One Night That Changes Everything- Lauren Barnholdt excerpt

excerpt

Chapter One

7:00 p.m.
I lose everything. Keys, my wallet, money, library books. People don't even take it seriously anymore. Like when I lost the hundred dollars my grandma gave me for back-to-school shopping, my mom didn't blink an eye. She was all, "Oh, Eliza, you should have given it to me to hold on to" and then she just went on with her day.
I try not to really stress out about it anymore. I mean, the things I lose eventually show up. And if they don't, I can always replace them.
Except for my purple notebook. My purple notebook is completely and totally irreplaceable. It's not like I can just march into the Apple store and buy another one. Which is why it totally figures that after five years of keeping very close tabs on it (Five years! I've never done anything consistently for five years!) I've lost it.
"What are you doing?" my best friend Clarice asks. She's sitting at my computer in the corner of my room, IMing with her cousin Jamie. Clarice showed up at nine o'clock this morning, with a huge bag of Cheetos and a six-pack of soda. "I'm ready to party," she announced when I opened my front door. Then she pushed past me and marched up to my room.
I tried to point out that it was way too early to be up on a Saturday, but Clarice didn't care because: (a) she's a morning person and (b) she thought the weekend needed to start asap, since my parents are away for the night, and she figured we should maximize the thirty-six-hour window of their absence.
"I'm looking for something," I say from under my bed. My body is shoved halfway under, rooting around through the clothes, papers, and books that have somehow accumulated under there since the last time I cleaned. Which was, you know, months ago. My hand brushes against something wet and hard. Hmm.
"What could you possibly be looking for?" she asks. "We have everything we need right here."
"If you're referring to the Cheetos," I say, "I'm sorry, but I think I'm going to need a little more than that."
"No one," Clarice declares, "needs more than Cheetos." She takes one out of the bag and slides it into her mouth, chewing delicately. Clarice is from the South, and for some reason, when she moved here a couple of years ago, she'd never had Cheetos. We totally bonded over them one day in the cafeteria, and ever since then, we've been inseparable. Me, Clarice, and Cheetos. Not necessarily in that order.
"So what are you looking for?" she asks again.
"Just my notebook," I say. "The purple one."
"Oooh," she says. "Is that your science notebook?"
"No," I say.
"Math?" she tries.
"No," I say.
"Then what?"
"It's just this notebook I need," I say. I abandon the wet, hard mystery object under the bed, deciding I can deal with it later. And by later, I mean, you know, never.
"What kind of notebook?" she presses.
"Just, you know, a notebook," I lie. My face gets hot, and I hurry over to my closet and open the door, turning my back to her so that she can't see I'm getting all flushed.
The thing is, no one really knows the truth about what's in my purple notebook. Not Clarice, not my other best friend, Marissa, not even my sister, Kate. The whole thing is just way too embarrassing. I mean, a notebook that lists every thing that you're afraid of doing? Like, written down? In ink? Who does that? It might be a little bit crazy, even. Like, for real crazy. Not just "oh isn't that charming and endearing" crazy but "wow that might be a deep-seated psychological issue" crazy.
But I started the notebook when I was twelve, so I figure I have a little bit of wiggle room in the psychiatric disorders department. And besides, it was totally started under duress. There was this whole situation, this very real possibility that my dad was going to get a job transfer to a town fifty miles away. My whole family was going to move to a place where no one knew us.
So of course in my deluded little twelve-year-old brain, I became convinced that if I could just move to a different house and a different town, I'd be a totally different person. I'd leave my braces and frizzy hair behind, and turn myself into a goddess. No one would know me at my new school, so I could be anyone I wanted, not just "Kate Sellman's little sister, Eliza." I bought a purple notebook at the drugstore with my allowance, and I started writing down all the things I was afraid to do at the time, but would of course be able to do in my new school.
They were actually pretty lame at first, like French kiss a boy, or ask a boy to the dance, or wear these ridiculous tight pants that all the girls were wearing that year. But somehow putting them down on paper made me feel better, and after my dad's job transfer fell through, I kept writing in it. And writing in it, and writing in it, and writing in it. And, um, I still write in it. Not every day or anything. Just occasionally.
Of course, the things I list have morphed a little over the years from silly to serious. I still put dumb things in, like wanting to wear a certain outfit, but I have more complicated things in there too. Like how I wish I had the nerve to go to a political rally, or how I wish I could feel okay about not knowing what I want to major in when I go to college. And the fact that these very embarrassing and current things are WRITTEN DOWN IN MY NOTEBOOK means I have to find it. Like, now.
The doorbell rings as I'm debating whether or not the notebook could be in my parents' car, traveling merrily on its way to the antique furniture conference they went to. This would be good, since (a) it would at least be safe, but bad because (a) what if my parents read it and (b) I won't be able to check the car until they get home, which means I will spend the entire weekend on edge and freaking out.
"That's probably Marissa," I say to Clarice.
Clarice groans and rolls her blue eyes. "Why is she coming over?" she asks. She pouts out her pink-glossed bottom lip.
"Because she's our friend," I say. Which is only a half truth. Marissa is my friend, and Clarice is my friend, and Marissa and Clarice … well … they have this weird sort of love/hate relationship. They both really love each other deep down (at least, I think they do), but Marissa thinks Clarice is a little bit of an airhead and kind of a tease, and Clarice thinks Marissa is a little crazy and slightly slutty. They're both kind of right.
Marissa must have gotten tired of waiting and just let herself in, because a second later she appears in my doorway.
"What are you doing in there?" she asks.
"I'm looking for something," I say from inside my closet, where I'm throwing bags, sweaters, belts, and shoes over my shoulder in an effort to see if my notebook has somehow been buried at the bottom. I try to remember the last time I wrote in it. I think it was last week. I had dinner with my sister and then I wrote about what I would say to … Well. What I would say to a certain person. If I had the guts to, I mean. And if I ever wanted to even think or talk about that person again, which I totally don't.
"What something?" Marissa asks. She steps gingerly through the disaster area that is now my room and plops down on the bed.
"A notebook," Clarice says. Her fingers are flying over the keyboard of my laptop as she IMs.
"You mean like for school?" Marissa asks. "You said this was going to be our party weekend! No studying allowed!"
"Yeah!" Clarice says, agreeing with Marissa for once. She holds the bag out to her. "You want a Cheeto?" Marissa takes one.
"No," I say, "You guys said this was going to be our party weekend." Although, honestly, we don't really party all that much. At least, I don't. "All I said was, 'My parents are going away on Saturday, do you want to come over and keep me company?'"
"Yes," Clarice says. "And that implies party weekend."
"Yeah," Marissa says. "Come on, Eliza, we have to at least do something."
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like invite some guys over," Clarice says.
Marissa nods in agreement, then adds, "And go skinny dipping and get drunk."
And then Clarice gets a super-nervous look on her face, and she quickly rushes on to add, "I mean, not guys guys. I mean, not guys to like date or anything. Just to … I mean, I don't know if you're ready to, or if you even want to—oh, crap, Eliza, I'm sorry." She bites her lip, and Marissa shoots her a death glare, her brown eyes boring into Clarice's blue ones.
"It's fine," I say. "You guys don't have to keep tiptoeing around it. I am completely and totally over him." I'm totally lying, and they totally know it. The thing is, three and a half weeks ago, I got dumped by Cooper Marriatti, a.k.a. the last person I wrote about in my notebook, a.k.a. the person who I never, ever want to talk about again. (Obviously I can say his name while defending myself from the allegation that I still like him—that is a total exception to the "never bring his name up again" rule.) I really liked him, but it didn't work out. To put it mildly. Cooper did something really despicable to me, and for that reason, I am totally over it.
"Of course you are," Clarice says, nodding her head up and down. "And of course I know we don't have to tiptoe around it."
"I heard he didn't get into Brown," Marissa announces. I snap my head up and step out of my closet, interested in spite of myself.
"What do you mean?" I ask. Cooper is a senior, a year older than us, and his big dream was to get into Brown. Seriously, it was all his family could talk about. It was pretty annoying, actually, now that I think about it. I mean, I don't think he even really wanted to go to Brown. He just applied because his parents wanted him to, and the only reason they even wanted him to go was because his dad went there, and his grandpa went there, and maybe even his great-grandpa went there. If Brown was even around then. Anyway, the point is, the fact that he didn't get in is a big deal. To him and his family, I mean. Obviously, I could care less.
"Yeah," Marissa says. "Isabella Royce told me." She quickly averts her eyes. Ugh. Isabella Royce. She's the girl Cooper is now rumored to be dating, this totally ridiculous sophomore. She's very exotic-looking with long, straight dark hair, perfect almond-shaped eyes, and dark skin. I hate her.
"Anyway," I say.
"Yeah, anyway," Clarice says. She holds out the bag of Cheetos, and this time I take one. "Oooh," she says as I crunch away. "Looks like Jeremiah added some new Facebook pictures." She leans over and squints at the screen of my laptop. She's saying this just to mess with Marissa. Jeremiah is the guy Marissa likes. They hook up once in a while, and it's kind of a … I guess you would say, booty-call situation. Meaning that, you know, Jeremiah calls her when he wants to hook up, and Marissa keeps waiting for it to turn into something else.
"That's nice," Marissa says, trying to pretend she doesn't care. "Here," she says, picking a stack of letters up off the bed and holding them out to me. "I brought you your mail."
"Thanks," I say, flipping through it aimlessly. I hardly ever get mail, but sometimes my sister, Kate, will get a catalog or something sent to her, and since she's away at college, I can hijack it. But today there actually is a letter for me. Well, to me and my parents. It's from the school.
"What's that?" Marissa asks, noticing me looking at it. She's off the bed now and over in the corner, picking through the mound of clothes I hefted out of my closet. She picks a shirt off the pile on the floor, holds it in front of herself, and studies her reflection in the full-length mirror. "Are my boobs crooked?" she asks suddenly. She grabs them and pushes them together through her shirt. "I think maybe my boobs are crooked."
"Your boobs," I say, rolling my eyes, "are not crooked." Clarice stays noticeably quiet and Marissa frowns.
