It's no secret that I'm in love with Trisha Leigh's The Last Year series. (Beginning with WHISPERS IN AUTUMN, so gorgeous.)
We became friends after I read and fangirled over the first and second books and critiqued the third (!!! I know. I'm so lucky.) It was then that Trisha said, "You know, I have some downtime. Would you like me to read ONE?"
WOULD I?!?!?!?!?!?
(Yes OMG YES.)
So she read ONE. Funny thing about writers who become good friends and CPs - often, their writing is kind of similar. Turns out that Trisha's and my writing? Is A LOT similar.
Yep. We both write pretty lyrically, about strong, occasionally snarky, female protagonists who don't take 'no' for an answer. So, she loved ONE, and I died of happiness. Then I asked her to blurb it, and died of happiness again when she said of course she would (!!!)
And THEN? She offered to put the first chapter of ONE in the back of the final installment of her The Last Year series. So, of course, I screamed, accepted, and did an epic happy dance. Because I. Had. Arrived.
To make a long story short, SUMMER RUINS, the fourth and final installment in The Last Year series, comes out today. Which also means that anyone who buys it can read the first chapter of ONE in the back (!!!)
I was going to make all of you buy SUMMER RUINS, but my assistant John said that wasn't fair, and that I should post it here. And, of course, he was right, as he always is. So. Without further ado, the first chapter of my debut Young Adult Sci-Fi, ONE:
ONE
Most
nights, and some mornings before sunrise, I sneak to the back of the shed and I
practice. I push myself off the ground, telling my body to go weightless, and
hover. An inch, two, six, a foot. I stay there for seconds, then minutes.
I
can’t generate enough tension between my body and the air to take a step -
can’t even make myself drift. I’d give anything just to be able to float along
like a freaking ghost.
I’m
a One – a half-superpowered freak. It’s the same sad story for all of us. Every
superpower is made up of at least two distinct abilities. A kid can only fly if
she can make her body light and then somehow propel herself forward.
Two
powers. Not One.
Every
One puts up with getting teased at Superior High, waiting for their second
ability to show up. While they do, that One power starts to fade. There are
still shimmers of it, but after a while the kid quits trying and the One
fizzles into nothingness. Then their disappointed Super parents ship them off
to Nelson “Normal” High, like mine did.
Here's
my secret - I never quit trying.
This
morning, standing in our weedy backyard surrounded by a chorus of crickets,
behind the ancient shed with chipping red paint, I go weightless. It happens so
fast I feel like I’m being pushed upward. My heart jumps.
Maybe...
I
try to move, try to resist the air, or push it away from me, and…nothing. I’ve
been practicing so much I’ve gotten fast at going light. So I’m a speedy
floater. Great.
I
could hover here forever, until my muscles strain, then burn, then ache, then
tremble, weeping and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. I know I’d just end up
collapsing on the grass.
Nevertheless,
I smile when I have to will some weight into my body, to keep from floating
above the shed. I definitely cleared three feet this time. Four years of hard
work, and I can float an extra two feet.
Maybe
by the time I’m eighty, I can say “hi” to the folks taking hot air balloon
rides at the Nebraska State fair.
I’ve
watched all the old-school cartoons about misfit superhero kids who just need
to work on developing their powers in order to totally rule. But I’m not a
freaking X-man. I know I can’t work on my One power hard enough that it becomes
something better, something more. And it’s not like I can magically give myself
a Second.
I
know. I know.
But
my body whispers to me. It tells me I can fly, if only I’m brave enough, strong
enough, determined enough.
I
sigh and trudge back to the house, being careful to dry the dew from my shoes
before heading in to get ready for my first day at Normal.
Dad
slows the car as Nelson High comes into view. It's about a third the size of
Superior High, and the building’s face is shot through with mossy cracks, dull
with years of dirt the groundskeepers didn't bother to power wash before the
first day. It’s a strange contrast to the slick solar panels that blanket the
roof, glinting silver-blue and reflecting the sky full of white, fluffy clouds.
Most people think these older-model panels are hideous, but I always love it
when a building’s roof looks like an extension of the sky.
I
can’t take my eyes off the school, but I can feel Dad looking at me from the
driver's seat.
“Dad.”
I pat his knee, a little awkwardly. “I’m just going to school. A different one,
but still just school. I’ll be fine. Maybe better. You know…than I was,” I say.
Dad
eyes me. He doesn’t believe me, but he’s going to pretend he does.
