As promised, I am going to *attempt* to post chapter one of this year's NaNoWriMo novel, Lunatics and Lycanthropy. I just finished chapter one this morning, and I have not proofed it at all, so I am not responsible for any nonsensical things that might occur! That disclaimer being said, here it goes (this is going to be a super-long post, btw - I made a PDF, but couldn't figure out how to upload it to blogger):
Chapter One
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a werewolf under the influence of a full moon, must be in want of a victim to bite. Actually, it's not a truth but a myth. Werewolves are a myth. Or so I had always thought. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to back up and start where the story actually begins. But where is that, exactly? As with most events in life, the lines of beginning and end bleed into each other, and meld with surrounding events, with the result that a true beginning is something that doesn't even really exist. I'm rambling already. I have a tendency to do that upon occasion. So I'll back up and begin my story at the most likely starting point: the morning that the Bingle family moved into our subdivision.
A bit of background information: I am the second child of five sisters. The oldest, my sister Georgia, is twenty, attends community college, and still lives at home. With five daughters, my father can hardly afford to pay for college tuition, let alone room and board. My older sister is widely considered the “sweet one” of the family. Georgia was named for the great state in which we live; when I came along, my parents opted to use the name of one our state's most illustrious cities, Savannah. The trend continued with the births of my sisters Marietta, Alpharetta, and Augusta, in that order. Marietta is the geeky, introverted sister, who annoys all the rest of us by regurgitating useless facts at the dinner table. Alpharetta is the silliest of my sisters, concerned with nothing but boys, clothes, and berating her imperfect figure. The rest of us delight in calling Alpharetta “Freddie” for short. She absolutely abhors the nickname, which merely encourages the rest of us to use it at every opportunity we get. Augusta, my youngest sister, has yet to develop much of a personality of her own. She is a follower and unfortunately, chooses to follow Freddie more than anyone else. I say “unfortunately,” because Freddie is not the greatest influence on Augusta. (No need to go into details on this; Augusta's role as Freddie's sheep will become only too clear as my story progresses.) And where do I fit in? I'm Logic Girl. Or so I like to think of myself. Ruthlessly one-track, concerned with facts above all else, I scoff in the face of emotion. So why would a person like me ever believe in werewolves? Good question.
I'm rambling again. Anyway, on the particular morning in question, my mama lay moaning on the couch in the living room, dressed in a matching velour sweatsuit in a spectacularly awful shade of fuchsia. I knew better than to ask her what was wrong. As did everyone else in the house apparently, as evidenced by the way we were all completely ignoring her. She apparently, interpreted this as an invitation to catalogue her woes for us anyway.
“Benton!” My mama hissed at my daddy. “Benton!” She has always called him by his last name. It's unclear why she did this.
Daddy was deeply engrossed in his newspaper and didn't bother to look up.
“Benton!” Mama hissed again, and reached out and grabbed his arm, sinking her inch-long acrylic talons into his flesh. He grunted in pain and jerked his arm away, crumpling his newspaper.
“What is it today, dear?” Daddy asked, winking at me. Mama was a notorious hypochondriac and Daddy rarely, if ever, took her complaints seriously.
“You don't really want to know,” she huffed, throwing herself back onto the couch. “My gallbladder is giving me such a time, and you don't care at all.”
“Well, what would you like me to do about it?” Daddy asked, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice already. It was early in the day for Daddy to be losing his patience. This did not bode well.
Mama shrugged and released a long, dramatic sigh. “I probably should have it out,” she said. “I spoke to Carla Burgess the other day and she's been having burning pain in her stomach for as long as she can remember. They finally took her gallbladder out, and now she's feeling great. In fact, she's lost twenty pounds!”
Daddy couldn't help himself; he rolled his eyes. He lifted the newspaper up to his face to shield his eye-rolling from Mama, but didn't quite make it in time. She smacked him on the arm.
“You have no respect at all for my complaints,” she whined.
“Not true,” Daddy said, giving up on his paper and folding it meticulously into tiny squares, “I have a deep and abiding respect for your complaints. I have spent the majority of each day with them for the past twenty-odd years.”
