I have heard only good things about this book. Maggie Stiefvater, the author of Shiver, and Lauren Kate, author of Fallen, both have comments on the cover of this book. The saying is "don't judge a book by its cover" but look at it and tell me--how can we not?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
New Book I'm reading
I have heard only good things about this book. Maggie Stiefvater, the author of Shiver, and Lauren Kate, author of Fallen, both have comments on the cover of this book. The saying is "don't judge a book by its cover" but look at it and tell me--how can we not?
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Arisia: Paranormal Romance Panel
I went to Arisia to meet my favorite author: Kelley Armstrong. She writes the Women of the Otherworld series, including Bitten (werewolf series), Dime Store Magic (witch series), Living with the Dead (necromancer), and more. Her books portray a main female character speaking in the first person. There are always a few things going on at once, which makes Armstrong a great mystery writer: there's the little plots, the relationship issues, the timing problems, and then the gaping end-plot, where everything comes together in whatever way. The characters in each of her books know the characters in her other books too, so a reader never has to miss anyone for long. I'm hoping she comes out with a fifth book in her Bitten series, to see who the new alpha werewolf is, but I'll try not to give too much away.
This year, Kelley Armstrong was the Writer Guest of Honor.
The first time I saw my writing-idol was at the Paranormal Romance Panel. Also there were Vikki Ciaffone, Nancy Holzner, Victoria Janssen, Gail Martin, and Seanan McGuire. I will write briefly about them at the end of this entry. Kelley Armstrong explained how she started writing Bitten after years of reading Anne Rice, when she realized that it was possible to write a story about the monster. The women explained that urban fantasy used to be horror, and then Science Fiction started getting into mystery, and the genres finally started to come apart in the last 10 or 20 years or so. The big thing to remember is that all rules in modern horror and paranormal romance have been suspended. The rules don't really exist anymore.
Paranormal Romance is primarily focused on a couple; and one girl is never alone on the cover, she's always with her significant other. This means that Kelley Armstrong doesn't write in that genre specifically, because, although romance exists in her stories, there is always more of a plot, with really well-developed characters that make a reader feel like it's just about the characters. So she writes urban fantasy. Sometimes it is a lot like horror, but for me, reading horror is a lot different from watching it. Gore is the one thing I can't stand, unless I'm reading it--then it's not so bad. My mind can lessen the extremity a little.
Seanan McGuire suggested that any book with porn in it should have a rating. She made up a plot-to-porn chart. Kelley's books are 20-50% porn, she said. This would be a wonderful disclaimer. I just know that if I'm ever going to read anything published by Circlet it's going to have an amazing sex scene every 10 or 20 pages, but with all the other publishing companies and genres, you never really know. I take McGuire's suggestion seriously, it would be incredibly helpful. Especially if one decided to lend said book to one's mother or younger sister... I'm still waiting to hand Bitten to my 15-year-old step sister, although I think she's more than prepared at this point to handle one or two sex scenes, especially with all the drama and things on TV she sees every day anyway.
The women left a suggested reading list, which I will list at the very end of this post.
Victoria Janssen writes erotica, and her latest novel is The Duke and the Pirate Queen and she used to write stories using the pen name Elspeth Potter. She is kind and a little quiet, from what I could tell.
Nancy Holzner grew up in western Massachusetts. She eventually became a medievalist and got her master's degree and a phD in English. She is now a full-time author and has written the books Deadtown, Hellforged, and Peace, Love and Murder (A Bo Forrester mystery).
Gail Martin loves ghost stories and other supernatural tales. She is the author of The summoner and The Chronicles of the Necromancer.
Seanan McGuire was born in California. She is the author of the October daye series, the InCryptid series, and the Newsflesh series, all urban fantasy. She also writes and records her own music.
Suggested Reading List:
• Linda Robertson Vicious Circle
• Lucy A. Snyder Spellbent
• Cecilia Denally Wicked Game
• Gail Carriger The Parasol Protectorate Books
• Lori Devoti
• Jeri Smith-Ready
• Carole Nelson Douglas
• Eileen Wilks
• Jennifer Estep
• Adrian Pheonix
• Kim harrison
• Katie MacAlister
• Smart Bitches, Trashy Books Blog
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
"Club Dead" simple to put down
*Extreme Spoilers!*
I've been reading this book that I found for free at Arisia this weekend- "Club Dead," by Charlaine Harris. I've heard that it's funny, so I'm reading it. I think sara used to read it too. The vampires have come out to the world and have agreed to stop sucking blood and killing humans, so now there's their favorite drink--"True Blood"--and on the cover it says "Now on HBO, True Blood, the original series based on the Sookie Stackhouse novels." Oh no, I'm thinking, I'm reading the True Blood books, that popular TV show. How annoying. It's not all that interesting, either.
