Copyright © 2016 by Mallory Lopez
All rights reserved.
Artwork by Javeria Ali
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Author's Note:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Roll the Credits!
For everyone who is or ever has been a teenager
Dedicated to Shanna because I promised and because you read for me even though you hate reading. Oh, and for replying to every single text
Shout Out to Ryan for being nice when you didn’t have to be. Sometimes the smallest actions have the biggest impact
Author's Note:
To get the best experience out of this book I encourage you to listen to the songs that are listed in the footnotes, especially Bridge Over Troubled Water whenever it is referenced.
* * *
[1]Shelter From the Storm by Bob Dylan
[2]Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
[3]Singing in the Rain by Gene Kelly
[4]Gymnopédie No. 3 by Erik Satie
[5]Baby Let Me Follow You Down by Bob Dylan
[6]Girl From the North Country by Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan
[7]Wild World by Cat Stevens
[8]Case of You by Joni Mitchell
[9]Both Sides Now by Judy Collins
[10]Have You Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival
[11]Take a Piece of My Heart by Janis Joplin
[12]All Apologies by Nirvana (MTV Unplugged)
[13]Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon & Garfunkel
[14]Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon & Garfunkel
[15]Tiny Dancer by Elton John
[16]Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon & Garfunkel
Prologue
I can’t breath until I’m outside by my car in the parking lot. I gasp in air like I’ve been underwater fighting for my life. Dashing into the shrubs, I heave out the acidic butterflies that were so desperately begging to get out. Unfortunately, pizza isn’t as good going out as it is going in. I can’t stop trembling. I bend over and grasp my knees desperately willing myself to catch my breath. I know I only have a few seconds before someone starts chasing after me. I see a dauntingly bulky shadow out of the corner of my eye as I’m doubled over. Before I can turn my head to see the owner of the shadow, I hear a voice that makes me gag once more.
Brett Dixon
Thursday, 9/26
Alright, Mr. Chan, Almighty English Teacher:
Here I am, writing in this journal that you’re making us write in for whatever reason. Since you’re making us keep journals for the semester, (and let’s face it, probably the rest of the year) I won’t hold back. I’ll be raw and free with my thoughts, as you suggested. However, given that this is a school assignment, I will try to keep this semi- respectable and will limit my four letter words. BUT I have Mrs. Novoa for religion class and she says that if the word is in the Bible, it’s fair game. So, be prepared to read the words “ass” and “bastards” a lot. Also, if you’re grading for grammar, you should probably just give me a B right now.
My handwriting has been shit looked like ass since about the second grade. Why don’t they teach penmanship anymore? Imagine how bad my cursive looks. I wish you the best of luck in deciphering this journal, Mr. Chan. I bet you probably don’t even read these stupid things anyway.
Because it’s still the beginning of the year and I’m not burned out yet, I will write regularly in this journal (like we’re supposed to) instead of using my normal tactic of scrawling in as many entries as possible the day before we turn it in. Well, I’ll try anyway.
Here we go, senior year. I hope it kicks ass...
CHAPTER 1
“TODAY, YOU ARE AN adult.
Today, you can get arrested.
Today, you can buy cigarettes.
Today.
You.
Are.
A.
Grown up,” I tell my reflection in the mirror in hopes of magically maturing into a beautiful and sensical human being.
“Today...” I pause and lean in towards the mirror to make sure I’m seeing correctly.
“You’re getting a zit above your right eyebrow.” Sure enough, there’s a small red spot fiercely clashing against my light skin, deep brown hair and matching dark eyes. My light freckles only decorate my cheeks and nose so there’s no chance the tiny red spot could masquerade as a freckle.
Despite the bad reputation that freckles get, I’ve always taken a liking to mine and have always chosen not to wear much make-up because of this fact. I give in and dab some foundation to cover the imperfection.
The pep talk isn’t quite working as planned so I give the mirror one last glance before I walk out of the bathroom. My dark naturally wavy hair bounces just below my collarbones. I’ve pinned the sides back so that the shiny curls won’t trickle down over my eyes. My eyebrows could use a little shaping but I’m not up for the pain that is plucking this early in the morning. I take a deep breath and blow out the air.
With a last ditch effort I tell myself silently:
It’s your eighteenth birthday, Ramona. You got this.
I turn off the light and close the bathroom door. I adjust my white knee-highs and stomp down the stairs. My saddle shoes are large and bulky so any ounce of grace I might have had is replaced by thick rubber soles covered with brown and white leather. The shoes aren’t a part of my school uniform but I still wear them because they go with my gray plaid skirt in a “classic” sort of way.
At the bottom of the stairs I instinctively pull up my knee-highs that have sagged down from my trek. My stomach is in knots as I make my way to the kitchen, unsure of what mood my mother is in.