I had been standing outside the doorway of the living room listening to this exchange, deciding before I entered whether or not it was worth braving Mama in one of her moods. My stomach rumbled loudly and I steeled myself to enter the danger zone. The only way to the kitchen and dining room was through the living room. If I wanted food, I would have to tiptoe past the not-so-sleeping dragon. My sister Alpharetta shared none of my caution and suddenly came bounding down the hall, flouncing past me and throwing herself into a chair at the dining room table.
“Oomph,” she grunted as she sat down. She wore a tight black leather mini-skirt and some sort of red halter top. Her dimply flesh bulged over and out of all the seams. Freddie wasn't fat by any means; she simply chose to stuff herself into clothes that were at least two sizes too small. Daddy frowned at her disapprovingly, but said nothing, and resumed creasing his newspaper.
“What's for breakfast?” Freddie asked, scanning the empty table. “I'm starving.”
“Whatever you fix yourself, no doubt,” Marietta said sourly, coming in behind me. She was followed by Georgia and Augusta. Augusta threw herself into a chair right beside Freddie's. Georgia, in her customary sweetness, walked into the kitchen and began rummaging around in the refrigerator, emerging with a carton of eggs. Knowing Georgia, she would shortly be fixing enough breakfast to feed the entire family.
I decided to go and help her, but as I walked past the table, I whispered: “Watch out for Mama. She's extra-loony today.”
“Well, the moon is almost full,” Marietta said primly, as if this explained everything. “There will be a full moon beginning of next week.”
The rest of us stared at her.
“Have you been prancing around in the backyard at night again with your telescope?” Freddie asked, snorting, as if this were an extreme insult.
“'Loony, lunatic.' You know, from the Latin? 'Luna,' meaning 'moon.' Throughout history, it has commonly been believed that the moon has influence over our moods and temperaments. . .” Marietta began one of her scientific rants. Freddie threw her head back and feigned snoring.
“Basically, the full moon makes the crazies extra-crazy,” I summarized, sparing us Marietta's full oration.
Marietta nodded, although she looked mildly offended that I had cut her off mid-rant.
“Mama should be in rare form this weekend then,” Freddie said, snorting again. She and Augusta dissolved into helpless giggles.
“I heard that!” Mama snapped from the couch. She turned to Daddy. “Do you see what I have to put up with from these girls? They torment me all day long.” Daddy ignored her and reopened his now heavily-creased newspaper.
“Ninety-nine percent of this town is made up of crazies,” Augusta put in, desperate to say something as clever as Freddie.
Bored with the conversation, I wandered into the kitchen to help poor Georgia fix breakfast. It was Saturday, the first morning of spring break. If I hadn't been so enthralled with the prospect of an entire week off from school ahead of me, I no doubt would have told Freddie just to fix herself a bowl of cereal and leave poor Georgia alone. But I was in a good mood, even humming as I swirled a wooden spoon around in a pan of scrambled eggs. I had left the door to the kitchen open and could still hear bits and pieces of my sisters' inane conversation as it wafted through the doorway. When Mama spoke—far louder than necessary—I paused to listen, since she was actually broaching a subject other than her current illness of the day.
“Have you been next door to introduce yourself to the new neighbors yet, Benton?” she said, in her very best hen-pecking wife tone. “I haven't managed to find out much about them yet, except that they're pretty well off financially. The last thing we need is for them to think we're some kind of backwoods country bumpkins.”
I was pretty sure I heard Marietta mutter: “But we are backwoods country bumpkins.”
Daddy mumbled something in reply to Mama. I couldn't hear his response.
“New neighbors?” I whispered to Georgia quizzically.
Georgia finished kneading biscuit dough and reached for the rolling pin. “They just moved in next door,” she said. “Supposedly they have a college-aged son.” She blushed as she said this last part. Mama was constantly trying to fix Georgia up with a “nice Southern boy,” but Georgia was so shy and mild-mannered that Mama's attempts at matchmaking postively mortified her. Seeing Georgia blush, I was certain I knew the reason for Mama's sudden interest in the new neighbors.
“Their last name is Bingle,” Freddie spounted, giggling. “I saw the old man out there painting it on the mailbox. He pretty much looked like a lunatic himself. And what kind of a name is Bingle, anyway?”
“Freddie!” Marietta snapped. “Do you have to be so rude all the time?”
“Don't call me Freddie!” Alpharetta growled.
“Oh, stop! Enough!” Mama bellowed. “All your chatter is aggravating my gallbladder. I don't want to hear anything else about these Dingles or Bingles or whatever they're called.”