Nothing exciting has happened, I've seen nothing unique or different, other than the idea that regular humans know about the vampires and this one human is dating one... maybe if they showed a little sex in that first scene? Or somewhere within the first 40 pages of the book? I realize now that I don't even really care about the character--she likes a vampire, okay, she's a telepath, okay, but there's no detail in there. What's it like being a telepath? How come we don't get to hear any surface thoughts that she must be picking up while she's working? Why does she like the vampire--other than his silent thoughts? I can't care about her boyfriend because I know nothing about him other than he's vamp and she likes him and lost her virginity with him.
Okay... so he's been kidnapped or something, there's a Queen of Louisiana... wow, it's really hard to keep reading. Not sure I can do it. She's lonely, she's pathetic, her only friend is a ditz, and we don't see them acting like friends, and she isn't very tough or confident. She likes summer and tans, her parents and grandmother are all dead, and why should we care about her?
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Blizzard
Safe and warm at my dad's house, waiting and watching the exciting storm as it builds up outside. I can't hear the wind though... and the snow gently patches itself to the window panes, with no viciousness. It's a little dis-heartening.
My dad has been out twice tonight, to plow our driveway and the car lot, and he plans on going again at 3 a.m. This storm is supposed to keep steady on through 6 p.m. tomorrow! My boyfriend's Phish concert is around 7 in Worcester, and so far has not yet been cancelled. Most stores plan on remaining closed till late tomorrow, or even until Tuesday.
Originally, Boston was cited as getting 12-18", etc.; that turned into "up to 20" and now 18+, I guess. Wind gusts of up to 60 mph. I want to go to Salisbury Beach like crazy, to watch those waves whip on shore and tear the banks down, but dad says he doesn't have enough gas in the truck to make it that far AND plow all night, and my car wouldn't make it out of the driveway... so maybe tomorrow or something. It is a little windy, I guess, but I have no fear for our electricity. The lights on the tree are blinking just as much today as they were yesterday, and the pellet stove is on full-blast.
There have been something like 1,200 cancellations at three of the major New York airports, and New Jersey has been pretty heavily snowed on as well--I think their inches-count was something like 26" (the prediction). Not sure though, I've been paying too much attention to the Boston map. That's all for now. I plan on tagging along on the 3 a.m. plowing expedition, so I will check back after that. Keep warm, be prepared!
My dad has been out twice tonight, to plow our driveway and the car lot, and he plans on going again at 3 a.m. This storm is supposed to keep steady on through 6 p.m. tomorrow! My boyfriend's Phish concert is around 7 in Worcester, and so far has not yet been cancelled. Most stores plan on remaining closed till late tomorrow, or even until Tuesday.
Originally, Boston was cited as getting 12-18", etc.; that turned into "up to 20" and now 18+, I guess. Wind gusts of up to 60 mph. I want to go to Salisbury Beach like crazy, to watch those waves whip on shore and tear the banks down, but dad says he doesn't have enough gas in the truck to make it that far AND plow all night, and my car wouldn't make it out of the driveway... so maybe tomorrow or something. It is a little windy, I guess, but I have no fear for our electricity. The lights on the tree are blinking just as much today as they were yesterday, and the pellet stove is on full-blast.
There have been something like 1,200 cancellations at three of the major New York airports, and New Jersey has been pretty heavily snowed on as well--I think their inches-count was something like 26" (the prediction). Not sure though, I've been paying too much attention to the Boston map. That's all for now. I plan on tagging along on the 3 a.m. plowing expedition, so I will check back after that. Keep warm, be prepared!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Wave
The wind is ferocious; a real living thing, ripping branches from trees and trash bins over into the street. It pushes my car sideways on the highway. The rain is tossed down on the body of my car like pebbles caught in the mud flap of the truck in front of me, so hard I’m afraid the window will break. When I’m safe at home, in the warm, it sounds like a freight train is rushing through my yard all around, and the flap on the pellet stove goes tap-tap against the outside pipe, like something is knocking to come it.
Nights like this remind me of my dreams. They remind me of the wave.
I had the dreams for as long as I can remember, but I don’t think I really started paying attention to them until I entered middle school. There, people talked about their dreams, and how they hardly ever saw color, and they had no control, and dreams were hard to remember. I quickly realized that my dreams were not ordinary. It was not normal to feel like a dream is real when you are in it and when you are out of it. My dreams were more like memories than regurgitations of my days—and always, there was water; usually a lot of water.
In my earlier dreams, it was my mom who was surrounded by lots of water, all the time. Sometimes she got stuck in it and couldn’t swim to shore. I was never a part of these dreams though, I could only watch. Men would swim out to her and drag her in. Then they’d do things to her, things I didn’t like, and I’d leave the scene for a little while. I could do that—leave and then come back whenever I wanted. When I woke up mom would talk obsessively about her new boyfriend, so I eventually learned that these dreams were good and mom was happy.