I
clear my throat. “You could have let me drive myself.”
“What
if you didn’t get a pass? Or couldn’t find a spot? Best to figure out the lay
of the land...”
“The
lay of the land” is one of the phrases Dad uses when he’s worried. To be
honest, I’m worried myself.
It’s
been ten years since my One power - going weightless - showed up. Seven years
since Mom and Dad started to worry, in whispered voices, that I’d never get a
Second, like the other kids. Only one year since I’d pretty masterfully failed
at Superior High. One year since we all knew I would always float instead of
learning to fly – knew I would only ever be a One.
I
was worried sophomore year at Superior would suck, anyway, what with the fliers
and the speeders and the teleporters rubbing their superpowers in my face just
by being there. This way, maybe it doesn’t have to.
“Did
your hair for the first day, Merry Berry?” Dad flips an end of my hair with his
finger. He’s lucky I’m feeling slightly optimistic this morning, or I might
mess his up right back. It looks flawless for work at the Hub, as usual.
I
don’t answer.
“Well,”
he says, “you look beautiful.”
I
humor him with a shake of my head and a smile.
All
my features are slight, like my stature: a pixie nose, near-translucent skin
with not even a freckle to decorate my cheeks, sparse eyebrows.
But
my hair is the worst. The longer I let it grow, the more it tapers from thick
brunette into baby-fine, dull brownish ends, so I keep it short, at my
shoulders. At least it waves instead of lying stick-straight. It’s wispy as the
clouds on a clear day.
“I
know Mom gave you a new lock. Did you clear out your smartcuff from last year?”
I
roll my eyes and push up my sleeve to show him that yes, the three-inch wide
flexible tablet that holds all the information I need to get through the day,
besides acting as a phone, GPS, and universal ID, has been wiped clean of all
the stuff I needed at Superior. I don’t tell him that I spent days hacking it
to change the ID status from “Merrin Grey: One” to “Merrin Grey: Normal.”
I
pop the door handle open and crack it before we’re even fully stopped. The
football field, which peeks out from behind the school, has a fresh frame of
bright white lines and a state-of-the-art looking scoreboard. I imagine the
classrooms and the locker rooms feature an according disparity. Great.
“Three
thirty, Dad. Okay?” I scoot myself out of the seat and onto the sidewalk. I let
the door fall shut before he can answer. Not because I’m trying to be rude, but
because I think if I hear Dad’s voice now I might cry and mess up the first
mascara I’ve worn for about ten months.
I’m
not really upset about transferring from Superior High to Nelson.
I’m
not. I’m not.
No
one really says it out loud, but everyone knows Supers and Normals hate each
other – too much decades-old bad blood. Supers say the Normals were jealous of
them, and that’s what caused tensions in the first place. Normals say they
didn’t know anything about Supers, or whether they could be trusted.
I
can see that. The way the Supers treated me, a sad powerless kid, at SHS, I
figure maybe the Supers scared the crap out of Normals, sixty years ago.
Superstrength, or teleporting, or being able to shoot fire, could be terrifying
if it was used as a threat.
Being
a One is the worst – we’re caught exactly in between Super and Normal, between
stuck-up and terrified. Supers assume we're jealous, and Normals assume we're
full of ourselves.
But
here, I’m the new kid. No one knows anything about me. And here, no one has to.
I take a deep breath through my nose, trying to ease the pit in my stomach.
I’m
feeling a little too light this morning.
The
wind feels like it might blow me away today. My loose, tissue-thin shirt hangs
off my bony shoulders, then blows against the curve of my back, and I know that
anyone can tell how thin I am in the tank top underneath. My cuffed denim
shorts go down to my knees, and because Mom picked them up in the girl’s
department, they fit snugly to my legs. That’s fine, since I learned that baggy
pants only made me look ridiculous, and even more slight.
I
look down at the ground and take a deep breath. Heavy. Be
heavy.
My eye catches the one thing that will make me smile - my blue plaid Chucks. My
brothers, Michael and Max, gave them to me for my sixteenth birthday last
month. They thought I would like them, and they were absolutely right. Awesome
kids, no matter how jealous I am of their insanely rare water-walking skills.
With
any luck, this year will just be the boring prelude to where I really belong –
occupying one of the spots in the Biotech Hub’s summer internship program. I
can do anything if it leads to that. I breathe deeply, hoping the air pressure
in my lungs will make me heavier, and take my first steps toward a normal year
at Nelson High.