“I wish you had told me that before I went over there and introduced myself,” Daddy said. “I would have saved myself the trouble if I had known.”
Mama was speechless, a rare event.
I finished scrambling the eggs and scraped them onto a plate. I turned to Georgia.
“This place is a circus,” I said. “I'm going over to Emory's.”
Emory Lupin has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. My family had lived in the same subdivision, Orchard Oaks, since before I was even born. The Lupin family had lived in Orchard Oaks almost as long. Emory and I met one day when she ran me off the sidewalk with her tricycle. Even though I scraped both of my knees, somehow we ended up being best friends. As we've grown older, our interests and likes have gone in vastly different directions, yet somehow we've remained friends. Emory is nearly as giddy about cute boys as my sister Freddie (although fortunately her taste in clothing is much more modest), and she is obsessed with paranormal fiction, in particular, paranormal romance. More specifically, teen werewolf romance. (I'm pretty sure she sleeps in a “Team Jacob” T-shirt every night when she goes to bed actually, although I doubt she would ever admit this, even under torture.) I know, I totally don't get it either.
Emory lives two streets over from us, in a tiny little dead-end cul-de-sac named Lunar Lane. Ironic, huh? You would think that Emory had picked the street name herself. Unfortunately, my own house was located on a street called “Twilight Terrace,” a fact that annoyed me to no end, and which caused Emory to make countless jokes at my expense. But that's what best friends are for, right? I'm rambling again.
Anyway. . .I walked quickly toward Emory's house that Saturday morning, glad to leave the lunacy of my own family behind me. I may or may not have snuck a quick peek at the house next door—now the Bingle house, apparently—as I passed, but couldn't really tell what (if anything) was going on with the new neighbors. The only thing I did notice was that Freddie was correct: the mailbox had been painted and now read “Bingle” on both sides.
When I got to Emory's house, I didn't bother knocking. We were practically family; I just walked on in. Emory was standing on the screened-in porch at the back of the house, holding a paper plate with a Pop-Tart on it. When she saw me, she snapped the Pop-Tart in two and offered me half. I accepted it and took a bite gingerly. Emory preferred some of the more obscure Pop-Tart flavors. This one appeared to be something chocolate—something normal—so I took another bite.
As we munched our Pop-Tarts, I filled Emory in on the morning's drama at my house.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“Did you get a look at the guy? Is he hot?”
“No, and no idea,” I said.
“Speaking of that,” Emory continued, licking her fingers and mopping up the Pop-Tart crumbs from her plate, “Did you happen to notice the house across the street from me?”
“The one that's for sale? What about it?”
She walked inside and strode purposefully through the house. I followed her to the front room, where she pulled up the mini-blinds and gestured toward the house in question. I squinted, trying to read the “For Sale” sign in the yard.
“Under contract,” I said, making out the letters at last.
Emory nodded solemnly, brown eyes wide. She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if revealing a government secret, and said: “My mama is friends with the realtor selling the house and she found out that it's a military family, and they're moving in as soon as school lets out for the summer. And they have an eighteen-year old son who's just finishing up high school.”
“Interesting,” I said. But it wasn't. At least, not to me. Like I said, Emory can be almost as guy-crazy as Freddie upon occasion. I personally, however, find most guys my age to be about as mature as Freddie, and in general, tend to avoid them.
“Guess what else Mama found out?”
“Hmm?” I said, my voice lacking enthusiasm. I'm sure it was something about a guy.
“Your new next-door neighbors? There's a sister too. Our age. So if the guy turns out to be hot, we can always just try to get in good with the sister to get close to him.”
I sighed. Really, this was why I had left my own house this morning—to avoid continuing this conversation about the Bingles and their son. It was time for a subject change.
“So Monday's Confederate Memorial Day,” I said. “You going to the festivities?” I said this last word sarcastically, and Emory rolled her eyes.
“What a stupid, made-up holiday,” she said.
“Agreed. But there's going to be a block party Monday night,” I pointed out. “The Bingles are bound to finally make an appearance.”
“True,” Emory said, still trying to convey reluctance. But her eyes had lit up at the mention of the name “Bingle.”