"They're definitely crooked," Marissa says. I slide my finger under the envelope flap and pull out the piece of paper.
"You should really hope that's not true," Clarice says sagely. She whirls around on my desk chair and studies Marissa.
"Why not?" Marissa asks.
"Because there's no way to really correct that," Clarice says. "Like, if your boobs are too big, you can get them reduced; if they're too droopy, you can get them lifted. But for crooked boobs, I dunno." She looks really worried, like Marissa's crooked boobs might mean the end of her. "Although I guess maybe you could get them, like, balanced or something." She grins, totally proud of herself for coming up with this idea.
"Hmm," Marissa says. She smoothes her long brown hair back from her face. "You're right. There's no, like, boob-straightening operation."
"You guys," I say, "are nuts." I look down at the folded piece of paper in my hand, which is probably some kind of invitation to Meet-the-Teacher-Night or something.
Dear Eliza, Mr. and Mrs. Sellman,
This letter is to advise you that we will be having a preliminary hearing on Tuesday, November 17, at 2:00 p.m., to discuss Eliza's response to the recent slander complaint that has been filed against her. Eliza will be called on to talk about her experience with the website LanesboroLosers.com including her involvement and participation in the comments that were posted on October 21, about a student, Cooper Marriatti.
Please be advised that all of you will be allowed to speak.
If you have any questions, please feel free to give me a call at 555-0189, ext. 541.
Sincerely,
Graham Myers, Dean of Students
Oh. My. God.
"What the hell," I say, "is this?" I start waving the paper around, flapping it back and forth in the air, not unlike the way a crazy person might do.
"What the hell is what?" Marissa asks. She drops her boobs, crosses the room in two strides, and plucks the paper out of my hand. She scans it, then looks at Clarice.
"Oh," she says. Clarice jumps up off her perch at my desk and takes the paper from Marissa. She reads it, and then Clarice and Marissa exchange a look. One of those looks you never, ever want to see your best friends exchanging. One of those, "Uh-oh, we have a secret and do we really want to tell her?" looks.
"What?" I demand. I narrow my eyes at the both of them. "What do you two know about this?"
Marissa bites her lip. "Wel-l-l-l," she says. "I'm not sure if it's true."
"Not sure if what's true?" I say.
"It's nothing," Clarice says. She gives Marissa another look, one that says, "Let's not tell her, we're going to freak her out too much."
"Totally," Marissa says. "It's nothing."
"Someone," I say, "had better tell me exactly what this nothing is." I put my hands on my hips and try to look menacing.
"I heard it from Marissa," Clarice says, sounding nervous.
"I heard it from Kelsey Marshall," Marissa says.
"HEARD WHAT?" I almost scream. I mean, honestly.
"Wel-l-l-l," Marissa says again. "The rumor is that Cooper didn't get into Brown because of what you wrote about him on Lanesboro Losers."
"But that's … that doesn't make any sense." I frown, and Marissa and Clarice exchange another disconcerting look.
Lanesboro Losers is a website that my older sister, Kate, started last year when she was a senior. The concept is simple: Every guy in our school is listed and has a profile. Kind of like Facebook, except Kate set up profiles for every guy—so basically they're on there, whether they like it or not. Under each guy's picture is a place for people to leave comments with information they may have about that guy and how he is when it comes to girls.
So, like, for example—if you date a guy and then you find out he has a girlfriend who goes to another school, you can log on, find his profile, and write, "You should be careful about this guy since the ass has a girlfriend who goes to another school."
It's pretty genius when you think about it. Kate got the idea when a bunch of the boys at our school started this list ranking the hottest girls in school. Only it wasn't just like "the top eight hottest girls" or whatever. They ranked them all the way down to the very last one. Kate, who was number 1 on the list, was outraged. So she decided to fight back and started Lanesboro Losers. Even though she's at college now, she keeps up with the hosting and has a bunch of girls from our school acting as moderators. (I would totally be a moderator if I could, but again, another thing I'm afraid of—the moderators take a certain amount of abuse at school from the guys who know what they do.)
"What do you mean he didn't get into Brown because of what I wrote about him?" I ask now, mulling this new information over in my head.
"He didn't get into Brown because of what you wrote about him," Marissa repeats.
"I heard you the first time," I say. "But that makes zero sense."
"It totally makes sense," Clarice says. "Apparently the Brown recruiter Googled him, and when they read what you wrote about his math test, they brought it up at his interview and basically told him his early decision application was getting rejected."
I sit down on the bed. "That thing I wrote about his math test was true," I say defensively.
Well. Sort of. Last year before his math final, Cooper got a bunch of study questions from his friend Tyler, and when he showed up to take the test, it turned out they weren't just study questions—it was the actual test. Cooper had already given the packet back to Tyler, and for some ridiculous reason, he didn't want to get Tyler into trouble, so he didn't tell anyone. So see? He did cheat, even though it was unintentional.
"It was totally true," Marissa says, nodding up and down. "Which is why you shouldn't feel bad about what you wrote." She gives Clarice a pointed look.
"Totally," Clarice says. "You shouldn't feel bad about it." She keeps nodding her head up and down, the way people do when they don't really believe what they're saying.
I close my eyes, lean back on my bed, and think about what I wrote about Cooper on Lanesboro Losers. I have pretty much every word memorized, since I spent a couple of hours obsessing over what I should write. (It couldn't be too bitter, but it couldn't look like I was trying not to be too bitter either. It was a very delicate balance that needed to be struck. Also, I couldn't post the truth about what really happened between me and Cooper, since it was way too humiliating.) I finally settled on, "Cooper Marriatti is a total and complete jerk. He cheated on his final math test junior year just so he could pass, and he also might have herpes." The herpes thing was of course made up, but I couldn't help myself. (And, as you can see, despite my best efforts, I totally missed the balance.)
Anyway, the thing about Lanesboro Losers is that once you post something on there, they won't take it down. It's a fail-safe, just in case you end up posting something about a guy when he's being a jerk to you and then try to log on and erase it when you guys are back together. Kate set it up so that it's totally not allowed.
"Whatever," I say, my heart beating fast. "I don't feel bad." I hope saying the words out loud will make them true. And for a second, it works. I mean, who cares about dumb Cooper and dumb Brown? It's his own fault. If he hadn't done something totally disgusting and despicable to me, if he hadn't lied to me and been a complete and total jerk, I wouldn't have written that, and he would be going to Brown. So it's totally his own fault, and if he wants to blame anyone, he should blame himself, really, because it's no concern to me if he wants to—
My cell phone starts ringing then, and I claw through the blankets on my bed, looking for it. Some books clatter onto the floor, and Clarice jumps back. She's wearing open-toed silver sparkly shoes, and one of the books comes dangerously close to falling on her foot.
"Hello," I say. The number on the caller ID is one I don't recognize, so I try to sound super-professional and innocent, just in case it's someone from the dean's office.
There's a commotion on the other end, something that sounds like voices and music, then the sound of something crinkling, and then finally, I hear a male voice say, "Eliza?"
"Yeah?" I say.
"Eliza, listen, I didn't …" Whoever it is is keeping their voice really low and quiet, and I'm having a lot of trouble hearing what they're saying.
"Hello!" I repeat.
"Who is it?" Marissa asks. "Is it Jeremiah?" Sometimes Jeremiah calls me looking for Marissa, if he thinks we might be together, or if he can't get through to her for some reason. Clarice's theory is that he does this so he can relay messages to me instructing Marissa to come over for a hookup, while not having to actually talk to her.
"Hello?" I say again into the phone. I put my finger in my other ear the way they do sometimes on TV, and it seems to help a little.
"Eliza, it's me," the voice says, and this time I hear it loud and clear. Cooper. "Eliza, you have to listen to me, the 318s and Tyler …" There's a burst of static, and the rest of what he's saying gets cut off.
"Cooper?" I ask, and my heart starts to beat a little faster.
Marissa and Clarice look at each other. Then in one fast springlike movement, they're on the bed next to me, huddled around the phone.
"Yeah, it's me," he says. There's another burst of commotion on the other end of the line.
"Eliza, listen to me …" he says. "You're going to have to—" And then I hear him talking to someone else in the background.
"What do you want?" I ask, my stomach dropping into my shoes. "If this is about you not getting into Brown, then honestly, I don't even care. It's all your own fault that you didn't get into Brown, and I don't regret—"
"Eliza," Cooper says. "Listen. To. Me. You have to meet me." His voice is low now, serious and dark. "Right now. At Cure."
Marissa and Clarice are falling all over themselves and me, trying to get at the phone, and Clarice's earring gets caught on my sweater. "OW, OW, MY EAR!" she screams, then reaches down and sets it free. I pull the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker in an effort to get them to calm down.
"Cure?" I repeat to Cooper incredulously. Cure is a nightclub in Boston, and they're notorious for not IDing. I've never been there. But Kate used to go all the time, and most of the kids at my school have gone at least once or twice.
"Yeah," he says. "Eliza …" I hear someone say something to him in the background, and then suddenly his tone changes. "Meet me there. At Cure. In an hour."
"Tell him no," Marissa whispers, her brown eyes flashing. "Tell him that you never want to see him again!"
"Ask him if he really turned you in to the dean's office!" Clarice says. She picks up the letter from the dean's office and waves it in the air in front of me.
"Are you there?" Cooper asks, all snottylike.
"Yes, I'm here," I say. "Look, why do you want to meet me at Cure?"
"Don't ask questions," he says. "You'll find out when you get there. And make sure you wear something sexy."
I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it for a second, sure I've misheard him. "'Wear something sexy'? Are you crazy?" I ask. "I'm not going." This doesn't sound like a "Come to Cure so I can apologize to you and make sure you forgive me for the horrible things I've done" kind of request. It sounds like a "Come to Cure so that something horrible can happen that may involve humiliating you further."
Marissa nods her head and gives me a "You go, girl" look.
"Yes, you are," Cooper says.
"No, I'm not," I say.
"Yes, you are," Cooper says. And then he says something horrible. Something I wouldn't ever even imagine he would say in a million years. Something that is maybe quite possibly the worst thing he could ever say ever, ever, ever. "Because I have your purple notebook." And then he hangs up.
© 2010 LAUREN BARNHOLDT

