Belated EEK! Put Some Pages Up For Criteek!

A post by Mary Fan

Hey y'all! So I've been in a helluva writing slump (actually, a helluva life slump) for several months
now, so when my turn came to do an EEK last month, I had literally nothing. Since then, the life slump has kept slumping, but at least I managed to beat a few thousand words out of me (the motivation/productivity seems to be returning in abrupt waves).

So here, for your consideration, are a few pages from my new project... that disastrous ball of insanity I have no business writing but can't stop writing anyway. It's a YA magical realism about six modern-day teens from different backgrounds whose lives bump into each other in unexpected ways.... Here's one of them, an aspiring opera singer named Rae (this is actually the start of Chapter 3, her first POV chapter)

Rae could always tell that the latest diet plan her mom stuck her on was working when her boobs started shrinking. Judging from the number of times she’d had to pull up her bra straps while carrying boxes into her third-floor dorm, it was. She considered letting this one—no carbs, no trans fats, and pretty much no meat—keep going long enough for the rest of her to shrink too. But she knew better. The moment her parents went home—leaving her alone and free at camp—she’d go back to eating like a normal person. It was the eternal tug-of-war of being sixteen—both in age and dress size. Part of her wanted to listen to her mom and believe that skinny was the answer to all her problems, and part of her was like, Fuck it, I’m me, and you can deal with it.

So far, the fuck it side was winning.

She reached across the narrow twin bed—less than half the size of what she had at home, but whatever—tucked her purple sheet over the corner. Straightening, she felt her bra strap slip off—again.

The tiny, single room was stifling in the June heat, and the building was so old, there was no AC. Still, she breathed more easily here than she ever had anywhere else. Fireflies danced around her as they always did, though in the daylight, many mistook them for the gross kind of bugs. If only they’d stick around long enough to see how magical they could be.

“You sure about this, sweetie?” Mom looked like she was literally about to clutch the string of pearls above her sweater set. “Home’s only ten minutes away, and—”

“Moooooom!” Rae dragged her voice out. “I’m living on campus, and that’s that! So deal with it, okay?” She’d been dreaming of attending the Silver Star Creek Summer Arts Festival since she was in kindergarten, and living on the Rexford University campus was part of the experience. She wasn’t about to let Mom take that from her.

A whole summer of nothing but music and fellow young artists and independence—it was like a dream come true. And Rae was certain that hers were about to. The festival—which brought together aspiring young performers from across the country for two months of intensive training with world-class mentors—was breeding ground for future fame, and talent scouts knew that. They flocked to the end-of-summer showcase that exhibited the best of the best, and lots of greats had gotten their start here. Rae was the kind of operatic soprano that could make audiences gasp and weep, even though, as a teen, she’d barely begun to develop her talent. Imagine what’ll happen when my voice matures.

Surely, the scouts would notice too, and she’d get invited to all sorts of conservatories and young artist programs around the world. This was the start she’d always hoped for, that she’d been working for since she’d started taking voice lessons at age three. She’d been watching other opera singers triumph on stage for as long as she could remember.

She’d always known that someday, it would be her turn.

“Remember, we’re just a phone call away.” Mom placed a hand on Rae’s shoulder. “You got the list I sent you, right?”

Rae made a face. Mom’s lists were always full of nitpicky crap, like what Rae should and shouldn’t eat or what hours she could be out without an adult chaperone and other Mom-ish stuff.

“Relax, honey.” From the doorway, Dad chuckled. “She’s sixteen, not six.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got an audition this afternoon, so I don’t have time for your fussing.” Rae crossed her arms. “Go home so I can practice.”

“Wait, you have an audition already?” Mom frowned. “I thought the program didn’t begin until Monday.”

“Not for the festival.” Rae rolled her eyes. “Arthur Theater, remember? They’re staging a new opera about World War Two, and they have open auditions for the chorus.” The community theater specialized in undiscovered talent—both on and off stage. Growing up in an artsy town like Rexford, she’d always been surrounded by fresh ideas on the cusp of becoming something great. Now that she was old enough, she could finally take part.

This time, it was Dad who frowned. “Wait, you want to do an opera and the camp? Are you sure you can handle both?”

Rae didn’t dignify that with an answer; she simply lifted her brows and angled her mouth in an expression that said it all.

She’d find a way to make everything work, and nothing would stop her now.

Eek! A critique! Of a YA myster-eeeeeeeee

Okay, people, help a girl out. This book is becoming the bane of my existence. I have no idea what works, what doesn't. If my narrative voice is any good, if the characters are compelling. I know nothing.

In this scene: Troy, nearly 18, is lamenting the fact that his estranged sister, who he hasn't seen in three years, recently stood him up.

Also, this is set in 1995 -- hence the answering machine and handwritten note.

Gracias in advance.