I had to agree with Emory when she had called Confederate Memorial Day a “stupid made-up holiday.” It's a holiday celebrated only in the South, by those states once a part of the Confederate States of American during the Civil War. In Georgia, it's celebrated on April 26 every year, April 26, 1865 being the day that Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston surrendered to Sherman. Don't even bother looking this up on Wikipedia to make sure I'm right; it's ingrained into the heart and brain of every good little Georgia child from the day of their very first history lesson in school. In the town where I live, everything shuts down on Confederate Memorial Day: government offices, schools, and local businesses. That's because everyone has to be free to dress up like Confederate soldiers (if you're a guy) or grieving Confederate widows (if you're a lady) and march in the parade down Main Street so we can all honor the Confederate soldiers who died fighting for secession. Or something like along those lines. It's unclear. But most people around here even own their own Confederate costumes, as they use them fairly often for re-enactments. If you ask me, the whole thing is bizarre. And I'm rambling again.
While I had been ruminating on the origins of Confederate Memorial Day, Emory had been talking and I had zoned out and completed ignored her.
“Are you paying any attention to me at all, Savannah? Gaw, it's like you're totally in your own world sometimes. Must be pretty nice over there in Savannah-land. You spend enough time there.”
“It is nice,” I said, being smart, “You should come visit sometime. What were you saying?”
“I was saying,” she huffed, “That there's going to be a full moon on Monday night. Should make things interesting at the block party.”
“Marietta was ranting about the full moon this morning, too. What's the big deal, anyway? It's just the moon, people.”
“What moon people?” Emory asked, getting excited.
“Moon. . .comma. . .people,” I clarified.
“Oh. I thought at first you meant people from the moon, or people influenced by the moon. You know, like werewolves? I thought maybe you were finally buying into the whole werewolf thing. Because they're totally real, you know. And I'm totally convinced there's werewolves living here. In Georgia. In our own town. Maybe even in our own neighborhood!”
“Sure, whatever,” I said, wholly unconvinced.
“Just wait until Monday night,” she said smugly, crossing her arms. “You'll see.”
* * *
Saturday and Sunday both passed too quickly (since it was Spring Break), and without any signs of any Bingles. I woke up on Monday morning with a knot in my stomach, dreading the grueling day of Confederate hero worship ahead of me.
I groaned and rolled out of bed, then padded downstairs without brushing my hair or teeth. I considered it, but there are only two bathrooms in the entire house, one of them being in my parents' bedroom and off limits to the rest of us, by order of Mama. Leaving five of us to share the remaining bathroom. And really, Freddie spends so much time in there primping that she counts as like five extra people. Sure enough, when I walked past, the door was closed, the light was on, and I could hear Freddie in the shower, belting out country tunes at the top of her lungs. As I walked down the stairs, I heard Augusta pound on the bathroom door and yell: “Freddie! Hurry up! I have to work on my updo!” Followed by a low growl of: “Don't call me Freddie!” from the bathroom. Alpharetta and Augusta were both in the color guard at school, and would be marching in the parade in full costume this morning, twirling batons or waving flags or whatever it is that members of the color guard actually do. It's unclear.
Rambling again.
Anyway. . .so I headed downstairs and was greeted by Mama, who was wearing the massive black belled hoop skirt of a Confederate widow. She had her back to me and I noticed that several of the buttons were still undone on the back of her dress.
“Mama, your dress isn't buttoned all the way up,” I pointed out, helpfully, or so I thought. I was, of course, wrong.
“I know they're unbuttoned!” she snapped, whipping around angrily. “Something's wrong with my corset. It seems to have shrunk since last year!”
“Or you've gotten bigger,” Freddie snorted, sauntering into the room in some sort of skin-tight multi-colored unitard. Her face was plastered in garish makeup the same colors as her outfit.
Pot, meet Kettle, I thought to myself. You're both black!
“I can't help it that I've gained a pound or two, Alpharetta,” Mama sniffed, still struggling with the buttons, “It's not my fault. It's because of an undiagnosed medical condition. There's clearly something wrong with my thyroid, but all of the doctors I've seen refuse to help!”
Alpharetta rolled her eyes at me, then paused, scanning me up and down.
“Where's your costume, Savannah?”
“Um. . .” I stammered, “I'm not in the parade.”
“So?”
“So. . .I thought I would go as a civilian this year?” It came out tentatively, more like a question than a statement. I cringed, anticipating the firefight sure to follow my words of betrayal.