But some nights the dreams were violent: the man would rip the ring he’d given her off her finger, and push her down in the water. The water was cold, I could tell, because mom’s bare arms and legs had goosebumps all over. She would try to climb back out, but he would just push her deeper and deeper, until she was almost drowning. She never did though—drown, I mean. But in the morning she was quiet and sad-looking, and I knew the boyfriend was gone.
I didn’t tell anyone about my strange dreams. I felt like a freak, seeing these things, knowing what my mom was going through. But as I began to make friends, more dreams came to me, more water, and more emotions. I saw my best friend lock herself in her bedroom and scream in rage while the water on her floor rose from a trickle flowing under her door, until her bed was floating on it. Just before it swallowed her, though, she quieted down and the water drained. She lay on her bed, dry-eyed, until I got up.
I learned from her sister that her favorite aunt had been killed in an accident. I avoided her for days, afraid to confront the girl I’d seen go so hysterical in my dreams. I avoided her until our friendship was lost entirely, and she appeared no more in my dreams.
High school brought with it my first real crush. He was sexy and sweet and dirtily greekish. He played Dungeons and Dragons on Saturday nights with his friends while I studied Tarot cards. From my cards I learned the meanings of the elements, but the most important to me was water: It’s symbol was the cup, it’s meaning—emotions. It began to make more sense then, my dreams, the water rising, threatening to drown, but not quite getting that far.
There was a girl I met briefly once. She was the daughter of my mom’s friend. Her name was Denise. She had a happy face and long pink fingernails. She’d been to rehab several times, my mom told me, and I needed to be nice to her. I read her cards. We got some that Denise didn’t like—it basically all told her that she needed to sacrifice and love, and be alone for a little while. Denise wanted to stay with her boyfriend, she loved him. But I knew from the look on her face that whoever he was, he wasn’t what she needed.
That night I dreamt that Denise was in a dark place, like a cell, with a single concrete bed, no blankets. A boy came into the room—a boy without a face, and he hit her until she screamed for him to stop. He pulled her head back by the hair and stared down at her. She was wearing chains on her wrists, and I assumed that was the reason she didn’t try to stop him when he pushed her back and took his pants off. I left the room as the water began to trickle in.
Even though I didn’t see Denise again, didn’t even talk to her, I kept seeing her in my dreams. She was always with a different boy, mostly in the same room, although sometimes there were blankets on the bed, or sometimes she was singing. Then, in my final dream of her, she was sitting on the bed, far under the blankets, touching herself. No boys came to see her. No one wanted to see her. I heard a rush like a speeding train and felt the spray before I saw it—as the wave collapsed on top of Denise.
I woke up as though from a nightmare, my whole body awake with terror and the need to act. I paced my room frantically, then went to find my mom.
“I feel like something’s wrong,” I told her, “Call your friend? I’m worried about Denise.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you? Go back to sleep.” She rolled over.
“No mom! You have to call, now, I’m not kidding. Please, just do this for me.” She sighed, sat up, and called her friend.
The look on her face gave me shivers. I could hear loud, painful sobbing from the earpiece. Her mom must have heard the wave too. Denise was dead; she’d killed herself only a few hours ago.
Nights like this remind me of my dreams. They remind me of the wave.
I had the dreams for as long as I can remember, but I don’t think I really started paying attention to them until I entered middle school. There, people talked about their dreams, and how they hardly ever saw color, and they had no control, and dreams were hard to remember. I quickly realized that my dreams were not ordinary. It was not normal to feel like a dream is real when you are in it and when you are out of it. My dreams were more like memories than regurgitations of my days—and always, there was water; usually a lot of water.
In my earlier dreams, it was my mom who was surrounded by lots of water, all the time. Sometimes she got stuck in it and couldn’t swim to shore. I was never a part of these dreams though, I could only watch. Men would swim out to her and drag her in. Then they’d do things to her, things I didn’t like, and I’d leave the scene for a little while. I could do that—leave and then come back whenever I wanted. When I woke up mom would talk obsessively about her new boyfriend, so I eventually learned that these dreams were good and mom was happy.
But some nights the dreams were violent: the man would rip the ring he’d given her off her finger, and push her down in the water. The water was cold, I could tell, because mom’s bare arms and legs had goosebumps all over. She would try to climb back out, but he would just push her deeper and deeper, until she was almost drowning. She never did though—drown, I mean. But in the morning she was quiet and sad-looking, and I knew the boyfriend was gone.
I didn’t tell anyone about my strange dreams. I felt like a freak, seeing these things, knowing what my mom was going through. But as I began to make friends, more dreams came to me, more water, and more emotions. I saw my best friend lock herself in her bedroom and scream in rage while the water on her floor rose from a trickle flowing under her door, until her bed was floating on it. Just before it swallowed her, though, she quieted down and the water drained. She lay on her bed, dry-eyed, until I got up.