**

Troy returned home to a note in Jerry’s handwriting and a twenty dollar bill tacked up on the fridge with a magnet.
Client dinner. Order a pizza. Invite Caitlyn over. Her parents are in Aruba.
Only Troy’s parents would encourage he hang out with the pretty blonde neighbor girl without any adult supervision. But then again, Troy’s parents knew him. Caitlyn, however, didn’t. He’d eat the pizza alone.
He ran upstairs to his bedroom, dropped his car keys on his nightstand, and shucked off his boots. The button on his answering machine blinked. Troy exhaled. It had to be Miranda. He was already bracing for her excuses.
Sorry, I forgot the time.
They changed my schedule at work and I couldn’t call you.
I overslept.
I’m in a ditch somewhere.
He pressed the button.
“Hey Troy, Coach Shipman calling. I saw you at the open meet…” Troy deleted the message.
That was it.
Nothing from Miranda. He’d give her a few more days before he swore off her forever. Like she did to him the day she left.
“Don’t worry, little bro. I'll be back one day,” Miranda had said. She rubbed the top of his head, even though he was taller than her at this point. Three years apart, they were often mistaken for twins.
Dressed in ripped jeans, a sweatshirt, and armed with a duffle bag, Miranda had one foot out her window before Troy caught her.
“You weren’t going to say goodbye?” he asked.
She glanced away, toward the street. “You know how I hate the emotional stuff. Besides, I didn’t want you ratting me out to Mom and Jerry.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” He was desperate to pull her inside the window, tie her up, make her stay. He’d been out of Hulbert a year and things hadn’t felt any better. “Can’t you just move nearby? You don’t have to live here.”
She shook her head. Dark strands of hair got caught in her mouth, but she was holding on so precariously to the window ledge, she couldn’t risk letting go to smooth back her hair. “I want to see places. I’m itchy.”
Troy quickly unclipped the cross from his neck and fastened it above the collar of her shirt. “Take it. You can always pawn it if you need the cash.”
Miranda smiled softly. “Thanks.” She looked down before swinging out her other leg and dropping to the ground, landing with a thud. It was an easy eight-foot drop.
Miranda was fearless. Reckless. Impulsive. Troy used to be like that.
“I’ll send you postcards,” she whispered up to him. Then she took off down the long driveway, disappearing into the dark.
Troy stared out the open window for awhile, ignoring the chill, adding Miranda to the list of people lost to him.
Three years later, she intruded into his life with a phone call. Made him drive up to Cohosh only to disappear again, probably halfway to Nashville or Atlanta. Maybe she was on a plane headed to Europe. But, she led him to believe she’d be there to see him.
Miranda was still reckless. 

EEK! PUT SOME PAGES UP FOR A CRITEEEEEEK: A collection of shorts

Hey, everybody!  It's time for another installment of "Eek! Put Some Pages Up For Criteek!"  In case you don't remember the deal, you can check out Jonathan's original post including the rules. 

I have this WIP where I hope to create one large story knitted together through a collection of short stories. This Eek! is from the first story, Megan. You hereby have my permission to shred/praise/toss/tout/completely rewrite the first two pages. Happy reading. And be gentle!

~Carrie

“How can you say being invisible wouldn’t be fun? How would you know?” Noah stared at her, disbelief mixing with anger.

It wasn’t the first time they’d had the superpowers conversation. As annoying as it was, she took some comfort in knowing she wasn’t the only big sister who had to relive this particular debate over and over again. Usually, she just nodded and agreed that whatever superpower Noah was fixated on for the day would be the most awesome thing in the world.

But that particular morning she just couldn’t bring herself to agree. She didn’t mean to say what she did because she knew he wouldn’t understand. At eight the world still looked as though it could be anything he wanted it to be.  Despite his innocence, or maybe because of it, she found herself wanting to say more. She wanted to tell him that she did, in fact, know what it felt like to be invisible.

That as soon as she got out of the car she’d once again don her cloak of invisibility.

She wanted to warn him that while being invisible would allow him to move from place to place unnoticed, it also had consequences. After a while, he would start to question his own existence. The cloak of invisibility is heavy and he wouldn’t have the power to just remove it whenever he wanted. Others would have to remove it for him.

But she didn’t say any of those things because he wouldn’t understand. She’d already said too much and his innocent feelings had been hurt. Besides, she had reason to hope that this would be the day when someone would permanently lift her cloak of invisibility. Why dwell on the negatives?

“I’m just kidding with you, Noah. Of course being invisible would be awesome.” She tried to put as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible, but the look on Noah’s face told her he still didn’t trust her.

The car pulled to a stop at the front of the car line and she slowly got out, her mom calling to her before she could shut the door.

“Megan, are you sure you’re going to be all right until after your game tonight?”

She always asked, and while Megan appreciated it, she wished her mom wouldn’t. Every time her mom asked the question, Megan had to lie. She had to tell her that of course she’d be fine. Megan had to stay at school until after the game, and her mom couldn’t come because of work and Noah. Why tell her mom the truth—that she’d be miserable and alone—just to make her feel even guiltier than she already did?

“Yeah, of course I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tonight.”

Megan closed the door and turned toward the school. It loomed over her, and she immediately started to feel the weight of the cloak. She tried to shake it off with each step, but it wouldn’t budge.

She entered the building, a ghost walking unnoticed through the crowded halls. As she did every morning, she tried her best to connect. She looked at her classmates as she passed, trying to pull their eyes to hers. She gave them a slight smile or nod. Their eyes often linked with hers, but they didn’t connect. They looked through her, not at her.

She was the girl everyone knew, but no one noticed.

She had gotten used to it. She learned to accept it. She was able to find a way to be a ghost, existing only when someone removed the cloak for her. In some ways she liked it. No one bullied her. No one took advantage of her. No one expected things from her that she couldn’t deliver.