I’m
guessing there are three hundred students in the whole school, which means
everyone here knows everyone else. I let out a slow sigh of relief when I
realize none of the students milling through the halls look at me. Either no
one notices me, or no one cares. Or, since it’s the first day and I’m new, I’ll
pass for a freshman.
I
find the administrative office easily enough. I have to pound on the ancient
touchscreen installed there to get my schedule, and when I finally get it to
download onto my cuff, it takes another torturous several minutes of waiting
for the map of the school to appear. Through the thick, translucent office
wall, something catches my eye. A tall, middle-aged man with black hair slicked
back from his forehead and glasses, pushes out the door. I swear the faint
scent of licorice wafts out after him. He looks just like my Organic Chemistry
professor from Superior High.
Maybe
not everything about Normal High will be awful and unfamiliar after all.
I
wave my wrist under the ID scanner in a variety of positions, but it just won’t
register. It’s all I can do not to growl at it. Finally, it beeps its
recognition, and I push out through the door as the stilted robotic voice
croaks, “Good morning, sophomore Merrin Grey.”
The
hallway teems with students, but I think I see him. Yes. The black hair, and those thick-rimmed
glasses. That’s got to be him. He’s talking to a petite woman in a navy suit at
the end of the hallway, leaning close to her ear, his eyes darting around at
the students. They both nod at each other and start to walk down the hall, away
from me. She motions toward a door.
As I get closer, I see the placard next to it
reads “Principal Lee’s office.” I push through the crowd, but just as they
reach the door and the woman reaches out to turn the knob, some clumsy kid rams
into my shoulder, spinning me around. I don’t even care enough to be
embarrassed or to yell at the jerk, because when I look up, the door’s closing
behind them.
I
pinch my lips together, cursing under my breath. Mr. Hoffman is the one who came and dragged
me out of the first horrific day of freshman biology, gave me a test, checked
it over in about three minutes, and walked me to his class full of AP Organic
Chemistry seniors without another word. While the other freshmen were trying to
impress each other with their superpowers, I was staying behind in his
classroom while he graded assignments, building models and generally kicking
Orgo’s ass. By the end of the year I was working from a college textbook.
Mr.
Hoffman’s the one who made me think I could score a spot in the Biotech Hub’s
summer internship. Only five kids get to go every year, and I don’t think a One
has ever landed a chance.
I
slump against one of the walls and check my schedule on my cuff. Nothing with
Hoffman. I’m sure that whatever he’s teaching is so high level I’ll have to get
notes from Mom and Dad and a meeting with the principal just to get me a seat
in the class. That is, if I actually did see him. I can’t imagine why he would
actually leave the state-of-the-art Superior classrooms to come teach at this
dump.
I
pass my locker, number 5637, noting its location. I have nothing to put in it
yet, and don’t feel like programming the new print-scanning lock Mom slipped in
my bag, so I don’t even stop.
My
first class is History – Modern American. I sigh with relief. At Superior High,
freshmen take this class, so I should’ve already learned all this stuff. When I
click through my reader to find the textbook, though, it’s not AMERICA:
PATHWAYS TO PROGRESS, the one we used last year. Instead, it’s AMERICAN
HERITAGE AND YOU.
There’s
no teacher’s desk at the front of this classroom. When one of the few adults
I’d seen in a bright orange Nelson High polo shirt walks into the classroom,
plugs a cartridge into a port on the back wall, and a 3-D projector displays a
life-sized image of a teacher at the front of the room, I almost cry with
disappointment.
This
year, the weird projected holo-teacher says, we’ll be focusing on American
history post-Uranium Wars, but she wants to go through a brief summary of that
thirty-year period before we begin.
“Seventy-five
years ago, foreign missiles suddenly and deliberately attacked a transport of
uranium cores being transported to safe storage in the American desert,
triggering the Uranium World Wars. The leakage into Lake Michigan made
thousands sick, killing some, and fundamentally altered the genetic structure
of thousands of others.
“Many
of these individuals developed extraordinary powers: for example, super speed
or strength, control of natural forces, teleportation or telekinesis. Twenty
years later, a diabolical group of five of these mutants, all leaders in their
communities, formed a plan to assassinate the President of the United States
and overthrow the government. Thankfully, it was stopped before damage was
done.
“Never
had our nation experienced such a threat from within our own borders.
“Most
of the mutant population, some thirty thousand strong, was concentrated around
the Great Lakes. Even after the investigations and trials in the aftermath of
said threat, we knew that some among them were potentially dangerous. Though
most were loyal Americans, no one knew what would happen among this
concentrated population if the new leaders’ efforts congealed into a
full-fledged revolution.