I learned from her sister that her favorite aunt had been killed in an accident. I avoided her for days, afraid to confront the girl I’d seen go so hysterical in my dreams. I avoided her until our friendship was lost entirely, and she appeared no more in my dreams.
High school brought with it my first real crush. He was sexy and sweet and dirtily greekish. He played Dungeons and Dragons on Saturday nights with his friends while I studied Tarot cards. From my cards I learned the meanings of the elements, but the most important to me was water: It’s symbol was the cup, it’s meaning—emotions. It began to make more sense then, my dreams, the water rising, threatening to drown, but not quite getting that far.
There was a girl I met briefly once. She was the daughter of my mom’s friend. Her name was Denise. She had a happy face and long pink fingernails. She’d been to rehab several times, my mom told me, and I needed to be nice to her. I read her cards. We got some that Denise didn’t like—it basically all told her that she needed to sacrifice and love, and be alone for a little while. Denise wanted to stay with her boyfriend, she loved him. But I knew from the look on her face that whoever he was, he wasn’t what she needed.
That night I dreamt that Denise was in a dark place, like a cell, with a single concrete bed, no blankets. A boy came into the room—a boy without a face, and he hit her until she screamed for him to stop. He pulled her head back by the hair and stared down at her. She was wearing chains on her wrists, and I assumed that was the reason she didn’t try to stop him when he pushed her back and took his pants off. I left the room as the water began to trickle in.
Even though I didn’t see Denise again, didn’t even talk to her, I kept seeing her in my dreams. She was always with a different boy, mostly in the same room, although sometimes there were blankets on the bed, or sometimes she was singing. Then, in my final dream of her, she was sitting on the bed, far under the blankets, touching herself. No boys came to see her. No one wanted to see her. I heard a rush like a speeding train and felt the spray before I saw it—as the wave collapsed on top of Denise.
I woke up as though from a nightmare, my whole body awake with terror and the need to act. I paced my room frantically, then went to find my mom.
“I feel like something’s wrong,” I told her, “Call your friend? I’m worried about Denise.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you? Go back to sleep.” She rolled over.
“No mom! You have to call, now, I’m not kidding. Please, just do this for me.” She sighed, sat up, and called her friend.
The look on her face gave me shivers. I could hear loud, painful sobbing from the earpiece. Her mom must have heard the wave too. Denise was dead; she’d killed herself only a few hours ago.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Books I'm reading
Whenever I finish an exceptionally good book, I get a little sad. Or a lot sad. The latest all-I-can-think-about infatuation was with Suzanne Collins's "Hunger Games," the first in her trilogy.
I spent hours with characters Katniss and Peeta; the impending danger of being murdered by fellow tributes or by the Capitol, the people in charge. I learned so much about the characters: hearing their memories, laughing with them, running by their sides in fear. And now many of them are dead. And even for the ones that aren't--I'll try not to spoil it--I miss them terribly, like a boyfriend you love love love for days, and then he just up and walks out.
Every library has Collins's books signed out or on hold for another fanatic reader: these books are that good. I am stealing myself from buying the second book. I'll have nothing to look forward to if I read them all too fast. It will just leave me drained and unhappy. You dedicate hours of your life to something, you're going to want something in return for it. So I'm taking a break.
In the meantime, I have listened to a bunch of Ray Bradbury short stories. He is excellent at weaving deep emotions into a science fiction story. I got these audio tapes from the library and they were created in 1979; they're read by Bradbury himself! I also got "Fahrenheit 451" on tape. It's hard to find much else that I can play in my car's tape deck. I'm listening to a lot of traditional/classical stories of late. I just checked out Bradbury's "One More for the Road," a collection of short stories. I didn't care much for the first story--"First Day"--and I didn't really get it. A man who remembers that 50 years earlier he and his friends promised to meet at the flagpole back at school on the first day. Something weird happens--like his friends come back as ghosts maybe, although it seems more like a mirror-projection, and I think it's all in his head. Like I said, I didn't really get it. I hope the other stories are better.
Psycho that I am, I also started reading "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte, and I'm on pg. 92. There are 700 pages or so, and I'm not sure I'll make it that far. I like the main character and her bold defiance. I don't like how slow the story is moving, and I haven't seen an inkling of love. I'm hoping that it will come soon.
I have also been reading Seth Godin's "The Purple Cow," a book about business marketing, and how businesses need to really stand out to survive. I'm enjoying it: it reminds me of school: Everyone conforms, yet, "I'm special." Oh, and you can do anything you put your mind to. Ridiculous things we say, then take away immediately. "Oh, you want to be a musician? Well, the school doesn't think the music department is very important, so you're shit out of luck. Sorry. But if you think really hard... you can be whatever you want."