But she couldn’t hold on to those positives for very long. The loneliness and self-doubt eventually took over, nearly suffocating her.

This was the first day in a long time she felt the heaviness so early in the day. She always felt the burden from the moment she woke up, but she could usually endure until the final bell rang. Since she’d been given the hope of a different day, she thought it would feel lighter than normal. Instead, it felt heavier.

She held her breath as she turned the corner, even though she knew he wouldn’t be there. He was never there before her. But still—there was always the possibility, and she couldn’t seem to keep herself from hoping.

She released her breath slowly as her eyes fell on the empty space in front of his locker. She glanced around as she walked, not really looking for him, but looking just the same. The usual groups were all accounted for, talking over each other in frantic sentences to get in as much gossip as possible before the bell rang.

She moved forward, unnoticed.

Someone accidentally bumped her shoulder as he passed by, and for a moment her cloak shifted. She was rewarded with a polite and apologetic smile before she became invisible once again. She reached her locker and looked down the hall once more as she unpacked her bag, hoping to see Brett.

Instead, she saw the one person at school who she knew was genuinely happy about her existence. Emma was her savior in many ways, but Megan didn’t think she knew it. Sure she often told Emma she was an awesome best friend and that her life wouldn’t be the same without her, but she didn’t think Emma fully understood the truth of her words. Emma wouldn’t understand it if Megan told her she made her feel as though the cloak didn’t exist at all.

Eek! It's ANOTHER Criteek!

I'm going to step out of my Resident Reader role again for another Eek! Criteek! post. As you may recall, I posted the first chapter of my YA dual-narrative sci-fi-ish WIP, Revealed, back in November. Today I'm sharing chapter two. 

Here's the blurb I posted last time: 

A secret society of special abilities, the Order, becomes unbalanced when Jaycen Towle acts on his desire to use the gift he was born with to become a superhero. Cara Wallace, a gifted outsider, is sucked into Jaycen’s world when she discovers his secret and believes the Order may have answers about the parents she barely knew. But are the Order’s answers really worth the shattering they cause both Cara and Jaycen?

Without further ado, here's my chapter two (hey, that rhymes!). 

Jaycen

   “Come in,” my father’s rough voice called through the thick wood of his office door before I even had a chance to drop my fist. My heart hammered and my hand shook ever so slightly when I twisted the cold metal knob. The door closed behind me and my father, Salem Towle, looked up. “Ah, Jaycen,” he smiled. “Take a seat.” He motioned toward the padded chairs across from his mahogany desk, but continued skimming through the stack of papers in front of him. It would be an eventful summer at the bed and breakfast we used as a cover for the Order’s headquarters, so I wasn’t surprised to find him in his office at this late hour. It bothered me when he did that, though. I needed his undivided attention.

   I spoke while standing, too nervous to sit. “There’s this girl at school,” I blurted out.

   He finally looked up with a smirk, a glint to the same blue eyes I saw in the mirror every morning. “Are we due for another one of those talks?” he asked. I wasn’t in the mood. In fact, his untimely joke rubbed me the wrong way and, however briefly the thought flashed, I almost backed out of the office. My awkwardness must have been pretty obvious because his face cleared and he simply waited. The clock above his head ticked away the empty seconds. When I didn’t start again, he impatiently asked, “Well, who is she?”

   “Her name is Cara Wallace.” Just saying her name sent chills up my spine.

   He shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. What’s her Talent?”

   I reached up to rub the back of my neck nervously. Just spit it out, I urged myself. “Well, that’s the thing. You don’t know her. She’s, um…well, she’s not in the Order.” As soon as the words were out, relief washed over me at finally confiding in someone. After all, I had been observing her for the better part of a year now. But at the sharp look on my father’s face and the wrinkles that lined his forehead, I wanted to suck them back in.

   “Jaycen, there are rules against that,” he said, solemnly. Here I was telling him about my first crush and instead of clapping me on the back, he was crushing me with rules of the secret organization he held so dearly.

   I started to say, “But dad, it’s different with her. She’s different--” before he cut me off with a movement of his hand that brushed aside my words.

   His sigh was made louder by the quiet room. “Is this really worth discussing? I can’t change the rules, even for you.” While he managed the Order’s headquarters, he was right. He was not a Superior- the leaders and enforcers of our organization. And since Cara hadn’t been born into our exclusive society the way everyone was...

   “Dad, I really think there’s something there.” I paused to consider my words. “I mean, it’s weird. She doesn’t even watch where she’s going. I swear, it’s like she can tell where people are around her, but it’s only with people. She walked right into a door one day.” The memory caused a smile to tug at the corners of my lips, but I cleared my expression to mirror my father’s. He had to take me seriously with this.

   “That doesn’t mean anything, son.” He continued shuffling papers around his desk, again making me feel like I was interrupting him, even with the late time. “Maybe she’s really looking under her lashes or something.”

   My eyes rolled. “What about her facial expressions then?” He looked up, but only for a moment. “The looks she gives people…” I sighed, exasperated. How could I make him understand if I wasn’t even sure I understood myself? “Her face contorts like someone insulted her, but no one addresses her at all. She always has this look of…panicked concentration.” I hesitated. “I gave her a ride home tonight.” He didn’t need to know the context in which that ride was offered.