“Ramona Bean! Happy birthday to my favorite child!” Mom squeals surprisingly loud. It seems she is in a good mood but I do notice she looks like a mess. Not in a “coyote ugly” disaster kind of way. She looks like a beautiful kind of mess; like Marilyn Monroe or Judy Garland before she got all old and wrinkly.
It’s almost as if she belongs in an old Hollywood film; the way her eyebrows arch creating the round frame for her dark green eyes. Her wavy deep golden hair is tied up with just the right amount of strands falling down to frame her face. She takes anti- anxiety pills that allow her plenty of sleep so there are hardly ever bags under her eyes. As for those darkening gray circles, she’ll use a dab of magical cream to dissipate any misty tinted color. Her moods might be unpredictable but her astounding beauty is unwavering.
“Mom, I’m your only child,” I remind her as I welcome her eager embrace.
She’s wea
ring her silk and lace nightgown with the matching green tea colored robe and smelling of her favorite rose perfume. The perfume takes me by surprise, especially so early in the morning. Although an entrancing scent, I eye her suspiciously. Perhaps another new quirk she’s adopted. She grabs my shoulders and escorts me to the kitchen table. I plop into a chair and anticipate my annual birthday morning breakfast, playing along.
“You are my one and only favorite child. I made your favorite: crispy bacon and scrambled eggs with a side of freshly cut strawberries!” She rushes over and sits down, bringing me my plate and a glass of apple juice.
She stares straight at me with her hands under her chin and her face perched a mere foot away from mine. Her glassy eyes bore into me, willing me to talk to her.
She can be so weird sometimes.
For instance, she’s the only person I know that addresses waiters by their names and begins short, awkward conversations with them about their life. Albeit strange and often times embarrassing, it’s also endearing and charismatic.
I raise my eyebrows at her then squeeze my eyes shut, making a goofy face while simultaneously shoving eggs into my mouth. She beams at me. “All right, Bean, what are your big eighteenth birthday plans for today?”
“Well, I figure I’ll go to school because, why not? Then, I’ll hitch a ride with Jet McCoy to go and buy a lottery ticket. Then, we’ll get matching tattoos while smoking a pack of cigarettes and somehow get arrested because, you know, I can.”
She gapes at me, wide-eyed.
“Mom, I’m kidding,” I reassure her. She lets out an exaggerated breath of air.
“Thank God, honey. You know I try to be an easy-going mom but if you do any of those things today, I might just have a heart attack.”
“No, Mom. You might just have a heart attack because you have done all those things,” I tease her, smirking.
She throws her hands onto the table to brace herself and gasps dramatically out loud. “I have never hitched a ride with Jet McCoy because, I–I don’t even know who that is!”
My mother, the comedian.
I shake my head as a few laughs fall out.
“Trust me…he’s not worth knowing. Where’s Dad?”
“Right here, sweet Bean,” my dad announces, rushing into the kitchen with a poorly knotted tie and sleepy eyes. “Happy birthday,” he adds, gingerly kissing the top of my head. “I’m running late but this is for you.” He lays down a yellow envelope in front of my plate, evoking a warm grin from my lips. “I’m coming home early so we can go out for your birthday. Also, no tattoos, no boys and no getting arrested.” He knowingly winks at me.
“You still want William’s for dinner, right?” my mother asks.
I nod, biting into a strawberry. We always get a steak dinner for my birthday and William’s Steak and Seafood has the best in town.
She picks up my dirty plate and walks to the sink, her green silk robe waving behind her like a sail.
My dad fills his World’s Best Dad traveler mug up and swiftly gulps down his vitamins, as is his daily routine.
Every morning my mom comes downstairs in varying degrees of mess depending on how her mood was the night before. She makes coffee, pours two shot glasses of wheatgrass for them and lays out their vitamins. Her anti-anxiety meds are then placed along her vitamins. Judging by her slumping shoulders and lazy eyes this morning, she’s about to go back to sleep which explains why she’s skipped her coffee today.
He tells my mom “love you” before kissing her hard on the mouth, lingering for a second too long until I let out a “bleh.” He chuckles and makes his way back over to me.
He kisses the top of my head again and says, “Love you, baby girl. I’ll see you after school. Have a good day and I’m serious...don’t get arrested.” I chuckle and shake my head. He picks up his briefcase and is out the door in a matter of seconds, leaving the lingering, fresh scent of his aftershave, making me feel safe.
I take another gulp of my apple juice as I stand up. I detest oranges and orange juice because they taste like viscid battery acid. My mom knows this and only ever buys apple juice. As weird and moody as my mom can be, she notices the small things and it makes me appreciate her.
I yank up my drooping knee-highs once more, adjust my skirt to make sure the pleats are in line with my hips, smooth my oxford uniform shirt down and grab my backpack.
I step up to the kitchen counter and grab the card, opening the envelope.
“Ow! Ugh. Paper cut.”
Throwing the envelope down melodramatically, I squeeze my finger as a bright red wave of blood starts oozing out. The slice in my skin ignites a fierce burning.