“Military
authorities therefore determined that all of them would have to move. Tens of
thousands of men, women, and children, all affected by supernatural abilities
caused by the uranium contamination decades earlier, were removed from their
homes to communities in established, out-of-the-way places. Of course, the
government helped in any cases of financial hardship, and once the families had
reached their destinations, provided housing and plenty of healthful
nourishment for all.
“The
mutated citizens wanted to go to work developing their abilities for the
betterment of society. In areas away from our main government and weapons
stores, and under appropriate safeguards, many were allowed to do so, under the
condition that they would work together with the existing United States
Government for the welfare of all United States citizens.”
After
every sentence this non-teacher speaks, my mouth drops open just a little
farther. This is not the history they taught us at Superior.
Of
course, they taught us about the Uranium Wars, and the attempted government
takeover. But the story of the camps sounded totally different at Superior.
Notices
were posted. All mutated persons, and their families, were required to
register. The evacuation was not cheerful. Stones were thrown, and jeers were
screamed. It was out of fear, they taught us at Superior. Of course the Normals
feared the Supers. But this twisting of history is inexcusable.
This
lecture at Nelson doesn’t include video footage of the internment camps’ shoddy
housing, or the mothers clutching their crying babies while they waited for the
food trucks. It doesn’t show the Supers waiting in long lines to see doctors
they didn’t trust, or the makeshift schoolrooms full of dirty-looking kids in clothes
that didn’t fit quite right.
The
holo-teacher directs us to the touchscreens in our desktops to answer some
multiple choice questions about the lecture. I force my brain to go numb as I
answer them the way I know the textbook wants us to.
I
don’t know exactly what this means for the next three years I’m supposed to
spend here at Nelson High. But after hearing this lecture, I know I can’t spend
my life among Normals. No way.
I’ve
got to get that internship.
By
the time I’ve sat through Calculus, Bio, and English, I’m feeling
grateful for the remote-lecturing holo-teachers – it means there’s no one to
ask me to stand at the front of the classroom and introduce myself. That is,
until I realize people are going to start asking me who I am to my face.
I
have no idea what to expect from these Normal kids. Will they suspect I’m not
like them? Can they see that I can float, if I want to?
I
manage to keep my head down all the way to my locker. All I want is to get
there to ditch my sweatshirt, retreat to the girl’s room - if I can figure out
where it is - lock myself in a stall for a few minutes, and take a deep breath
for the first time since I got here.
And
maybe eat my lunch in there. Just for today.
I
wiggle the handle of my locker, but it won’t open. I bend down to take a look
at it. No jerk’s poured superglue in there or anything.
Before
I know it, I’m shaking the stupid locker handle so hard it’s making a racket,
and a few people standing near me look over and cock their heads. When I almost
whack my own face with my struggling hand, I give up, resting my head against
the cool, solid metal for a second, breathing in through my nose.
I
am seriously losing it. Over a locker.
Half
a second later, a shoulder taller than my head pushes into the metal door, then
a large hand with long, thin fingers jiggles the handle side-to-side a couple
times and wrenches it up, letting the locker pop open.
I
feel the warmth of his nearness against my cheek, countering the chill of the
locker, like a shock on my skin. The guy clears his throat, then says quietly,
“They’re tricky.”
I
barely glance at him before I look down at the floor, but I do catch that he
has blond hair and glasses.
“You new here?”
Before
I can answer, some guy halfway down the hall hollers, “E! Coming?”
The
guy at my locker – “E” - gives his head half a shake, smiles a little, then
turns to walk away.
And
now everyone’s staring at me. Great.
As
soon as I find my way to the bathroom, I place both hands on the rim of one of
the sinks, steadying myself there. After a few seconds, I splash my face with
water, then reach over to the soap dispenser. Everything about this place feels
dirty.
As
I’m lathering my hands, I notice the logo on the soap dispenser. The Hub
Technology logo appears on every product made at one of the Hubs. It’s five
ovals, one for each Hub, intersecting in the shape of an atom with a key as the
nucleus. Someone has crossed out the “Hub” in “Hub Technology” and written
“Freak” next to it.
Suddenly,
I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I duck into a stall, sit on the toilet,
bury my face in my hands, and take one, two deep breaths.
I hope with everything in me that all the other kids actually
eat in the cafeteria.