   My father’s head jerked up to study my face before he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. His attention was on me now. There was no turning back, but I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

   “And?” he prompted. His graying eyebrows hovered toward his hairline.

   I slipped into one of the padded chairs in front of his desk, scooting to the edge with anxiousness. “Her parents are dead. I don’t know the details, but she’s adopted. Isn’t it possible that she doesn’t know anything about the Order?” His eyes widened while mine narrowed in response. “Well, is it possible?”

   I watched as my father took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, but it did nothing to release his tension. His body held rigid and his appearance took on his actual mid-fifties age. When he leaned forward and clasped his hands on his desk, I realized I was about to fall out of the chair, hanging onto what he might say. I wanted him to tell me it was possible. I wanted him to say there was a chance I could get to know Cara.

   Finally, my father spoke, slicing the silence like a knife through butter. “Jaycen, why wouldn’t she know about the Order, if in fact she has a Talent?” His question dimmed the light inside me, but I wouldn’t let it extinguish entirely. My father continued on without a beat, knowing I wouldn’t have an answer. “And even if that was a possibility, how would you approach such a topic without revealing what you are?” Part of me wanted to see the curiosity in his eyes, but his tone said otherwise. If only he knew I’d already crossed that bridge.

   I sighed in exasperation and hung my head with my fists balled against the seat. This wasn’t what I had hoped to get out of our conversation. Saying nothing at all would have been more inspiring. And I needed some inspiration. At least something to get me thinking about anything other than how to talk to her.

   My father took my silence as an invitation to lecture me. “Son, you know the rule. And you know why that rule is in place. ‘Good order is the foundation of all great things.’ We need to protect those great things, which is why it is vital for us to blend in. You’re not going to blend in so well if you’re spending your time chasing after a girl you may very well never have a chance with. Not to mention you’re bound to secrecy. Could you really keep that secret in a relationship with a Norm? The Order won’t allow it and I stand by that.”

   I didn’t have to look up at him to see his expression. His eyes would be hard, his eyebrows straight lines above them, with lips pressed together in solidarity. I had seen it before- when I had asked to join one of the school’s clubs, try out for a sport, or get a job working for someone who wasn’t in the Order. It was ridiculous how controlled my life was by the Order when, in fact, the Order was supposed to be the one place I was free to be my true, Talented self. “That great thing is my prison,” I mumbled.

   His blue eyes narrowed, but he pretended not to hear my remark. “Son, I'm warning you. Do not get involved with her.” My eyes shot up and locked on his. He put his hands up, palms out, to silence my protest. “If you cannot be trusted to do that, I will not be able to stop the consequences. If she had confessed an ability to you, now that would be an entirely different story. But you cannot take any chance of exposing us for some little crush you’ve developed.” His gaze held mine for a moment to seal his words before returning to his paperwork. That was my dismissal.

   I almost growled as I stormed out of his office, letting the door slam behind me as I went. I had barely made it down the hallway when a voice broke the silence.

   “That was a nice trick you played,” Brian barked. Of course he was pissed at me. Using my Talent on him wasn’t something I did. Another rule I broke tonight. I should have been defending him, not working against him.

   “Don’t take it personally,” I replied, not meeting his harsh glare. I had other things--other people--on my mind and the last thing I wanted to do was listen to Brian lecture me after my dad had already done that. And if that’s the only reason he was at Headquarters this late, he was wasting his time.

   Brian laughed and took a step closer to block my way toward the door I needed. “You know the rule. Do you have any idea what you’ve done tonight?”

   My eyes rolled away from him as I tried to step around him. He shifted to stop me again and I finally met the gray daggers of his eyes. “Like I said before, it wasn’t your place. Just like it’s not your place to lecture me about it.” This time I slipped around him and our shoulders rubbed as I passed.

   His words slammed into my back. “Do you really think the Order’s going to let you go through with this?” My jaw clenched. “I heard your dad tell you to stay away from her. It doesn’t matter what you think you’ve seen in her. All the Order is going to hear is that she’s a liability, a loose end that needs to be taken care of.” My back absorbed the heat of his words. “And I will be ready to take care of it when you can’t.”

   Every muscle in my body braced for a fight. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to whip around and crush his nose, friend or not. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of sending me over the edge. Before he could act on the Order’s behalf, he’d have to tell a Superior. And he wasn’t going to risk having to explain what we were doing in the alley in the first place, not to his grandfather. Without even a backward glance, I forced my feet, one step at a time, to carry me through the door and down the stairs to my room.  

--Brianna Lebrecht 

EEK! PUT SOME PAGES UP FOR A CRITEEEEEEK: A Swan Lake Retelling

A post by Mary Fan

Hey everyone! Mary here. It's my turn to put some pages up for critique once again... eeeeeeek!!! I
thought it would be easier this time around since this story has already through to a handful of beta readers but... yeah, putting your stuff out there never gets any easier. Not for me, at least *bites nails*.

Okay, here goes. For your scrutiny, I present the first chapter of MIDNIGHT SWAN, my YA retelling of Swan Lake. Except it's contemporary fantasy instead of the traditional fairytale. And it's from the black swan's POV. 

If I've done my job right, you shouldn't need to know the original fairy tale in order to get my story, but here's the high-level synopsis anyway: Once upon a time, an evil sorcerer cursed a girl to transform into a white swan by day, returning to human form only by night. A vow of true love can free her, but her prince is seduced by her evil twin (who can transform into a black swan). He makes his vow to the black swan instead, dooming the white swan to death (in some versions she kills herself, in others, the curse kills her). Cheery, ain't it?