This afternoon I picked up "The Death and Life of the Great American School System," by Diane Ravitch. I really want to read it, but her writing is boring and hard for me to get through. I've only read a few pages, but in the middle of every paragraph I find myself drifting. I need the cliffnotes for this book. It's too long. She could have shortened her first chapter by half, I think. Most of it is just her repeating, "I changed my mind, people can change their minds..." So I will continue to try. But no promises. She supported the "No Child Left Behind" Act, and now regrets it, apparently.
After reading the first not-exciting short story in the Bradbury book, I decided to start reading "I Know this much is True," by Wally Lamb. It's a thick, heavy book; but I read his "She's Come Undone," and loved it, so I know I can get through this book. I should really be reading more copywriting stuff, and in reality I should be writing a lot more than reading; like, I should have typed up the school committee meeting notes already, but I'm so lazy, and anyway, I have work very soon. Delivery, here I come! More next time.
I spent hours with characters Katniss and Peeta; the impending danger of being murdered by fellow tributes or by the Capitol, the people in charge. I learned so much about the characters: hearing their memories, laughing with them, running by their sides in fear. And now many of them are dead. And even for the ones that aren't--I'll try not to spoil it--I miss them terribly, like a boyfriend you love love love for days, and then he just up and walks out.
Every library has Collins's books signed out or on hold for another fanatic reader: these books are that good. I am stealing myself from buying the second book. I'll have nothing to look forward to if I read them all too fast. It will just leave me drained and unhappy. You dedicate hours of your life to something, you're going to want something in return for it. So I'm taking a break.
In the meantime, I have listened to a bunch of Ray Bradbury short stories. He is excellent at weaving deep emotions into a science fiction story. I got these audio tapes from the library and they were created in 1979; they're read by Bradbury himself! I also got "Fahrenheit 451" on tape. It's hard to find much else that I can play in my car's tape deck. I'm listening to a lot of traditional/classical stories of late. I just checked out Bradbury's "One More for the Road," a collection of short stories. I didn't care much for the first story--"First Day"--and I didn't really get it. A man who remembers that 50 years earlier he and his friends promised to meet at the flagpole back at school on the first day. Something weird happens--like his friends come back as ghosts maybe, although it seems more like a mirror-projection, and I think it's all in his head. Like I said, I didn't really get it. I hope the other stories are better.
Psycho that I am, I also started reading "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Bronte, and I'm on pg. 92. There are 700 pages or so, and I'm not sure I'll make it that far. I like the main character and her bold defiance. I don't like how slow the story is moving, and I haven't seen an inkling of love. I'm hoping that it will come soon.
I have also been reading Seth Godin's "The Purple Cow," a book about business marketing, and how businesses need to really stand out to survive. I'm enjoying it: it reminds me of school: Everyone conforms, yet, "I'm special." Oh, and you can do anything you put your mind to. Ridiculous things we say, then take away immediately. "Oh, you want to be a musician? Well, the school doesn't think the music department is very important, so you're shit out of luck. Sorry. But if you think really hard... you can be whatever you want."
This afternoon I picked up "The Death and Life of the Great American School System," by Diane Ravitch. I really want to read it, but her writing is boring and hard for me to get through. I've only read a few pages, but in the middle of every paragraph I find myself drifting. I need the cliffnotes for this book. It's too long. She could have shortened her first chapter by half, I think. Most of it is just her repeating, "I changed my mind, people can change their minds..." So I will continue to try. But no promises. She supported the "No Child Left Behind" Act, and now regrets it, apparently.
After reading the first not-exciting short story in the Bradbury book, I decided to start reading "I Know this much is True," by Wally Lamb. It's a thick, heavy book; but I read his "She's Come Undone," and loved it, so I know I can get through this book. I should really be reading more copywriting stuff, and in reality I should be writing a lot more than reading; like, I should have typed up the school committee meeting notes already, but I'm so lazy, and anyway, I have work very soon. Delivery, here I come! More next time.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Joni's Secret
“Joni, he’s looking at you!” hissed an excited voice in Joni’s ear. Joni tipped her head back and downed the rest of her beer in one smooth gulp. When she came up, the voice was chirping excitedly, “He’s coming over here!” And the voice had a body, whose hands were gripping Joni’s forearm tightly.
“Let go, Marie,” Joni said, not taking her eyes off of the television across the room to their left, where she’d chosen to train her eyes for the moment. There were bodies crowding around the big living room with the beige carpet, which was slowly morphing into something dull and browned with spilt beer and mud. The music was pounding, a heavy blend of electronic and rock, mixing together in a nonsense way that meant someone didn’t download their MP3s right. “He won’t come over here if you’re grabbing me like that. God, he already knows we’re in the GSA together.” Marie immediately dropped her hands and there was a boy’s voice at Joni’s ear: it was Chris’s deep voice, his breath brushing against her neck.