Mama and Freddie gasped in unison. Time stood still. I think the earth might literally have stopped turning.
“But Savannah. . .” Mama spluttered, “How could you? It's Confederate Memorial Day! This family is an upstanding pillar of our community, and we can trace our lineage back to Confederate officers on three sides!”
Three sides?
Just then, Georgia walked into the room. She was wearing jeans and a plain but cute short-sleeved pink shirt. She looked refreshingly normal.
“I'm not going in costume this year either,” she spoke up, blushing a bit. Embarrassed by her unusual display of assertiveness, no doubt.
“Oh fine, fine, humiliate me! Make a laughingstock of this family!” Mama shrieked, launching into hysterics. “I don't know if I even have the willpower to go at all myself now, knowing I'll just be getting laughed and whispered about by the other Daughters of the Confederacy!”
I wished she would stay home. If only we were that lucky. It would never happen. I glanced at Georgia. I could tell she was thinking the same thing.
“Alpharetta, my good daughter, help me lace up these stays tighter, would you?” Mama said, turning her back on us.
Freddie smirked at us. “I would be dressing up like a Southern belle, Mama, except Coach told us marching in the parade in uniform was mandatory.”
I know it was childish, but I stuck my tongue out at her. She shot me a smug grin in return, like a satisfied cat. I gripped Georgia by the elbow and steered her from the room. We passed Augusta on the stairs, outfitted like Freddie's twin. I beat Marietta to the bathroom and in twenty minutes, my hair still dripping wet, I had thrown on jeans and a T-shirt and was following Georgia out the front door. In the true spirit of Confederate Memorial Day, we were seceding from our family, striking out on our own, fighting an unfair system. We were rebels.
When we got downtown, a huge crowd of people was already amassing in front of the monument to the dead Confederate soldiers. The monument stood in the very center of downtown, right in the middle of the intersection of Main Street and Peach Street, and it featured a larger-than-life ten-foot tall granite statue of an anoymous Confederate soldier, in full regalia. At the base of the statue, an inscription read: “Our Confederate Soldiers: In Memoriam, 1861-1865. Honoring those who perished defending our rights. We may have lost, but that does not mean our cause was unjust and not worth fighting for.” I know—the height of eloquence, right? Anyway, this statue was pretty much the local shrine, and it was the starting point around which all the festivities began every year on April 26. This year, as Georgia and I shouldered our way through throngs of people dressed in outfits that were most likely the height of fashion in 1865, I could see a dozen or more Confederate widows (aka the members of the Daughers of the Confederacy) placing tacky funeral wreaths and sprays of flowers at the feet of the anonymous soldier. Like a gunshot signaling the start of the race, the placing of the wreaths indicated that the Confederate Memorial Day celebrations were now officially underway.
Georgia and I wiggled our way to the sidelines and finally found a relatively unpopulated spot from which to watch the parade. It wasn't long before Marietta spotted us and sidled over, posture prim and perfect, nose held high in the air. She wasn't exactly dressed in jeans, but she wasn't really dressed as Scarlett O'Hara either. She had on some sort of long dress, but it wasn't really poofy enough or drab enough to qualify as antebellum, and in her hand she clutched a glossy paperback book, which would have severely undermined the authenticity of her costume in any event. Without greeting Georgia or me, Marietta sat down on the grass and opened her book, not even sparing a single glance for the parade or any of the hundreds of ridiculously clad people milling about. I looked down at her, squiting my eyes to read the title of her book. It was called Lycans: Curse of the Full Moon or Genetic Disorder? by someone named Harry Wulff, Ph. D.
“Gaw, Marietta, you can't be serious with that!” I exclaimed, gesturing toward her book.
“What?” Marietta huffed in an offended tone, shifting guiltily on the grass. “Dr. Wulff is a renowned genetic specialist who proposes some very interesting—and plausible—theories on the existence of lycanthropy and is true causes.”
“Blah blah blah. . .” I interjected, cutting her off and rolling my eyes.
“He has a Ph. D.!” Marietta insisted.
“Right, and I'm sure that his name is really Harry Wulff, too,” I said.
“Whose name is Harry Wulff, and how stupid are his parents?” Freddie asked, snorting with laughter, sneaking up from behind us, followed closely by Augusta.
