in a corner, their faces pale with shock and numbness. Other students showed terror stricken and nervous expressions as they bent from one person to another, listening to and passing whispers.
Ms. Greene entered the class accompanied by Mrs. Knowles. The voices in the class silenced at once with their presence. Everyone returned to their respected seats, and all eyes held their gazes attentively.
“Class,” Ms. Greene started, “Mrs. Knowles has something to tell you.” Mrs. Knowles cleared her throat.
“Students, I’m sure all of you have heard in one form or another, the sad news that we have to present to you this morning.” She paused dramatically to stare at each student’s face. Curiosity caused my face to perk up as I became transfixed with her words. She took a huge breath before beginning again.
“Unfortunately, one of your classmates died this morning. Mitch Wallace.” A collective gasp sounded, my own voice being caught up in the noise.
“How?” Brandon, another student in my class, spoke up.
“The details are not…verified as yet, Mr. Moss. We do know, through his family, that he did not show up to his house yesterday after school, as he was supposed to. So, if any of you have any information that could be provided to us, please speak now. His family is desperate to know what happened.” Mrs. Knowles paused and scanned the room again. Her eyes stopped, for what seemed like an eternity, on mine. I held her gaze and then turned my head, distracted by Susie’s friend, Zyanna pushing her hand into the air.
“Susie knows what happened to him after school.” Susie shot her friend a malicious expression. Zyanna whispered to her, “You have to say something Susie!”
“Susie?” Ms. Greene asked. Susie burst into a fresh set of tears, burying her head in her hands. Ms. Greene walked over to her and placed a hand on her back, patting softly.
“Ms. Greene, take her to my office please. We will have to notify her parents.” Mrs. Knowles continued to scan the room as Ms. Greene helped Susie to her feet and out of the room. The door closed behind them. Zyanna’s hand shot up as soon as the door was closed.
“Mrs. Knowles, will Susie get into trouble?” She bit her lip as she awaited the response.
“Well, it depends on what she has to say.” Mrs. Knowles’s dark-brown eyes studied Zyanna intensely.
“She saw Mick get into a car with an old guy after school yesterday,” Zyanna blurted out. “She told him not to go, because the guy was creepy, but Mick told her that he knew the guy, that that’s the guy who always gives him cool stuff. She said he just jumped into the car and it sped off.” Zyanna’s eyes were wide now.
Mrs. Knowles paused for a moment before speaking. “Children, we’ve always taught you not to get into cars with people who aren’t your parents or relatives.” Her speech about safety faded into the background as I stared out the window. I started to feel sicker than I felt this morning. The only thing playing through my head now was, I wished he was dead. And now he is.
CHAPTER THREE
Before continuing my tale, I should introduce myself. My name is Karma Patel. I know, atypical. I’m presently in my mid-twenties, light caramel skin and medium build. I think I’m pretty ordinary, except I live alone in the middle of a small forest, just outside the city of New Orleans. This life wasn’t my choice, but you’d have to understand my background and my family to comprehend.
I lived with both of my parents until I was twelve. I always thought my family fit into the category of “normal” as most families go, with the exception of my mom. To say she was eccentric would be an understatement. She had a condition called agoraphobia, which left her paranoid and fearful of the outside world. According to the whispers circulating through our neighborhood, she was in her thirties when a panic attack struck her one day while visiting the local market in town. It happened once again shortly thereafter while visiting the movie theatre with my father. I was only a little girl then, too little to understand why Mam stayed at home all the time. When she wasn’t crying, she gave in to long bouts of staring out the window with such an expression of melancholy on her face that it would break anyone’s heart.
Because of her condition, she could not leave the house, and my father had to work around the clock. When I began middle school, I learned how to catch the bus home out of necessity. One day, I came home to Mam sitting on the threshold of the open apartment door softly crying. I dropped my school bag and ran to her, thinking something must have gone wrong. This was the furthest she had ever gotten to the door since I could remember. When I dropped to my knees beside her, I knew bett
er than to say anything, so I gently shook her shoulder. When she glanced up at me, her red eyes and tear-streaked face masked in ruined mascara spoke volumes more than I cared to admit. I pulled her up by her elbows and helped her to the couch. I turned to go into the kitchen to get her a glass of water when she grabbed me by my bony wrist. She stared deep into my eyes and softly whispered, “He’s gone, child. We have to move.”
Nothing registered in my limited brain, until I slowly surveyed the miniature apartment. It looked almost the same except I noticed all traces of my father gone—his pictures from the mantle, his mud-caked shoes by the door, his thin jacket which hung on the post. My mom let go of my wrist as her body began shaking with sobs. I walked as if wrapped in a dim cloud of cotton to their room and noticed all of his drawers pulled out and emptied. All of his clothes in the closet were gone from their regular places. It seemed as if his smell even evaporated in the sadness which compressed the house.
Pap (my pet name for him) and I didn’t have the kind of father-daughter relationship that would win awards or be featured in some parenting magazine; however, we loved each other. Every day, I eagerly waited for him to come home. I knew what time he would arrive—exactly at five thirty every day. My father exuded an aura of structure and order. He worked as an electrician for a small company on the outskirts of the city. Every morning, he would dress in his crisp blue overalls and scuffed black tennis shoes, which he tried to shine to make like new. He would return home with them covered in dirt from going to outdoor sites.
The main thing I loved about him was his unruly mop of brown hair. No matter how much pomade he used to try to slick it down, there was always a patch in the center that would escape with the slightest breeze. I treasured this part of his hair because I had a similar unruly patch on my own head. It would be this patch of hair I would reach for when he got home and scooped me into his arms. I would hug his neck as tight as my little arms could manage, and then my sneaky fingers would work their way up to gently tug on the disorderly spot. This would normally bring a smile to his face as he tried to playfully chastise me for causing it to remain out of place.