Excerpted from One Night That Changes Everything- Lauren Barnholdt. Reprinted from publisher website http://www.simonandschuster.com

The Iron Daughter - Julie Kagawa excerpt

excerpt

The Winter Court

The Iron King stood before me, magnificent in his beauty, silver hair whipping about like an unruly waterfall. His long black coat billowed behind him, accenting the pale, angular face and translucent skin, the blue-green veins glowing beneath the surface. Lightning flickered in the depths of his jet-black eyes, and the steel tentacles running the length of his spine and shoulders coiled around him like a cloak of wings, glinting in the light. Like an avenging angel, he floated toward me, hand outstretched, a sad, tender smile on his lips.

I stepped forward to meet him as the iron cables wrapped gently around me, drawing me close. "Meghan Chase," Machina murmured, running a hand through my hair. I shivered, keeping my hands at my sides as the tentacles caressed my skin. "You have come. What is it you want?"

I frowned. What did I want? What had I come for? "My brother," I answered, remembering. "You kidnapped my brother, Ethan, to draw me here. I want him back."

"No." Machina shook his head, moving closer. "You did not come for your brother, Meghan Chase. Nor did you come for the Unseelie prince you claim to love. You came here for one thing only. Power."

My head throbbed and I tried backing away, but the cables held me fast. "No," I muttered, struggling against the iron net. "This… this is wrong. This isn't how it went."

"Show me, then." Machina opened his arms wide. "How was it 'supposed' to go? What did you come here to do? Show me, Meghan Chase."

"No!"

"Show me!"

Something throbbed in my hand: the beating pulse of the Witchwood arrow. With a yell, I raised my arm and drove the sharpened point through Machina's chest, sinking the arrow into his heart.

Machina staggered back, giving me a look of shocked horror. Only it wasn't Machina anymore but a faery prince with midnight hair and bright silver eyes. Lean and dangerous, silhouetted all in black, his hand went to the sword at his belt before he realized it was too late. He swayed, fighting to stay on his feet, and I bit down a scream.

"Meghan," Ash whispered, a thin line of red trickling from his mouth. His hands clutched at the arrow in his chest as he fell to his knees, pale gaze beseeching mine. "Why?"

Shaking, I raised my hands and saw they were covered in glistening crimson, running rivulets down my arms, dripping to the ground. Below the slick coating, things wiggled beneath my skin, pushing up through the surface, like leeches in blood. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should be terrified, appalled, majorly grossed out. I wasn't. I felt powerful, powerful and strong, as if electricity surged beneath my skin, as if I could do anything I wanted and no one could stop me.

I looked down at the Unseelie prince and sneered at the pathetic figure. Could I really have loved such a weakling once upon a time?

"Meghan." Ash knelt there, the life fading from him bit by bit, even as he struggled to hold on. For a brief moment, I admired his stubborn tenacity, but it wouldn't save him in the end. "What about your brother?" he pleaded. "And your family? They're waiting for you to come home."

Iron cables unfurled from my back and shoulders, spreading around me like glittering wings. Gazing down at the Unseelie prince, helpless before me, I gave him a patient smile.

"I am home."

The cables slashed down in a silver blur, slamming into the faery's chest and staking him to the ground. Ash jerked, his mouth gaping silently, before his head lolled back and he shattered like crystal on concrete.

Surrounded by the glittering remains of the Unseelie prince, I threw back my head and laughed, and it turned into a ragged scream as I wrenched myself awake.

My name is Meghan Chase.