There are many variations on the tale (I've seen the ballet multiple times, and no two companies have used the same ending), but the above is the version I used as my basis. And here's my take... Any and all comments are appreciated :-)

OVERTURE

And in a flurry of light, the maiden was transfigured by enchantments beyond her knowing into a graceful white swan. Only by moonlight would she be able to return to her true self, and only upon the lake could the magic take place.

CHAPTER 1

Masquerade

Three weeks earlier…

My heart is out to screw me over. Getting chatty with patrons always comes with the risk of them liking you, but I never thought the tables would turn on me. Clearly, I was wrong.

It’s not just that he’s cute. Cute I could handle. Especially since I’ve found that guys who look like him, the ones who could have they stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, are best observed from a distance. Get too close and the elitist douchebaggery comes out.

Yet if there’s any of that hiding behind his bright hazel eyes, I can’t see it. There’s something true about him. I know myself well enough to recognize what it means when my pulse is speeding, my palms are sweating, and my lips are stuck on a smile.

Seeing another patron—twenty-something pixie with eyebrow rings who’s more our usual clientele—wave at me, I go take her order and tell my heart to shut the fuck up. I’m not allowed to like anyone. Because liking can lead to love, and, for me, love can only lead to death.

His eyes—infuriatingly pretty and too earnest for his own good—linger on me as I grab a glass for Eyebrow Rings then approach the tap. I wonder what his name is. His real name, not the one on the fake-ass ID stating he’s a 28-year-old named Siegfried Prince with a photo that looks nothing like him. Not only does Siegfried Prince sport cropped black hair instead of tousled chestnut locks, but I can’t imagine this boy ever looking as smug and punch-worthy as the man in the picture.

Whoever he is, I can’t judge him. I find it stupid that at 18, I can serve booze but can’t drink my own cocktails. Plus, I’ve got a fake ID of my own, saying I’m a 30-year-old named Odile von Rothbart. It’s ridiculous how often I get away with using it.

Still, part of my job is to flag anyone underage, and I should have done so when I saw him slip past the bouncer, Josh, who was busy telling the homeless woman who hangs out by the bar’s door that the boss won’t allow her in here. Something about the boy’s wide-eyed appearance told me right away that he’s too young for this place, but he looked so stressed that I decided to cut him some slack. When Josh noticed him half a minute later, I made a show of checking “Siegfried’s” license. Though Josh is an intimidating presence—reminiscent of a Klingon with his large build, shaved head, and brown beard—he’s a softie at heart. Which is probably why he sat back down with a knowing grin that said, I know you’re bullshitting me, Kali, but I’ll let it slide. He probably figures I have a crush on the guy. If only I could say he’s wrong.

I hand Eyebrow Rings her beer, and she gives me her credit card. “Want me to close it or keep it open?”

“Keep it open.” She turns back to her friends, and they clink glasses. She grabs a shoulder to lean in and tell a secret. Gets a light elbow to the ribcage in return. Laughs.

It’s a familiar sight—close friends, practically family, having a good time together. It’s something I can never have.

A pang runs through me. As I go to the register, an angsty indie rock ballad billows from the speakers. The air is thick with the smells of beer and bodies, though it’s still early. No matter how hard we scrub, the scent lingers in the walls, the floor, the furniture. In this bar, I’ve seen old friends gather and new friends connect. I’ve watched today’s acquaintances become tomorrow’s love stories and strangers build ties that could last a lifetime.

Funny thing is, I ran away from Red, my so-called mom, because I learned what she’d done to make sure I’d always be alone. Yet here I am, alone anyway because of who she is—and what she made me.

“Hey, are you okay?” Prince Charming—that’s what I’ve been calling him, since I can’t say “Siegfried” with a straight face—leans against the bar, his face creased with worry.

I didn’t realize my expression had changed, but it must have crinkled itself into something pretty miserable if he can see my gloom through the feathered black mask the boss makes me wear over my eyes. It’s part of our gimmick; the bar’s called Masquerade.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Dragging my eyes across the banged-up tables, the cheap masks plastered over the walls, and the artfully graffitied windows, I search desperately for something that needs my attention. Finding nothing, I grab the hair tie from my wrist and spend far more effort than needed tying my thick, black locks into a bun. Anything to avoid talking to him.

To be fair to Prince Charming, I’m the one who invited him to chat. He had that need-to-talk-to-someone look on his face, and he looked rich enough to leave a nice, fat tip in exchange for a pair of ears. With rent due in a week and not a lot else to occupy me, I decided to be sociable, so I gave him my best Wise Bartender smile and said, “I’m Kali, by the way. What’s your story?”

I was expecting something from the usual grab bag of relationship troubles and work stress—or, more likely in his case, school stress. What I got instead was an existential crisis.

“I needed to get away,” he said when I asked what a preppy guy like him was doing alone at an East Village dive bar. “I needed to see real people with real problems, living real lives.”