“Joni. Wanna play beer pong with me and the guys?” She kept her eyes on the TV, focusing on the dull greens and whites and digital numbers of a football game. She nodded, still looking away from him, until he placed himself in front of her. She glanced at his soft blue eyes, the frizzy brown hair, the plush thin lips, and smiled.
“Love too. How about Marie?” She turned to look at her friend, but realized that she’d gone. “Just as well,” She said, “she was starting to get on my nerves.” Chris took her to the table where they proceeded to play three rounds of beer pong in which they won zero and stumbled from the house drunker than a hamster dunked in vodka.
Chris stumbled over to his car and Joni followed. The slid down against the outside of the door, giggling together. “Man, did you see Charlotte when that full cup tipped all down her dress? She was SO pissed!” Chris said.
“Oh no, not the best. When Rick pushed Tessa and he fell over, that was awesome. Tessa totally sat on him.”
“I didn’t see that,” He said. After a few minutes they stopped giggling and sat there in buzzing quiet. Joni focused on the numbness in her fingertips and practiced humming in her head. It felt nice to get lost in it. “Joni?” He said.
“Hm?” She noised, turning to face him a little.
“Will you ever take me on Wolf’s Workout?” He asked. Joni laughed. “What’s funny?”
“Why would you want to?”
“All the guys say that’s where you…you know.”
“What?” Her eyes were wide now, his voice felt closer than it had in a while.
He made a motion with his thumb in his mouth, tongue pushing out.
Joni looked away. “It’s called a rumor, Chris. You don’t wanna go. It’s not that, but it’s a secret.”
“Take me? They say it’s eye-opening. I’ll learn something, right?” He looked entirely too excited, meaning that he knew learning would be in the sexual department. Or thought he knew, anyway. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?” He asked.
“Saturday morning cartoons,” she said. “And I’m working on a new outfit.”
“Take me tomorrow?” he took her hand and, begging, said “Please?”
Joni sighed. “If you don’t make it through, we don’t make it. You have to get that.” Chris just looked confused, his wild hair shining with grease now. “But since you asked, there’s no turning back now. My house at noon tomorrow, I’ll take you there. It won’t be fun.” She stood up sloshily and tipped to the side a little before straightening herself up. “Later.”
Joni lie in bed, eyes open, trying to prepare herself for the day ahead. The boy was sure to fail, which was pretty awful, since it meant she’d have to move on. It was too quick, the relationships were meant to last longer, go more slowly than this. But alas, she had no choice. The boy had placed the question before her, and like a free dessert, the offer could not be passed up.
She swung her legs out of bed and went to the closet, where she picked out a pair of slightly baggy camouflage pants and a tight green shirt with long sleeves. She put on a darker green baseball cap for added measure, hiding her thick brown hair high in the cap. She began to hope that the boy would forget about their plan; he’d been drunk enough for that to be a possibility. But when she heard the doorbell ring, she knew it was going to happen. The jock better pass, but more likely he wouldn’t, and the he would never be hers.
“Joanne!” Her mother called, “A boy’s here for you!” Joni cringed, embarrassed by the name her mother called her, completely ignoring Joni’s pleas to be called by her shortened name.
She came into the living room to find Chris standing in front of the door in nothing less than a suit: a suit, blue, complete with a black and gold striped tie, and with glossy black shoes on his feet. He looked uncomfortable, shifting his feet and looking down at the floor, while her mother stood there staring at him, her arms folded across her chest. “Joanne, do you have a date?” She asked, and looked over at her daughter. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widened, and her arms fell to her sides. “I…” She tried, faltering. “I’m not even going to try,” she said, admitting defeat and leaving the room. Probably off to play some more piano, Joni decided, rolling her eyes.
She focused back on Chris. “What the fuck are you wearing?” She demanded to know.
“Um…” he mumbled. “I just wanted to look nice?” He said.
“Oh please! I’ve never seen you dressed up, what is this?”
“They say to dress nice…or I’ll lose.” He looked straight at her then, and she saw longing in his eyes.
Joni tried not to laugh. “You trust too easily,” she said. “But let’s go. We’ll see how long you last in that.”
Joni took him outside to the woods. He followed her between a small space between a thick oak tree and a rusty metal fence. He stumbled over loose stones and jutting roots as they half-walked, half-crouched through thick bushes. To their right was appeared to be an abandoned yard, with the burnt skeleton of an old house hidden away inside the fence; to their left was a drop-off of about thirty feet. Chris stuck close to the fence, ready to cling to it for dear life should one of the dangerous objects underfoot come truly loose.
“I come out here all the time,” Joni said from somewhere ahead, “every morning, and I used to come every night, too. I can get through this place with my eyes closed.” If he could have caught up to her, Chris would have noticed that Joni moved like a soldier avoiding landmines like she had put them there; she slid around the most dangerous rocks, slid under branches that she knew were too fragile to climb over, she only bent down at places where Chris would crawl on his hands and knees.