I've been in the palace of the Winter fey for a while now. How long exactly? I don't know. Time doesn't flow right in this place. While I've been stuck in the Nevernever, the outside world, the mortal world, has gone on without me. If I ever get out of here, if I ever make it home, I might find a hundred years have passed while I was gone, like Rip van Winkle, and all my family and friends are long dead.

I try not to think of that too often, but sometimes, I can't help but wonder.

My room was cold. It was always cold. I was always cold.

Not even the sapphire flames in the hearth were enough to drive out the incessant chill. The walls and ceiling were made of opaque, smoky ice; even the chandelier sparkled with a thousand icicles. Tonight, I wore sweatpants, gloves, a thick sweater and a wool hat, but it wasn't enough. Outside my window, the underground city of the Winter fey sparkled with icy radiance. Dark forms leaped and fluttered in the shadows, flashing claws, teeth and wings. I shivered and gazed up at the sky. The ceiling of the vast cavern was too far away to see through the darkness, but thousands of tiny lights, balls of faery fire or faeries themselves, twinkled like a blanket of stars.

There was a rap at my door.

I didn't call out Come in. I'd learned not to do so in the past. This was the Unseelie Court, and inviting them into your room was a very, very bad idea. I couldn't keep them out completely, but the fey follow rules above all else, and by order of their queen, I was not to be bothered unless I requested it.

Letting them into my room could almost sound like such a request.

I crossed the floor, my breath streaming around me, and cracked open the door.

A slinky black cat sat on the floor with its tail curled around itself, gazing up at me with unblinking yellow eyes. Before I could say anything, it hissed and darted through the crack like a streak of shadow.

"Hey!"

I spun around, but the cat was no longer a cat. Tiaothin the phouka stood there, grinning at me, canines glinting. Of course. It would be the phouka; they didn't follow social rules. In fact, they seemed to take great pleasure in breaking them. Furred ears peeked out of her dreadlocked hair, twitching sporadically. She wore a gaudy jacket that sparkled with fake gems and studs, ripped jeans and combat boots. Unlike the Seelie Court, the Unseelie fey actually preferred "mortal" clothing. Whether it was in direct defiance of the Seelie Court, or because they wanted to blend in more with humans, I wasn't sure.

"What do you want?" I asked cautiously. Tiaothin had taken a keen interest in me when I was brought to court, the insatiable curiosity of a phouka, I suppose. We'd talked a few times, but she wasn't exactly what I'd call a friend. The way she stared at me, unblinking, like she was sizing me up for her next meal, always made me nervous.

The phouka hissed, running her tongue along her teeth. "You're not ready," she said in her sibilant voice, looking me over skeptically. "Hurry. Hurry and change. We should go, quickly."

I frowned. Tiaothin had always been difficult to understand, bouncing from one subject to the next so quickly it was hard to keep up. "Go where?" I asked, and she giggled.

"The queen," Tiaothin purred, flicking her ears back and forth. "The queen has called for you."

My stomach twisted into a tight ball. Ever since I'd come to the Winter Court with Ash, I'd been dreading this moment. When we'd first arrived at the palace, the queen regarded me with a predatory smile and dismissed me, saying that she wished to speak to her son alone and would call for me soon. Of course, "soon" was a relative term in Faery, and I'd been on pins and needles ever since, waiting for Mab to remember me.

That was also the last time I saw Ash.

Thinking of Ash sent a flutter through my stomach, reminding me how much had changed. When I first came to Faery, searching for my kidnapped brother, Ash had been the enemy, the cold, dangerous son of Mab, Queen of the Unseelie Court. When war threatened the courts, Mab sent Ash to capture me, hoping to use me as leverage against my father, King Oberon. But, frantic to save my brother, I made a bargain with the Winter prince, instead: if he helped me rescue Ethan, I would return with him to the Unseelie Court without a fight. At that point, it was a desperate gamble; I needed all the help I could get to face down the Iron King and save my brother. But, somewhere in that blasted wasteland of dust and iron, watching Ash battle the realm that was poisoning his very essence, I realized I was in love with him.

Ash had gotten me there, but he almost didn't survive his brush with Machina. The King of the Iron fey was insanely strong, almost invincible. Against all odds, I managed to defeat Machina, rescue my brother, and take him home.

That night as per our contract, Ash came for me. It was time to honor my end of the bargain. Leaving my family behind once more, I followed Ash into Tir Na Nog, the land of Winter.

The journey through Tir Na Nog was cold, dark, and terrifying. Even with the Winter prince at my side, Faery was still savage and inhospitable, especially to humans. Ash was the perfect bodyguard, dangerous, alert and protective, but he seemed distant at times, distracted. And the farther we went into Winter, the more he drew away, sealing himself off from me and the world. And he wouldn't tell me why.

On the last night of our journey we were attacked. A monstrous wolf, sent by Oberon himself, tracked us down, intent on killing Ash and spiriting me back to the Summer Court. We managed to escape, but Ash was wounded fighting the creature, so we took refuge in an abandoned ice cave to rest and bind his wounds.

He was silent as I wrapped a makeshift bandage around his arm, but I could feel his eyes on me as I tied it off. Releasing his arm, I looked up to meet his silvery gaze. Ash blinked slowly, giving me that look that meant he was trying to figure me out. I waited, hoping I would finally glean some insight into his sudden aloofness.

"Why didn't you run?" he asked softly. "If that thing had killed me, you wouldn't have to come back to Tir Na Nog. You would've been free."

I scowled at him.

"I agreed to that contract, same as you," I muttered, tying off the bandage with a jerk, but Ash didn't even grunt. Angry now, I glared up at him, meeting his eyes. "What, you think just because I'm human I was going to back out? I knew what I was getting into, and I am going to uphold my end of the bargain, no matter what happens. And if you think I'd leave you just so I wouldn't have to meet Mab, then you don't know me at all."

"It's because you're human," Ash continued in that same quiet voice, holding my gaze, "that you missed a tactical opportunity. A Winter fey in your position wouldn't have come back. They wouldn't let their emotions get in the way. If you're going to survive in the Unseelie Court, you have to start thinking like them."

"Well, I'm not like them." I rose and took a step back, trying to ignore the feeling of hurt and betrayal, the stupid angry tears pressing at the corners of my eyes. "I'm not a Winter faery. I'm human, with human feelings and emotions. And if you want me to apologize for that, you can forget it. I can't just shut off my feelings like you can."

I whirled to stalk away in a huff, but Ash rose with blinding speed and gripped my upper arms. I stiffened, locking my knees and keeping my back straight, but struggling with him would have been useless. Even wounded and bleeding, he was much stronger than me.

"I'm not ungrateful," he murmured against my ear, making my stomach flutter despite itself. "I just want you to understand. The Winter Court preys on the weak. It's their nature. They will try to tear you apart, physically and emotionally, and I won't always be there to protect you."

I shivered, anger melting away, as my own doubts and fears came rushing back. Ash sighed, and I felt his forehead touch the back of my hair, his breath fanning my neck. "I don't want to do this," he admitted in a low, anguished voice. "I don't want to see what they'll try to do to you. A Summer fey in the Winter Court doesn't stand much of a chance. But I vowed that I would bring you back, and I'm bound to that promise." He raised his head, squeezing my shoulders in an almost painful grip as his voice dropped a few octaves, turning grim and cold. "So you have to be stronger than they are. You can't let down your guard, no matter what. They will lead you on, with games and pretty words, and they will take pleasure in your misery. Don't let them get to you. And don't trust anyone." He paused, and his voice went even lower. "Not even me."

"I'll always trust you," I whispered without thinking, and his hands tightened, turning me almost savagely to face him.

"No," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You won't. I'm your enemy, Meghan. Never forget that. If Mab tells me to kill you in front of the entire court, it's my duty to obey. If she orders Rowan or Sage to carve you up slowly, making sure you suffer every second of it, I'm expected to stand there and let them do it. Do you understand? My feelings for you don't matter in the Winter Court. Summer and Winter will always be on opposite sides, and nothing will change that."