“The guy who wrote Marietta's lycan book,” I said absent-mindedly. “Aren't you two supposed to be lined up somewhere, waiting to march?”
Freddie was staring at me with a confused expression on her face. “Can you repeat what you just said?” she asked.
“Huh?” I said.
“About Marietta's book.”
“Her lycan book?”
“There! You did it again!” Freddie squealed in delight.
“Did what again? What are you talking about?” Honestly, she was so exasperating.
“You and Marietta always try to act like you're so much smarter than the rest of us, because your English is so much more good than ours,” Freddie said triumphantly. I didn't feel the need to rebut this statement, as her use of the phrase “so much more good” left me feeling very justified in thinking that my English was in fact, better than Freddie's.
“It's the book she likes, or the book she's likin', not her 'likin' book',” Freddie explained, elaborating.
“Not l-i-k-e-n,” I said, rolling my eyes as I spelled it out for her.
Augusta pulled on Freddie's sleeve and I heard her whisper: “She must mean lichen, you know, like moss and fungus and stuff like you find out in the woods. L-i-c-h-e-n. Totally sounds like something Marietta would be reading about at least.”
Marietta made a “harumphing” sound.
I must admit that I was impressed that Augusta was familiar with the term “lichen,” including the correct spelling and a feasible definition. She's actually much smarter than I tend to give her credit for; she spends so much time hanging out with Freddie and imitating her that I often lump them together and forget that Augusta has any qualities uniquely her own.
“L-y-c-a-n,” Marietta spelled, saving me the trouble.
“Ohhhhhh,” Freddie said knowingly. Then: “What's a lycan?”
“A werewolf,” the rest of us chorused in unison.
I felt like I was stuck in some bizzarro version of the Miller Analogies Test. Liken is to lichen as lichen is to lycan. I physically shook my head in an effort to clear it.
“Come on, Freddie, we've got to go. Coach will kill us if we're not in place when it's time for the Guard to march,” Augusta said.
“Don't call me Freddie!” Alpharetta shrieked, but she grabbed Augusta by the hand and the two of them scampered off like a pair of kindergartners making for a hopscotch court.
“That was exhausting,” Georgia whispered quietly, shooting me a smile.
“Agreed,” I said. I was about to suggest we ditch the parade altogether and see if there was any place in town that might actually be open (doubtful) so that we could get something to eat, when I noticed a group of people standing directly across the road, looking extremely out of place.
“Check out the civilians,” I said to Georgia, gesturing with a nod toward the group.
Georgia followed my gaze and took in the unusual dress of the people across from us, unusual in this instance meaning completely normal, as in jeans and T-shirts rathern than hoop skirts and Confederate grays.
“They're definitely not from around here,” Georgia agreed.
A thought began to form.
“Do you think. . .” I began, and I looked at Georgia. I could tell immediately she must be thinking the same thing.
“Those must be the Bingles,” she said.
I turned my head back toward the Bingle family for a closer look. I saw a couple who looked slightly older than my own parents: a tall, thin man with angular features and salt-and-pepper hair, and a short, plump woman with brown curly hair and glasses. But there were three children, instead of two. Emory had mentioned a sister, but not a brother. Which one was the Bingle boy, and who was the other one?
Emory suddenly materialized at my elbow. Think of the devil. . .
“So, what do you think? Isn't he delicious?” she said.
“Which one?” I stammered. “I mean, which one is which?” I blushed, which was strange for me. I have never been one to be flustered by the presence of a guy. Not much flusters me, as a matter of fact. But the shorter of the two guys held my attention. Even from across the street, his dark hair and flashing green eyes were dazzling.
“The taller one is Chandler Bingle. The girl is his sister, Carol-Anne. And the other guy, the positively gorgeous one, is Chandler's best friend, Darcy Fitz.”
Just as I was about to ask Emory how she had suddenly become a font of knowledge, Darcy Fitz turned and looked directly at me, his eyes locking on my gaze. I knew I should look away, wanted to look away. But I couldn't. I stood there, frozen, for what seemed like hours, as those piercing green eyes bored into mine. Then his face broke into a sneer and he haughtily hoisted his nose in the air and turned away, breaking my stare. I flushed in humiliation. His message had been clear. He thought he was better than me. I had stared at him in open admiration, and he had sneered at me, letting me know more clearly than if he had put it into words, that I was nothing.