“Jesus, it hurts. How could something so small hurt so bad?” Mom hurries over with anti-biotic spray and a Band-Aid.
“Pain is pain, my dear, no matter how small. All right, this might hurt,” she warns. I close my eyes, making a scrunched up face in anticipation of the antibiotic sting. She squirts the spray and I open my eyes, smoothing out my wrinkled face. I didn’t even feel it.
“Well, that was anti-climactic.”
“No more getting hurt on your birthday, Ramona Bean.” She finishes bandaging. The paper cut is in the worst possible spot: in the top crease of my right pointer finger. The Band-Aid won’t last more than thirty minutes without falling off.
“And no misbehaving, especially with boys.” She winks at me.
“Don’t worry,” I assure her with a smirk. “I won’t be going anywhere near Jet McCoy. Except in Calc, English, Art History and Spanish...” Truthfully, Jet and I only have one class together but my school is fairly small and avoiding him entirely is impossible.
She tilts her head to the side and gives me an incredulous look. She then smiles with me, shaking her head.
“All right, Ms. Funny Pants Ramona Bean, off to school or you’ll be late.” I snort out a laugh.
Ms. Funny Pants Ramona Bean? Where does she get this stuff?
She pops her pills and swishes them down with my leftover juice. She lingers for a moment with her head tilted back and eyes closed as if she’s savoring the taste of a delicacy. It’s a strange new habit that I still find off-putting. She’s picked up a few ticks in the last year that make my heart slump.
“Mom, it’s only 7:15. No nagging allowed––it’s my birthday.” I snap her out of the post-pill linger and she holds up her hands, surrendering. I smile and we start towards the front door together. “Have fun, be safe.” She hugs and kisses me after opening the door. We exchange “I love you’s.”
I’m already half way down the driveway when she yells, “Remember, no Jet McCoy!”
She’s mastered the comedic rule of three. Maybe she should pursue a career as a comedian.
I shake my head and let out an exaggerated laugh, waving at her as I walk toward my car. When I turn back around, I do a double take. The Ryan Applebaum is walking on the sidewalk in front of my house.
Ryan happens to be only the most beautiful male student at Mount Saint Mary’s Catholic High School and my mega-crush for the past three years. He also happens to be sporting a drop-dead gorgeous new haircut today. He looks at my mother then shoots me a confused look. I’m embarrassed at what he just heard considering him and Jet play baseball together, but I allow myself to only falter for a second. I continue walking toward the trunk of my car pretending like my heart didn’t just do an Olympic worthy somersault.
In a very dignified and casual manner, I greet him, “Mr. Applebaum.”
He side steps out of my way and replies with an equally proper, “Ms. Scott.”
The trunk of my white Toyota is hanging slightly over on to the sidewalk, despite our long cobblestone paved driveway because my Dad’s motorcycle is always in the way. Don’t even get me started on our garage that serves fifty percent Christmas decorations and fifty percent junk.
Honestly, it’s pretty silly that my dad even owns a Harley. My dad is more of the clean-shaven, tailored suit, Model Husband type. Then agai
n, my parents both went through a heavy rock and roll, “grunge” phase when they were growing up. That Harley is the rebellious side of my dad that still exists somewhere underneath the designer suits and shoes. Both of my parents are attractive older people.
When I think about it…I’m not sure how I turned out so average looking.
Ryan keeps walking, but not before turning back with a grin and asking, “Jet McCoy, huh?”
I scoff to play this remark off like it’s no big deal even though heat instantly rises to my cheeks.
I take a step and next thing I know my feet are flying in front of me like some sort of slapstick comedy and I land cruelly on my butt.
Black ice.
I let out a loud groan and Ryan looks back at me.
“Are you okay?” He winces and makes a start to come back toward me.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, holding up my hand for him to stop. I stand and rub my bum and leg where I landed the hardest.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say quickly, wanting the moment to be over. I’ll admit, I want Ryan’s attention, but I don’t want it from falling on my caboose like a clumsy fool. I throw my backpack into the trunk next to my fifty pound AP Art History book and slam it closed.
As I lift my sore leg to get in the car, I hear him yell, “Happy birthday, Scott!”
My head bounces up in shock.
How does he know it’s my birthday?
He rounds the corner before I’m able to muster up another meek “thank you.”
I take my time driving through my neighborhood, admiring the bright speckled mountains that are only this radiant in the fall. Cayden Springs is one of the oldest cities in Oregon, nestled quaintly in a valley of two, strikingly beautiful mountains. The city is fairly small and picturesque, much like Salem. The snow capped mountains combined with the crowd of dense, towering Redwoods and Ponderosa Pines, there is no doubt that Cayden Springs is the stuff postcards are made of.
My housing development, just outside the city’s town center, is called Forest Meadows. Our development comes with smiling neighbors that wave at you every time you pass them. It’s part of the package deal when you move in.
Ten Times Fast Page 1