I knew I should be afraid of him. He was an Unseelie prince, after all, and had in no uncertain terms admitted he would kill me if Mab ordered him to. But he also admitted to having feelings for me, feelings that didn't matter, but it still made my stomach squirm when I heard it. And maybe I was being naive, but I couldn't believe Ash would willingly hurt me, even in the Winter Court. Not with the way he was looking at me now, his silver eyes conflicted and angry.

He stared at me a moment longer, then sighed. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" he murmured, closing his eyes.

Excerpted from The Iron Daughter - Julie Kagawa. Reprinted from publisher website www.eharlequin.com (Copyright © 2000–2011 Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All Rights Reserved.)

The Iron King - Julie Kagawa excerpt

excerpt

Ten years ago, on my sixth birthday, my father disappeared.
No,he didn’t leave. Leaving would imply suitcases and empty drawers, and late birthday cards with ten-dollar bills stuffed inside. Leaving would imply he was unhappy with Mom and me, or that he found a new love elsewhere. None of that was true. He also did not die, because we would’ve heard about it. There was no car crash, no body, no police mingling about the scene of a brutal murder. It all happened very quietly.
On my sixth birthday, my father took me to the park, one of my favorite places to go at that time. It was a lonely little park in the middle of nowhere, with a running trail and a misty green pond surrounded by pine trees. We were at the edge of the pond, feeding the ducks, when I heard the jingle of an ice cream truck in the parking lot over the hill. When I begged my dad to get me a cream-sickle, he laughed, handed me a few bills, and sent me after the truck.
That was the last time I saw him.
Later, when the police searched the area, they discovered his shoes at the edge of the water, but nothing else. They sent divers into the pond, but it was barely ten feet down, and they found nothing but branches and mud at the bottom. My father had disappeared without a trace.
For months after, I had a recurring nightmare about standing at the top of that hill, looking down and seeing my father walk straight into the pond. As the water closed over his head, I could hear the ice cream truck singing in the background, but it was a slow, eerie song with words I could almost understand. Every time I tried to listen to them, however, I’d wake up.
Not long after my father’s disappearance, Mom moved us far away, to a tiny little hick town in the middle of the Louisiana bayou. Mom said she wanted to ‘start over,’ but I always knew, deep down, that she was running from something.
It would be another ten years before I discovered what.
My name is Meghan Chase.
In less than twenty-four hours, I’d be sixteen years old.
Sweet sixteen. It had a magical ring to it. Sixteen was supposed to be the age when girls became princesses and fell in love and went to balls and prom dances and such. Countless stories, songs, and poems have been written about this wonderful age, when a girl finds true love and the stars shine for her and the handsome prince carries her off into the sunset.
I didn’t think it would be that way for me.
The morning before my birthday, I woke up, showered, and rummaged through my dresser for something to wear. Normally, I’d just grab whatever clean-ish thing is on the floor, but today was special. Today was the day Scott Waldron would finally notice me. I wanted to look perfect. Of course, my wardrobe is sadly lacking in the popular-attire department. While other girls spend hours in front of their closets, crying: ‘What should I wear?’ my drawers basically hold three things: clothes from Goodwill, hand-me-downs, and overalls.
I wish we weren’t so poor. I know pig farming isn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but you’d think Mom could afford to buy me at least one pair of nice jeans. I glared at my scanty wardrobe in disgust. Oh well, I guess Scott will have to be wowed with my natural grace and charm, if I don’t make an idiot of myself in front of him.
I finally slipped into cargo pants, a neutral green t-shirt, and my only pair of ratty sneakers, before dragging a brush through my white-blond hair. My hair is straight and very fine, and was doing that stupid floating thing again, where it looked like I’d jammed my finger up an electrical outlet. Yanking it into a ponytail, I went downstairs.
Luke, my stepfather, sat at the table, drinking coffee and leafing through the town’s tiny newspaper, which reads more like our high-school gossip column than a real news source. “Five-legged calf born on Patterson’s farm,” the front page screamed; you get the idea. Ethan, my four-year old half-brother, sat on his father’s lap, eating a Pop-Tart and getting crumbs all over Luke’s overalls. He clutched Floppy, his favorite stuffed rabbit, in one arm and occasionally tried to feed it his breakfast; the rabbit’s face was full of crumbs and fruit filling.
Ethan is a good kid. He has his father’s curly brown hair, but like me, inherited mom’s big blue eyes. He’s the type of kid old ladies stop to coo at, and total strangers smile and wave at him from across the street. Mom and Luke dote on their baby, but it doesn’t seem to spoil him, thank goodness.
“Where’s mom?” I asked as I entered the kitchen. Opening the cabinet doors, I scoured the boxes of cereal for the one I liked, wondering if Mom remembered to pick it up. Of course she hadn’t. Nothing but fiber squares and disgusting marshmallow cereals for Ethan. Was it so hard to remember Cheerios?
Luke ignored me and sipped his coffee. Ethan chewed his Pop-Tart and sneezed on his father’s arm. I slammed the cabinet doors with a satisfying bang.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked, a bit louder this time. Luke jerked his head up and finally looked at me. His lazy brown eyes, like the eyes of a cow, registered mild surprise.
“Oh, hello Meg,” he said calmly. “I didn’t hear you come in. What did you say?”
I sighed and repeated my question for the third time.
“She had a meeting with some of the ladies at church,” Luke murmured, turning back to his paper. “She won’t be back for a few hours, so you’ll have to take the bus.”
I always took the bus. I just wanted to remind Mom that she was supposed to take me to get a learner’s permit this weekend. With Luke, it was hopeless. I could tell him something fourteen different times, and he’d forget it the moment I left the room. It wasn’t that Luke was mean or malicious, or even stupid. He adored Ethan, and Mom seemed truly happy with him. But, every time I spoke to my stepdad, he would look at me with genuine surprise, as if he’d forgotten I lived here, too.
I grabbed a bagel from the top of the fridge and chewed it sullenly, keeping an eye on the clock. Beau, our German Shepherd, wandered in and put his big head on my knee. I scratched him behind the ears, and he groaned. At least the dog appreciated me.
Luke stood, gently placing Ethan back in his seat. “All right, big guy,” he said, kissing the top of Ethan’s head. “Dad has to fix the bathroom sink, so you sit there and be good. When I’m done, we’ll go feed the pigs, okay?”
“Kay,” Ethan chirped, swinging his chubby legs. “Floppy wants to see if Ms. Daisy had her babies yet.”
Luke’s smile was so disgustingly proud, I felt nauseous.
“Hey, Luke,” I said as he turned to go, “bet you can’t guess what tomorrow is.”
“Mm?” He didn’t even turn around. “I don’t know, Meg. If you have plans for tomorrow, talk to your mother.” He snapped his fingers, and Beau immediately left me to follow him. Their footsteps faded up the stairs, and I was alone with my half-brother.
Ethan kicked his feet, regarding me in that solemn way of his. “I know,” he announced softly, putting his Pop-Tart on the table. “Tomorrow’s your birthday, isn’t it? Floppy told me, and I remembered.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, turning and lobbing the bagel into the trashcan. It hit the wall with a thump and dropped inside, leaving a greasy smear on the paint. I smirked and decided to leave it.
“Floppy says to tell you Happy Early Birthday.”
“Tell Floppy thanks.” I ruffled his hair as I left the kitchen, my mood completely soured. I knew it. Mom and Luke would completely forget my birthday tomorrow. I wouldn’t get a card, or a cake, or even a “happy birthday” from anyone. Except my kid brother’s stupid stuffed rabbit. How pathetic was that?
Back in my room, I grabbed books, homework, gym clothes, and the iPod I’d spent a year saving for, despite Luke’s disdain of those “useless, brain-numbing gadgets.” In true hick fashion, my stepfather dislikes and distrusts anything that could make life easier. Cell phones? No way, we’ve got a perfectly good landline. Video games? They’re the Devil’s tools, turning kids into delinquents and serial killers. I’ve begged Mom over and over to buy me a laptop for school, but Luke insists that if his ancient, clunky PC is good enough for him, it’s good enough for the family. Never mind that dial-up takes flipping forever. I mean, who uses dial-up anymore?
I checked my watch and swore. The bus would arrive shortly, and I had a good ten-minute walk to the main road. Looking out the window, I saw the sky was gray and heavy with rain, so I grabbed a jacket as well. And, not for the first time, I wished we lived closer to town.
I swear, when I get a license and a car, I am never coming back to this place.
“Meggie?” Ethan hovered in the doorway, clutching his rabbit under his chin. His blue eyes regarded me somberly. “Can I go with you today?”
“What?” Shrugging into my jacket, I gazed around for my backpack. “No, Ethan. I’m going to school now. Big kids school; no rug rats allowed.”
I turned away, only to feel two small arms wrap around my leg. Putting my hand against the wall to avoid falling, I glared down at my half-brother. Ethan clung to me doggedly, his face tilted up to mine, his jaw set. “Please?” he begged. “I’ll be good, I promise. Take me with you? Just for today?”
With a sigh, I bent down and picked him up.
“What’s up, squirt?” I asked, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Mom would need to cut it soon; it was starting to look like a bird’s nest. “You’re awfully clingy this morning. What’s going on?”
“Scared,” Ethan muttered, burying his face in my neck.
“You’re scared?”
He shook his head. “Floppys’ scared.”
“What’s Floppy scared of?”
“The man in the closet.”
I felt a small chill slide up my back. Sometimes, Ethan was so quiet and serious, it was hard to remember he was only four. He still had childish fears of monsters under his bed and boogiemen in his closet. In Ethan’s world, stuffed animals spoke to him, invisible men waved to him from the bushes, and scary creatures tapped long nails against his bedroom window. He rarely went to Mom or Luke with stories of monsters and boogiemen; from the time he was old enough to walk, he always came to me.
I sighed, knowing he wanted me to go upstairs and check, to reassure him that nothing lurked in his closet or under his bed. I kept a flashlight on his dresser for that very reason.
Outside, lightning flickered, and thunder rumbled in the distance. I winced. My walk to the bus was not going to be pleasant.
Dammit, I don’t have time for this.
Ethan pulled back and looked at me, eyes pleading. I sighed again. “Fine,” I muttered, putting him down. “Let’s go check for monsters.”
He followed me silently up the stairs, watching anxiously as I grabbed the flashlight and got down on my knees, shining it under the bed. “No monsters there,” I announced, standing up. I walked to the closet door and flung it open, as Ethan peeked out behind my legs. “No monsters here, either. Think you’ll be all right now?”
He nodded and gave me a faint smile. I started to close the door, when I noticed a strange gray hat in the corner. It was domed on top, with a circular rim and a red band around the base: a bowler hat.
Weird. Why would that be there?
As I straightened and started to turn around, something moved out of the corner of my eye. I caught a glimpse of a figure hiding behind Ethan’s bedroom door, its pale eyes watching me through the crack. I jerked my head around, but of course there was nothing there.
Geez, now Ethan’s got me seeing imaginary monsters. I need to stop watching those late night horror flicks.
A thunderous boom directly overhead made me jump, and fat drops plinked against the window panes. Rushing past Ethan, I burst out of the house and sprinted down the driveway.
Excerpted from The Iron King - Julie Kagawa. Reprinted from authors website http://juliekagawa.com.