Chris was currently at one of those places that necessitated crawling in this way, and he could feel the knees of his nice pants beginning to chafe, and he could just imagine the thick patches of dirt that would stain them there and elsewhere, like on his butt when he slipped on an old wire sticking out of the ground and landed on his butt to avoid falling off the cliff. He felt his shoes scuff, and knew they would be dull and impossible to repair after this journey. His tie kept getting caught in snarling pricker bushes and in stray threads from the dead fence.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he came to a standing place and stood as straight as he could. “J-Joni?” He asked, looking to the left and to the right. At the bottom of the cliff, past a thick stand of trees, there was a market basket or stop and shop—it was down there, where no one could see them. At the bottom was a river, spotted with rocks jagged like his grandfather’s teeth. The non-existent path had turned to the right, and here the fence disappeared; in its place, against where the fence should have been was a thick slab of concrete, about five feet tall, three feet thick, and ten feet across. Vines snaked around it, and some burst through cracks in its face, but it was a dangerous thing, for the ground in front of it was nearly gone, meaning that he would need to grab onto the vines and just hope that the concrete didn’t press wrong against the little bit of earth left under it and send him to his death…
“I’m over here, Chris.” He looked up and, sure enough, there was Joni—standing on the other end of the concrete slab. “What’s wrong?” She asked, looking at his face, which had drained of color. “You can make it past this! All the boys do!”
“I don’t think you’re worth this,” he said. Joni had been smiling, but now she wasn’t.
“Worth what?” She asked, her eyes suddenly fierce.
“My life!” He said, pointing to the drop below, “I won’t risk my life just to play your stupid game. Nothing you offer me can be worth this…” He started to turn around.
“Chris!” She said, and he paused, “Turn around and you’ll never be with me.” Seeing that this had no effect on him, she decided to try enticing his curiosity, “You’ll never see what’s back her—the thing I keep so secret. No one’s seen it.” He walked away.
Joni slid down against the fence and put her face in her hands. She sobbed, wandering why she needed so badly for someone to see her secret. And why it needed to be out here.
“Let go, Marie,” Joni said, not taking her eyes off of the television across the room to their left, where she’d chosen to train her eyes for the moment. There were bodies crowding around the big living room with the beige carpet, which was slowly morphing into something dull and browned with spilt beer and mud. The music was pounding, a heavy blend of electronic and rock, mixing together in a nonsense way that meant someone didn’t download their MP3s right. “He won’t come over here if you’re grabbing me like that. God, he already knows we’re in the GSA together.” Marie immediately dropped her hands and there was a boy’s voice at Joni’s ear: it was Chris’s deep voice, his breath brushing against her neck.
“Joni. Wanna play beer pong with me and the guys?” She kept her eyes on the TV, focusing on the dull greens and whites and digital numbers of a football game. She nodded, still looking away from him, until he placed himself in front of her. She glanced at his soft blue eyes, the frizzy brown hair, the plush thin lips, and smiled.
“Love too. How about Marie?” She turned to look at her friend, but realized that she’d gone. “Just as well,” She said, “she was starting to get on my nerves.” Chris took her to the table where they proceeded to play three rounds of beer pong in which they won zero and stumbled from the house drunker than a hamster dunked in vodka.
Chris stumbled over to his car and Joni followed. The slid down against the outside of the door, giggling together. “Man, did you see Charlotte when that full cup tipped all down her dress? She was SO pissed!” Chris said.
“Oh no, not the best. When Rick pushed Tessa and he fell over, that was awesome. Tessa totally sat on him.”
“I didn’t see that,” He said. After a few minutes they stopped giggling and sat there in buzzing quiet. Joni focused on the numbness in her fingertips and practiced humming in her head. It felt nice to get lost in it. “Joni?” He said.
“Hm?” She noised, turning to face him a little.
“Will you ever take me on Wolf’s Workout?” He asked. Joni laughed. “What’s funny?”
“Why would you want to?”
“All the guys say that’s where you…you know.”
“What?” Her eyes were wide now, his voice felt closer than it had in a while.
He made a motion with his thumb in his mouth, tongue pushing out.
Joni looked away. “It’s called a rumor, Chris. You don’t wanna go. It’s not that, but it’s a secret.”
“Take me? They say it’s eye-opening. I’ll learn something, right?” He looked entirely too excited, meaning that he knew learning would be in the sexual department. Or thought he knew, anyway. “Are you doing anything tomorrow?” He asked.
“Saturday morning cartoons,” she said. “And I’m working on a new outfit.”
“Take me tomorrow?” he took her hand and, begging, said “Please?”
Joni sighed. “If you don’t make it through, we don’t make it. You have to get that.” Chris just looked confused, his wild hair shining with grease now. “But since you asked, there’s no turning back now. My house at noon tomorrow, I’ll take you there. It won’t be fun.” She stood up sloshily and tipped to the side a little before straightening herself up. “Later.”