Between that and his banker blue shirt, which fit too well to be anything other than designer, I pegged him right away as a one-percenter. Probably goes to a private school and has a Wall Street internship for the summer. But in his eyes, in his voice, I perceived a kind of pain I know too well—the kind that comes with not being who you’re supposed to be. Some of the things he said could have come straight from my proverbial diary. Like how he’s so entangled in the expectations of others, he doesn’t know if he exists without them. How his life was picked out for him the moment he was born. How he’s trapped by a destiny he never asked for.

Maybe these aren’t huge problems in the grand scheme of things, but when it’s your life that’s being stolen from you, it’s the biggest deal in the world. Thanks to Red, I’m trapped too. She’s like a cancer in my mind—both part of me and not. Impossible to get rid of. And slowly eating me alive.

Eyebrow Rings calls me over, and asks me to grab her friend a beer. I try to focus on my task, but it’s too mindless to distract me from the gentle yet magnetic presence reaching toward me from Prince Charming’s direction.

What’s wrong with me? When did he go from Pretty, but not my type to Shit, I’m starting to like this guy? Maybe it was around when he made his little speech about how he wanted to change the world, which went something like this: “I know I ‘have it all,’ and I know don’t deserve it. No one does. This life, this… privilege… it isn’t earned. It’s given—by luck or by blood—because at a certain point, there’s nothing you can do to earn so much. Especially people like me, whose only talent was being born. But I can’t ignore what I have or what I am, and I want to use it to make the world a better place. Maybe if I were better with words, I’d find a less lame way to put it, but it’s true. I want to earn my place in the world.”

Like I said—existential crisis.

I don’t know why, but the way he said that got to me. I wish it were only because the crooked tilt of his mouth as he said the bit about being lame was adorable beyond all reason. If anyone else had spoken as he did, I would’ve rolled my eyes so hard they got stuck. Maybe he struck me because he has this halo of honesty around him, and I’ve been lied to so many times, seeing someone genuine is like finding a goddamn unicorn.

Or maybe it’s because hearts are irrational as fuck, and mine’s a traitorous sonuvabitch.

Hearing a cacophony of shouts, I glance at the door. A group of guys saunters in. They’re your typical skinny-jean-wearers in bold t-shirts and dude jewelry, but noisier than usual. Probably already buzzed.

I rub my nose, brushing the small, silver ring in my right nostril. “What can I get you guys?”

“Where’s the hot girl?” one guy demands. He has a lion tattoo on his bicep. How cliché. Not that I can talk—the black feather on my left collarbone isn’t exactly original.

“Yeah, we want to see the hot girl!” another shouts.

Thanks a lot. Too bad telling customers to fuck off is a one-way ticket to unemployment.

I glance around for Ava, feeling kind of bad for her. I certainly don’t want to deal with these assholes. But either she spotted them checking her out and fled, which I wouldn’t blame her for, or she’s in the bathroom. “Ava will be back soon,” I say as politely as I can.

I glimpse Prince Charming giving the Asshole Brigade a death glare and for some reason, that makes me smile.

“You know, you’d be hotter if let yourself fill out.” Lion Tattoo presses his elbows into the bar. “I know girls are all about skinny, but you’re starting to look like a stick figure.”

It takes all my self-control not to give him a good old-fashioned bitch slap. I want to yell that I can be a stick figure if I want, and that he’s a total douche.

Unfortunately, he’s not finished with me yet. “So, where’re you from?”

None of your business. “Right here, New York City.”

“No, where are you really from?”

Wish I knew. The New York driver’s license saying I’m “Odile von Rothbart” isn’t my only fake ID. As far as the U.S. Government is concerned, I don’t exist. I’m 99 percent sure I was born here, but when the woman you grew up calling Mom admits to having kidnapped you as a baby, nothing’s certain.

I know that’s not what Lion Tattoo’s asking, though. I’ve been through this drill enough times. While his question annoys me, I just want him to leave me alone, so I give him the answer he’s undoubtedly looking for. “I’m Indian, okay?”

It wasn’t until I was in first grade that I realized my sandalwood complexion bore little resemblance to my mom’s skin, which is as white as the poison she sells. My childhood pestering got Red to admit that my father is Indian-American. Wish I knew who he and my real mother are.

“Indian?” Lion Tattoo cocks his head. “This kind”—he jabs his finger at his forehead—“or this kind?” He slaps his hand over his open mouth.

I’m too astounded by the stupid to even be offended. Now am I allowed to tell him to fuck off?

“Hey!” To my surprise, Prince Charming marches up to Lion Tattoo. “Apologize to the lady!”

Lady?! Can’t remember if anyone’s ever called me that un-ironically.

Lion Tattoo scowls. “For what?”

“For being racist!” Prince Charming looks ready to punch the other guy’s face. He could probably take him. They’re both about six feet tall, and while Lion Tattoo’s got a broader build, righteous rage is a powerful thing.

It’s also irritating as hell.

“Cool it, Prince Charming.” I give him a hard look. “There’s no problem here unless you start one.”

The anger drains from Prince Charming’s face, and he looks away, embarrassed. Josh eyes me from the door, and I nod to let him know that everything’s okay. But it really isn’t. Now that the shock has worn off and the almost-fight’s been diffused, Lion Tattoo’s comments sink in. A whirlpool of fury churns in my gut. I want to call him a racist myself, but I remind myself that I’m at work.

“You okay, Kali?” Ava reappears, sweeping a few blond locks off her sequined silver mask. With her double Ds and luscious lips, it’s easy to see why she’s “the hot one.”