Forget You - Jennifer Echols excerpt

excerpt

Every strong swimmer has a story about nearly drowning. This is mine:
Late one June afternoon I was driving home from my summer job at my dad's water park, Slide with Clyde, when my phone rang and Brandon’s name flashed on the screen. He knew I never answered my phone while driving. And everybody working at Slide with Clyde today had heard that my dad had gotten Ashley, the twenty-four-year-old human resources manager, pregnant. That meant all my friends knew, because I’d found Brandon a job there and my entire swim team jobs as lifeguards, all seventeen of us—everybody but Doug Fox.
My dad had left work a little early—to tell my mom before she found out from another source, I guessed. So if Brandon wanted to talk to me now, it must be important. Maybe it had something to do with my parents.
I parked my vintage Volkswagon Bug in the courtyard outside my house, between my dad’s Benz and my mom’s eco-friendly hybrid, and cut the engine. The Bug had no air-conditioning. The Florida heat had been bearable while I was damp from swimming and the car was moving. But my bikini had dried underneath my T-shirt and gym shorts. The sun beat down. The heat crept through the open windows like a dangerous animal unafraid of humans and settled on my chest.
I picked up my phone and pushed the button to call Brandon back.
“Zoey,” he said.
“Hey, baby. Is something wrong?”
“Everything!” he exclaimed. “You’re going to kill me. You know how I was telling you at lunch about Clarissa?”
“Who?” I’d been distracted when I talked to him at lunch. I’d just learned the latest about Ashley.
“Clarissa? The brunette who works at the top of the Tropical Terror Plunge? She’s in college. You told me I should ask her out anyway.”
“Right.” I couldn’t believe he’d called me about this. We’d become friends because I was a good listener, and I gave him advice on his girl troubles—but surely he knew this was not the time.
“Well, I asked her out, and she said yes. But then her big sister came to pick her up from work, and Zoey. This chick was on fire. I don’t know how much older she is than me. She might have graduated from college already. That’s kind of a reach, even for me. But I could go out with Clarissa this once, give it a few weeks to cool off, then try her sister. What do you think?”
“I think you’re jailbait.”
He laughed shortly.
In the silence that followed, I heard how mean my comment had sounded. True but mean. I could not have a friendly conversation right now.
“Brandon, can we talk about this later?” I asked. “I’m sitting outside my house, and I think my dad is inside telling my mom about Ashley.”
“Oh,” Brandon said. He sounded like he’d really forgotten about the rumors at work today. “Are you scared?”
“I’m. . .” I stared at the front door. “No, I’m used to the idea. Everybody’s been talking about my dad and Ashley since the park opened in May. I’m more relieved that I don’t have to be the one to tell my mom.” I held up my hand and admired how perfect and smooth my manicure looked against the ancient steering wheel. “That’s awful of me, isn’t it?”
“Zoey, you could never be awful.”
With that once sentence, Brandon melted my heart all over again. He was a player, but he meant well. Deep down he was truly a sweet person and a good friend, and he knew how to make me feel better.
I ended the call with him and stood up in the courtyard. Sure enough, my parents’ voices reached me even here. I’d hurried home so I could support my mom through this. Now I wished I could unhear them screaming betrayal and divorce at each other. I’d sat on the edge of my seat up to the climax of this movie, but now that I knew it wouldn’t have a happy ending, I didn’t want to see.
Instead of going inside, I scooted around the side of the house, ripping off the T-shirt and shorts over my bikini as I went, kicking off my flip-flops, pulling the ponytail holder out of my hair. I hit the beach running.
A dark storm gathered on the horizon. Usually my beach here along the Florida Panhandle was gentle, only soft white sand underfoot, protected from sharp shells by the sand bars in deeper waters. Today the wind was full of sand, stinging my legs. Way down the beach I could just make out the red flags flying in front of the hotels, warning about strong surf and undertow. The flags were for tourists. They didn’t mean me.
I splashed into the ocean. The water was warmer than the air. It soothed me, flowing under my suit and across my limbs. The waves were high with the coming storm, but I was stronger than they were. I swam straight out over them, into deep water, purposefully tiring myself out. If only I could sleep tonight. A long way from the beach, I performed a flip-turn against an imaginary wall and swam back toward shore.
A wave crashed over my head, taking me by surprise, forcing salt water into my mouth, pushing me down. Cold jets curled around my ankles and towed me along. My knee skidded across the bare sandy bottom of the ocean.
I kicked toward the surface—a few massive kicks that took all my strength. If I reached the surface and stayed there, I could skim along the tops of the waves, stroking parallel to the beach until I escaped the current that wanted to drag me under and out.
I popped into the cold air. Just as I sucked in a breath, another wave plunged me under. In the roar I coughed water and strained against the urge to breathe more in. I tumbled along the bottom.
With strength I didn’t know I had left, I pushed off the bottom, propelling myself to the surface. I would glide through the water, pop into the air again, take that breath I’d missed.
The surface wasn’t where I thought it would be. I couldn’t fight the urge to breathe the ocean. That was when I realized I was going to die.
The ocean tossed me into the air like trash.
I breathed deep and long, already paddling before I hit the water. I knew the current would take me again soon. I didn’t waste my breath screaming. The beach was empty. No lifeguards patrolled this private section. Signs warned SWIM AT OWN RISK. Even if someone had come to my rescue, it would have been another foolish swimmer without a float. Both of us would have gone under, and it would have been my fault. I was the lifeguard.
I swam until I couldn’t swim anymore. Then I kept swimming.
Finally I escaped the current, stood upright on the bottom, waded to the shore, collapsed on the beach just as the storm broke over me. The rain beat me into the sand and seaweed.
I lay there for a long time, eyes squeezed shut against the raindrops, breathing. It was over. I thought only of myself, so thankful to be alive. I walked home in the cold rain.
But three months later, when my mom attempted suicide, I would look back on that afternoon as a warning. On coming home from work and hearing my parents argue, instead of escaping into the water like a troubled teen, I should have stayed and supported my mom. If I'd taken better care of her when she needed me, I could have prevented everything.