Joni lie in bed, eyes open, trying to prepare herself for the day ahead. The boy was sure to fail, which was pretty awful, since it meant she’d have to move on. It was too quick, the relationships were meant to last longer, go more slowly than this. But alas, she had no choice. The boy had placed the question before her, and like a free dessert, the offer could not be passed up.
She swung her legs out of bed and went to the closet, where she picked out a pair of slightly baggy camouflage pants and a tight green shirt with long sleeves. She put on a darker green baseball cap for added measure, hiding her thick brown hair high in the cap. She began to hope that the boy would forget about their plan; he’d been drunk enough for that to be a possibility. But when she heard the doorbell ring, she knew it was going to happen. The jock better pass, but more likely he wouldn’t, and the he would never be hers.
“Joanne!” Her mother called, “A boy’s here for you!” Joni cringed, embarrassed by the name her mother called her, completely ignoring Joni’s pleas to be called by her shortened name.
She came into the living room to find Chris standing in front of the door in nothing less than a suit: a suit, blue, complete with a black and gold striped tie, and with glossy black shoes on his feet. He looked uncomfortable, shifting his feet and looking down at the floor, while her mother stood there staring at him, her arms folded across her chest. “Joanne, do you have a date?” She asked, and looked over at her daughter. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widened, and her arms fell to her sides. “I…” She tried, faltering. “I’m not even going to try,” she said, admitting defeat and leaving the room. Probably off to play some more piano, Joni decided, rolling her eyes.
She focused back on Chris. “What the fuck are you wearing?” She demanded to know.
“Um…” he mumbled. “I just wanted to look nice?” He said.
“Oh please! I’ve never seen you dressed up, what is this?”
“They say to dress nice…or I’ll lose.” He looked straight at her then, and she saw longing in his eyes.
Joni tried not to laugh. “You trust too easily,” she said. “But let’s go. We’ll see how long you last in that.”
Joni took him outside to the woods. He followed her between a small space between a thick oak tree and a rusty metal fence. He stumbled over loose stones and jutting roots as they half-walked, half-crouched through thick bushes. To their right was appeared to be an abandoned yard, with the burnt skeleton of an old house hidden away inside the fence; to their left was a drop-off of about thirty feet. Chris stuck close to the fence, ready to cling to it for dear life should one of the dangerous objects underfoot come truly loose.
“I come out here all the time,” Joni said from somewhere ahead, “every morning, and I used to come every night, too. I can get through this place with my eyes closed.” If he could have caught up to her, Chris would have noticed that Joni moved like a soldier avoiding landmines like she had put them there; she slid around the most dangerous rocks, slid under branches that she knew were too fragile to climb over, she only bent down at places where Chris would crawl on his hands and knees.
Chris was currently at one of those places that necessitated crawling in this way, and he could feel the knees of his nice pants beginning to chafe, and he could just imagine the thick patches of dirt that would stain them there and elsewhere, like on his butt when he slipped on an old wire sticking out of the ground and landed on his butt to avoid falling off the cliff. He felt his shoes scuff, and knew they would be dull and impossible to repair after this journey. His tie kept getting caught in snarling pricker bushes and in stray threads from the dead fence.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he came to a standing place and stood as straight as he could. “J-Joni?” He asked, looking to the left and to the right. At the bottom of the cliff, past a thick stand of trees, there was a market basket or stop and shop—it was down there, where no one could see them. At the bottom was a river, spotted with rocks jagged like his grandfather’s teeth. The non-existent path had turned to the right, and here the fence disappeared; in its place, against where the fence should have been was a thick slab of concrete, about five feet tall, three feet thick, and ten feet across. Vines snaked around it, and some burst through cracks in its face, but it was a dangerous thing, for the ground in front of it was nearly gone, meaning that he would need to grab onto the vines and just hope that the concrete didn’t press wrong against the little bit of earth left under it and send him to his death…
“I’m over here, Chris.” He looked up and, sure enough, there was Joni—standing on the other end of the concrete slab. “What’s wrong?” She asked, looking at his face, which had drained of color. “You can make it past this! All the boys do!”
“I don’t think you’re worth this,” he said. Joni had been smiling, but now she wasn’t.
“Worth what?” She asked, her eyes suddenly fierce.
“My life!” He said, pointing to the drop below, “I won’t risk my life just to play your stupid game. Nothing you offer me can be worth this…” He started to turn around.
“Chris!” She said, and he paused, “Turn around and you’ll never be with me.” Seeing that this had no effect on him, she decided to try enticing his curiosity, “You’ll never see what’s back her—the thing I keep so secret. No one’s seen it.” He walked away.
Joni slid down against the fence and put her face in her hands. She sobbed, wandering why she needed so badly for someone to see her secret. And why it needed to be out here.
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