“There she is!” One of Lion Tattoo’s friends points at Ava with a grin.

I give Ava an apologetic look. “If you don’t mind, I’ll let you take care of these guys.”

Ava flattens her expression—narrowed eyes, pursed lips—in a look that’s her way of saying, “I’m so not impressed by this bunch.” Then she plasters on a fake smile and asks the Asshole Brigade what they’d like.

“Sorry about that.” Prince Charming returns to his spot, and I notice his beer glass is still mostly full. “I just… The way that guy was treating you…”

“He was being a dick.” I don’t know who I’m more annoyed by—Lion Tattoo for his assholery or Prince Charming for butting in. “It happens. I don’t need you to be my hero.”

His lips quirk, but his eyes are sad. “Of course not. No one does. They just need me to be their puppet.”

Great, here comes the existential crisis again. I wish my heart could be as irritable as my brain, but despite myself, I feel bad for thinking that. Though I shouldn’t care about him and his first world problems, I just do. “Sometimes you’ve gotta let people fight their own fights. Picking up a battle flag that isn’t yours and using it to make yourself feel good… it’s kind of a dick move when you think about it.”

“That’s not what I was doing,” he says quickly. “I… I had good intentions.”

“The road to hell is paved with those.”

He gives me an almost-smile. “So is the road to heaven, if there is such a thing. I guess heroes and villains start in the same place.”

“I don’t believe in heroes.” I lean my elbows against the bar.  “They’re made when people see what they want to see, when they thrust some high-minded ideal onto a poor sonuvabitch who maybe did something amazing, but is still as screwed up as the rest of us in one way or another. When people realize their hero isn’t perfect, they go nuts, and it’s not fair for anyone. So forget heroes. I’d rather believe a screw-up can do something great than find my illusions shattered when someone supposedly great screws up.”

“Maybe you’re right.” His gaze turns contemplative. “But letting things sit when you know there’s something wrong isn’t right either. Maybe all I’ll do is make an idiot of myself—like I did just now—but is it so wrong to try?”

“Of course not.” I angle my mouth. “And if you end up succeeding someday, you’ll be one of those screw-ups who does something great. Now, that’s a lot less pressure than trying to be great without screwing up, wouldn’t you say?”

This time, he smiles for real. “I like the way you think.”

And I’m starting to like you. Fuck.

Luckily, Eyebrow Rings chooses that moment to call for another round. I start toward the tap, then freeze as my eyes land on a man leaning against the mask-covered wall, his arms folded and his cold gaze fixed on me. He’s not tall—maybe five-foot-eight, same as me—but his bulk is intimidating. Though his face is shadowed, the tattoo on his pale wrist tells me everything I need to know.

A menacing owl glares at me in red ink with its wings outstretched and its talons outreached—Red’s signature. All her most loyal enforcers have it, and if you know what it means, you’ll get the hell out of their way. Piss off one of them and you piss off Red, and if you piss off Red, you end up rotting in some New Jersey swamp.

A shudder runs down my spine. I’ve tried a hundred times to get away from her for good, but she won’t let me leave the city. The first time my train ticket got denied, I thought it was bad luck. The second time, I noticed a subtle shimmer in the air, like I was watching that bit of the world through a reflecting pool. It meant there was magic at work, and it as good as told me that Red was behind my thwarted attempt to get out of New York. Only those who manipulate the Aether through spells can see it. After a few more useless attempts and more “bad luck”—buses with their engines blown, taxis that never arrived, the mysterious shutdown of the PATH train—I got the message.

Red won’t drag me back to her place. But she won’t let me leave her territory either. And she’s watching me. Through this goon, she’s keeping an eye on my every move—and silently reminding me to behave.

“Did you hear me?” Eyebrow Rings’ voice cuts through my momentary shock.

“Sorry… Coming right up.” As I fetch her order, I feel the enforcer’s eyes—really Red’s eyes—and wish I could hide under the bar.

By the time I’m done taking care of Eyebrow Rings and her friends, Prince Charming is gone. Though I should be relieved, disappointment settles in my stomach. A white envelope sits next to his virtually untouched drink, and I grab it, wondering what’s inside. Answer: a shit-ton of cash.

Red’s henchman is still watching me, but I’m not worried about him taking it. If money were all Red wanted, I’d be over the moon. Also, she wouldn’t let her people mess with me. I’m her daughter. More like her property.

The envelope’s not thick; the bills are all hundreds. Guess I was right about Prince Charming being a good tip source. Who carries around that much cash anyway? Only drug dealers as far as I know, and he’s certainly not one of those. I’d know if he were; Red’s the queen among pushers. Or rather, the Baroness.

I should be high-fiving myself. Even though I’ll split the cash with Ava, my half is enough for rent. Instead, I feel slimy. I take all of thirty seconds to decide I’ll give my share to the homeless woman outside. Get rid of that thing that’s making me feel gross and make up for three months of pretending I don’t see her as I come in for work.

Great. Half an hour of talking to Prince Charming and suddenly I’m trying to be the hero I don’t believe in. I have to purge him from my mind and make sure I never see him again. Because if I fall in love, one of two futures will happen: The one where he doesn’t love me back, and I end up heartbroken, or worse, the one where he does, and the curse Red cast on me destroys us both.

Either way, I’d be totally fucked.