• • •

A tiny chip had appeared in the pink polish at the tip of my pointer fingernail, where it was most noticeable. I rubbed the pad of my thumb across it, hoping no one would see it before I could fix it. My mom had always stressed to me that outward appearances were important. Strong personalities would challenge you no matter what, but you could repel the weaker people who might take a swipe at you by presenting yourself as moneyed, stylish, organized, together.
From across the emergency room waiting area, I heard a familiar voice, though muffled—a voice from school. I looked up from my fingernail. Doug Fox stood in the vestibule, framed by the black night outside.
Doug was hot, with black hair that never streaked in the chlorine and salt and sun, and eyes the strangest light green-blue, exactly the color of the ocean here. They were mesmerizing, framed by long black lashes in his tanned face. I could see why his eyes were famous among the girls at my high school. A boy with an ego as big as Doug’s didn’t deserve eyes like that.
I had a lot of classes with him this year. He was on the varsity swim team with me. And he hated me. He was the last person I wanted to see right now, when the doctors had told me my mom would live, but I didn't know what would happen next.
Instinctively I ducked my head—which would do me no good if he looked in my direction. My hair wouldn't drape forward to cover my face. It was still pulled back in the ponytail I'd worn home from work a few hours ago, when I'd walked into the eerily quiet apartment I shared with my mom and found her. Anyway, Doug and I had known each other forever. He would recognize me instantly. My hair in my face would not save me.
But he wasn’t looking at me. He talked with the policeman who’d responded first to my 911 call, who’d stood awkwardly in the apartment while I sat on my mom’s bed and held my mom’s hand until the ambulance came, and who had not abandoned me. My dad had been half an hour away in Destin, shopping the Labor Day sales for baby furniture with Ashley. He'd arrived only fifteen minutes ago and had burst through the hospital doors in front of me, into mysterious corridors that were off-limits to a minor like me. All this time, the policeman had sat with me in the empty waiting room. Or, not with me, but across from me. Not close enough to converse with me or comfort me like a friend, but in the vicinity like a protector. Around.
Now he stood in the vestibule with Doug. Doug handed him a bag printed with the name of a local seafood restaurant: Jamaica Joe's. And I realized in a rush that the policeman was Doug’s older brother, Officer Fox, equally celebrated by the girls in my school for his appropriate name. Doug had brought his brother dinner because his brother had stayed with me long enough to miss a meal.
They spoke with their heads together, and now Doug did look up at me. His brother was telling him what my mom had done.
I looked away again. The doors into the emergency room were white. The walls of the waiting area were white. The floor was square white tiles with gray specks.
I couldn’t stand it. I looked over at the vestibule. The night was black, Officer Fox was dark in his uniform, and Doug shook his black hair out of his green eyes, piercing even at this distance. He said something to his brother and took a step toward me.
Oh God, weren’t things bad enough without Doug here? I’d thought the shock of finding my mom had drained the life out of me for years to come. But my heart still worked, pounding painfully in my chest in anticipation of what Doug would say to make things worse.
The emergency room doors flew open and banged against the walls before folding shut again. My dad stalked toward me, muscular and fit at forty-seven, his handsome features set in fury. I shrank back into the vinyl seat, afraid he was angry at me.
But maybe he was furious at the world for allowing his ex-wife to sink to this low—or better yet, furious with himself. He had realized on the drive here from the baby superstore that he had failed us. Now he would come to our rescue. Yes, there was the matter of Ashley being four months pregnant with his baby, but our family would get past that and he would come back to my mom.
He lowered himself into the seat next to mine. His brow was furrowed in anger, but as he opened his thin lips, I was sure he would utter everything I'd longed all summer to hear.
“You keep this to yourself,” he snarled.
I blinked at him. My brain rushed through scenarios, painting him as the hero, and finally gave up. There was no way he could be our hero when his first words to me were a command to keep things quiet. I stammered, “Keep… How…?”
"They're taking her to the loony bin in Fort Walton,” he interrupted me. “With any luck they'll dope her up, and she'll be back at work in six weeks. You want to spread it around town that she's nuts and ruin her career, go right ahead."
I tried to hear pain in his voice, sorrow at what my mom had done, remorse for the hand he'd had in driving her to this point. Emotions like these must be behind his unsympathetic words.
But all I heard was anger. Embarrassment that his friends and business partners and employees might dish about him and his tabloid-worthy private life. Fear that my mom would lose her job and he'd have to share the proceeds of his water park with two families instead of one.
"Don't even tell those little twins, you understand me?" He leaned forward and looked straight into my eyes as he said this. It was the closest his body had come to my body since he arrived. He would not hug me. He would only invade my personal space to emphasize that I’d better not spill this secret to my best friends.
Without waiting for my answer, he stood. "Don't move," he barked, not looking at me. I assumed he meant me because I was the only other person in the room. He was already walking toward the vestibule.
Oh God, oh God. He might threaten Officer Fox into promising silence, but he had no idea who Doug was, or how little Doug cared about anybody. There was no threat my dad could make to Doug that would shut Doug up if he thought spreading the news about my mother would hurt me. Doug would think he was ruining my life, but really he would be ruining my mother’s—because even if she started to recover from her mental illness, she wouldn’t recover much if she lost her job and the community’s respect.
I saw all this unfolding in front of me as my dad swung open the glass door to the vestibule and leaned into Officer Fox's personal space, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it from happening. Doug’s green eyes widened as my dad growled at Officer Fox. I couldn’t make out all of what my dad was saying, but when you can kiss your job good-bye floated to me through the glass, I turned away from the black rectangle of night. I stared at the white doors to the emergency room. My thumb found the chip in my fingernail polish and rubbed back and forth across it. I didn’t need to see it to know it was there.
The vestibule door squealed open. “Zoey,” my dad called. “Let’s go.” He stood alone at the threshold to the darkness. He must have chased Doug and Officer Fox away.
I gestured toward the emergency room doors. I thought he would know what I meant by this. When he raised his eyebrows in expectation, I realized I would have to explain even this to him: that I didn’t want to leave her. I opened my mouth and had no words for any of it.
“They won’t let you see her anyway,” he said. “The loony bin won’t let you see her either. They say it’s to protect you from her, and to protect her from you. To remove her from the environment. They’ll let her call you when she’s ready to see you.”
He was saying what I'd been thinking. I'd been blaming myself and hoping that self-blame was natural in these circumstances but ultimately silly. He was telling me it was not silly. Even the mental hospital thought it was my fault that my mother had done this. I still didn't want to believe any of it, but I felt myself falling down that slope without anything to grab to save myself, except this:
I whispered, "When I first got here, they told me maybe I could talk to the hospital psychologist about what happened?"
"They don't need you to diagnose your mother," my dad grumbled.
"I mean"—I swallowed—"for me? To talk about me?"
He huffed out a sigh and leaned one shoulder against the glass wall of the vestibule. "So now you're crazy too? You're not going to a psycho-anything. You see how much good it did your mother. They’ll just give you the drugs that you can OD on later. There's a reason we call them shrinks. Let's go."
I stood, only then realizing how sore my back was and how long I must have been sitting in that seat, staring at the closed emergency room doors. I followed my dad through the vestibule and into the night.
We didn't have far to walk. He had parked his Benz in a handicapped space just outside the door. The backseat was filled with large boxes with laughing babies on the labels. A high chair, a bouncing swing. I slid into the passenger seat and lost myself in an argument inside my own head.
I did not want to believe my dad was right. My mom had not OD'd on medicine a shrink had given her. She had OD'd on sleeping pills her regular doctor had given her. She had never gone to a shrink, probably because of my dad's opinion of them. I had overheard him saying something like this to her during one of their fights last spring.
I could have pointed this out to him, but he would not have listened to me, any more than he had listened to her. And though normally I might have obsessed about this point of contention and reviewed it over and over, trying to find a way to present it to him that he would understand and accept, tonight it slipped away from me as if captured by the undertow.
In my mind I was back in my mother’s bedroom at our apartment, trying to fix everything. I was the lifeguard, but I couldn’t give her mouth-to-mouth because she was still breathing, and I couldn’t give her CPR because her heart was still beating, faintly. What could I do to help? When the paramedics arrived, I could tell them exactly what she’d taken. Holding my cell phone to my ear with one hand because the 911 dispatcher had ordered me not to hang up, I walked to the bathroom and found her prescription bottle in the trash. Empty.
“Aren’t you going in?” my dad asked.
I looked over at him in the driver’s seat. He thumbed through the messages on his phone. He’d parked the Benz in front of the apartment, between my mother’s hybrid and my battered Bug. He’d just bought Ashley a convertible Beamer. I drove this ancient Bug because he made me use my own money from working at Slide with Clyde for my car, insurance, and gas. He’d told me before that growing up a spoiled brat was what was wrong with my mom.
“Come to think of it,” he said, still scrolling, “I’ll have to help you. You need to get everything. Even after she’s released, the judge won’t let you live with her. You might not be back here for a while.” Behind us, the trunk popped open to receive all my belongings. He stepped out of the Benz.
I followed him into the parking lot. The apartment building was the nicest one in town, which wasn’t saying a lot. Everyone who could afford a house lived in one, which left the apartments for the transients. Mature palms and palmettos softened the lines of the weathered wooden building, but a huge air-conditioning unit filled the late summer night with its drone, and the scent of the community garbage Dumpster wafted from behind a high fence.
My dad noticed the smell too, nostrils flared in distaste as he stood waiting for me at the front of the car. I wondered why he didn't go ahead to the apartment. Then I remembered he didn't have a key. I pulled my key chain from my pocket. Still, he didn't move. He didn't know which apartment was mine, after I'd lived here for three months.
An instant of anger at him propelled me forward onto the sidewalk. I inserted the key into my lock. But now I had to turn the key. Now I had to go in.
My dad was watching me. I couldn't let him see me hesitate. That would make things worse on my mom, to admit to my dad that what she'd done made her less of a person and worthy of his disdain. I shoved inside and flicked on the light.
At least the apartment was extremely clean, the way I'd left it. It didn't looklike an insane person lived here. But viewing it through my dad’s eyes, the apartment building’s standard-issue furniture made it look like she had sunk low. I didn’t want him venturing farther inside, judging.
I faced him. “Why don’t you watch TV while you wait? I won’t be long. Can I get you something to drink?”
He grunted and stepped outside, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes—a strange habit he’d taken up last May when the water park opened for the season and he hired Ashley.
I watched him until the door closed behind him, then dashed through the apartment, double-checking that it was neat. As I passed back and forth in front of my mother’s desk in the living room, her suicide note stared up at me, the most obvious crazy item: Zoey, I just couldn’t see doing it all another day. I love you. Mom. If I put it in the desk drawer, I would be putting my mom away. I settled for squaring the notepaper perfectly against the corner of the desk. Again.
In the kitchen I peered into the refrigerator. I would take anything perishable to the dumpster so my mom wouldn’t have a mess to clean up when she came back. I was surprised to find no fruit, no milk. My mom had cleaned it out already.
In the bathroom I selected all my toiletries, leaving my mom’s. In my bedroom I grabbed armfuls of clothing from my closet and my dresser and shoved them into my suitcases. At first I went for the summer clothes only. Then I pulled out a light jacket in case I was still living with my dad when the nights got cool. As I reached the sweater box under my bed, I stared at the cotton and cashmere, heartbeat accelerating into panic, wondering just how long my mom would be gone, and what she would do in the loony bin all that time, and what they would do to her, and whether they would ever let her out, and whether a judge really would keep me from living with her my entire last year of high school.
The smell of smoke startled me. I hoped my dad wasn’t smoking in the apartment, because my mom was allergic. I shoved the sweater box back under my bed, zipped my suitcases, and hauled them into the den.
The apartment door was wide open, letting the air-conditioning out, making room for the warm night air my dad had just smoked. He stood over my mom’s desk, reading her note with his nostrils flared again.
“I’m ready.” I left one suitcase for him and wheeled the other past him and out the door, hoping to distract him from what he’d already seen. He followed me. I pulled the door shut behind me and locked it. When I turned around, he held his hand out.
I looked up at him, puzzled. “The key? Why?”
“Because you’re a teenager,” he said, “and I’m your father.”
I didn’t like the finality of it, or the implication that I was a wild child who couldn’t be trusted with the key to an empty apartment. But a part of me was grateful that my dad was taking charge. I wiggled the key off the ring and held it out to him. He didn’t notice. He was looking at the screen on his phone.
“Dad.”
He pocketed my key but kept his phone in his hand as he wheeled my suitcase around to the open trunk of the Benz. After hefting both suitcases inside and slamming the trunk, he opened the driver’s door. He nodded toward my Bug. “You’re bringing your car, right? I’ll see you at home.”
Home. He meant the house on the beach. I hadn't been back there since my mom and I had left. He had joint custody of me, but I figured we saw enough of each other every day at work. Besides, Ashley had gleefully warned me that if I ever did want to visit, the house was a mess. She was having the kitchen remodeled.
I did not want to follow my dad back there right now. I pictured myself in my old bedroom, staring out the window at the ocean I couldn't see in the black night, wondering what was happening to my mom. I had stared at white emergency room doors for hours tonight. Panic at what she had done rushed through me like pain to my numb fingertips when I warmed them inside on a rare cold winter day. I could not sit in that bedroom tonight, wincing at my heavy heartbeat.
There was just so much I could take.
“Actually,” I said, “if you don’t want anyone in town to know about Mom, there’s a beach party I need to go to tonight, the last blowout of the year. If I’m not there, my friends will want to know why.” The Slide with Clyde employees had thrown beach parties all summer. Tonight’s party was special because today, Labor Day, had been our last day of work. Slide with Clyde had closed for the season. This much was true.
It was not true that my friends expected me at the party. They expected me to stay home with my mom. Some days when I came home from work, she seemed energetic as ever. Better, even. But most days she hardly ate dinner, and she went to bed early. In the last couple of weeks she’d complained that she couldn’t sleep. I’d suggested that she didn’t need twelve hours. Her response was to ask for those sleeping pills from her doctor. Now I wondered whether she’d had suicide in mind all along. I had worried about her all summer, so I’d stayed home from my friends’ parties, not that it had done any good.
Tonight I would go.
My dad nodded absently, sinking into the driver’s seat of the Benz.
“I may be out late,” I warned him. “Is that okay? I know I have school tomorrow—”
He closed the door of the Benz and started the engine, already thinking of someone else.

 Excerpted from Forget You - Jennifer Echols. Reprinted from authors website http://jennifer-echols.com