Eek! Put some pages up for a criteeeeeek: A cozy mystery

In addition to my YA stuff, I'm working on an adult cozy mystery series starring Marty Melman, a 60-year-old curmudgeon inspired by my dad. For you mystery novices out there, a cozy mystery is usually set in a small town, where the murder and violence happen off stage. There's no swearing and no sex and nothing graphic. There's also a delightful cast of quirky characters and a slew of suspects. Cozies are more about the characters and the puzzle than the crime. It's escapist mystery for those who find Making a Murderer way too real (raises hand).

In this scene, Marty comes home from bike riding to find out a man he loathed (his daughter's ex) is dead. I'd appreciate any and all comments.


Geared Toward Murder
by Kimberly G. Giarratano

Marty put his key in the lock and opened the front door. The sun was dipping low in the sky, bathing the house in an orange light. It wasn’t late, but daylight savings time always had that way of blanketing the town in darkness before anyone was ready for it. Marty was grateful he wore his hooded sweatshirt. The mile ride home was far easier than the three miles he had ridden that morning. His rubbed his still sore rearend.
Marty tapped his sneakers against the door saddle, trying not to track in extra dirt that he would have to vacuum later. Now that Marty was on a forced retirement and home all the time, he was responsible for the housekeeping.
“Joanie? You home?” he said from the foyer.
“Marty is that you?” Joanie called from the living room.
“Who else would it be?”
“We’re in the formal living room,” she said, her voice shaky.
Marty dropped his wallet and keys into the ceramic catch-all bowl on the vestibule table before heading into the living room. They never used this room, except for company.
He halted at the sight of Jason, Miranda, and Joanie sitting on the beige Ethan Allen couches, wringing their hands. And some stranger. A man in his mid-30s with dark hair. He wore a suit and a navy tie with a pin.
Marty’s eyes flitted around. “What’s going on?”
Joanie leaped to her feet. She was still wearing her nurses uniform. “Where’ve you been? We’ve been worried. Your bike ride ended hours ago.”
Marty inwardly cringed. He thought about lying, but he was reading something in the situation that said this was serious and shouldn’t be taken lightly. “I went to see my dad.”
“I knew it!” Jason cried. “You owe me and Mom fifty bucks.”
“Not now, Jason,” Joanie barked.
“What’s going on?” Marty asked. “You’re freaking me out.”
The young man came forward and extended his hand. “I’m Detective Smalt. I came to speak with you about Dr. Gary Highhouse.”
Marty shook the young man’s hand. “What kind of name is Smalt?”
“Marty!” Joanie chastized.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Melman,” said the detective. “I get asked that a lot. My grandparents were British.”
“Oh,” said Marty. “So, not Jewish?”
The detective shook his head.
“Better luck next time,” Marty said, before taking a seat on the end of the sofa. “What’s this about High-louse?”
Miranda hissed, “Daddy.” Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy. “Gary’s dead.”
Marty’s eyes widened. “I just saw him.”
Detective Smalt withdrew a small notepad and pen from his suit jacket pocket. “When?”
Marty held his gaze on the detective who was poised to take notes. “This morning. He was at the Old Spokes ride. I don’t know, 9:50, I guess. The ride started at ten. What happened?”
“He had an accident on the trail,” Jason filled in.
“Well, it wasn’t an accident,” Det. Smalt pointed out. “Someone sabotaged his brakes. He took the curve too fast and …”
Miranda sobbed loudly. Marty put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and tried to comfort her. “It’s okay, honey.” He gave Smalt a glare. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out there trying to figure out who killed the guy?”
Smalt softened. “Witnesses say you and Dr. Highhouse weren’t on the best of terms. You were arguing this morning.”
“The guy was a two-timing louse,” Marty quipped.
“Marty!” Joanie hissed.
“May he rest in peace,” Marty finished. “Listen, I didn’t like the man. He hurt my Miranda a couple of years ago, but I wouldn’t kill him.”
The detective nodded. “Did you see him on the bike trail?”
Marty shook his head. “He said he was going to bring up the rear. I figured he’d get ahead of me.”
“Why’s that?” Smalt asked, pen paused.
“I’m out of shape,” Marty said glumly. “I’m not fast on the bike — yet. I assumed he’d pass me in no time. But he never did.”
“Witnesses said they saw Gary’s bike on campus, braced against the lamppost. Apparently, he ran into the academics building before getting back on his ride and getting on the trail.” Smalt looked pointedly at Marty.
“Well, I got on the trail immediately, pedaled a few miles, and then veered off toward the Assisted Living place. You can check the visitor’s log.”
“I will,” the detective said. “As a matter of procedure.”
“Right,” Marty answered drily. “Well, you have your work cut out for you.”
The detective rose from the couch and made his way into the foyer. “What’s that mean?”
Marty opened the front door for Smalt. “If his bike was leaned up against he lamppost outside, anyone could’ve had access to it.”
“I realize that,” said Smalt.
“Well, you’ll also realize that Gary wasn’t a good guy. I bet a lot of people wanted him dead.”
Smalt narrowed his eyes. “Including you?”
“You think I’m capable of murder?” Marty let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m a sixty-year-old Jewish man with a heart condition who just bike rode five miles today. I’m lucky I’m not dead.”
Marty waited for Smalt to climb into his unmarked police cruiser before shutting the door.