I was spared further humiliation by the arrival of the parade, winding around the corner and crossing in front of us, blocking the Bingles and Darcy Fitz from my view. I had never been so thankful in my life to see the start of the stupid Confederate Memorial Day parade. I glanced to my right and left quickly, darting glances at Marietta, Georgia, and Emory to see if they had noticed anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps I had simply imagined the scornful attitude with which Darcy had eyed me. But when I saw the way Emory was standing with her mouth hanging open, my heart sank. Emory recovered herself, and started to say something. But she was cut off by the approach of the Orchard High School color guard. Alpharetta and Augusta were right there in the front row, each brandishing a bright orange-and-gold flag.
“Georgia, Savannah!” they yelled, “Over here! Look at us!”
Freddie attempted to wave at us while still slinging her flag around and proceeded to drop her flag on the ground.
“She's not doing a very good job of guarding her colors,” Marietta observed wrily.
The girl directly behind Freddie tripped over Freddie's fallen flag and stumbled, careening into both Freddie and Augusta and bowling them over. The next row of girls stumbled over them as well. I gasped in horror. It was like watching Dominoes fall, as one by one, the perfectly aligned rows of girls in spandex toppled over my sisters. Orange flags were flying everywhere. It was chaos. I looked at Georgia, mortified. Georgia's face was bright red, as I'm sure my own was.
Daddy strode over at just that moment. “I see my two youngest daughters are making a spectacle of themselves as usual,” he said.
To put it mildly, I thought.
Daddy seemed unconcerned. He simply paused to examine his musket, then brushing a bit of dirt off the barrel, wandered off again.
As the crowd surged forward to help the poor color guard girls untangle themselves, I caught a glimpse of Darcy Fitz and Chandler Bingle. Chandler looked aghast at scene unfolding before him, but though I couldn't be entirely sure, I was pretty sure that Darcy Fitz was laughing at me.
* * *
After the tragic ruination of the Confederate Memorial Day parade (thanks solely to the handiwork of my sisters), I walked with Georgia, Marietta, and Emory back toward our subdivision. A local radio celebrity, DJ Billy Bob Flex (from a station featuring an odd mix of country music and hip-hop), was setting up a turn table pretty much right outside our house. There were huge speakers, and balloons, and a variety of tables everywhere, covered with items ranging from drinks and snacks to souvenirs for sale (authentic Civil War bullets recovered from battlefields, replicas of Confederate money, etc.). I felt confident that I would develop an excruciating headache before the day was over. I checked my watch. It was nearing three o'clock; the block party didn't officially begin until five. I had time to sneak into the house for something edible before the next round of fun began.
But before I could, Alpharetta and Augusta came bounding up, as buoyant and out of control as ever. Apparently their debacle at the parade had done nothing toward giving them a lesson in humility. Typical. This was how they operated, barreling through life, embarrassed by nothing, not caring who or what might get trampled on the way.
“We just met a group of super hot guys,” they gushed, grabbing me by both arms. “You have to come meet them right now.”
“But if I stay here, that means more guys for you,” I pointed out, instantly latching onto the first protest I could conjure that might work in my favor.
“Don't be stupid, there's plenty to go around. And they are positively. . .yum!!!” The two of them chorsued the word “yum” together at the top of their lungs. I was so glad that the Bingles weren't here yet. In my head, I pictured Darcy Fitz laughing at me. Yet again today.
I let Freddie and Augusta drag me over to a group of awkward, gawky junior high guys who were about as immature as one of my toenails, and in serious need of a tube of Clearisil. I kept discreetly trying to slink off, but everytime I did, Freddie sunk her claws deeper into my arm until I quit resisting. By the time I finally got away, it was five-fifteen and I could hear DJ Billy Bob Flex blaring the latest selection from Lady Antebellum over the speakers. My stomach rumbled loudly. I was starving. My first priority was to find the refreshments table.
I was ladling myself a cup of sweet tea from the punch bowl (it was always sweet tea in the punch bowl at these types of events, and never punch) when someone jostled my elbow. I sloshed tea all down the front of my shirt. I turned, fully prepared to rage at whoever had just ruined my favorite T-shirt. It was Emory.
“Look what you did!” I shrieked, but she just waved me off. She was so excited she was practically jumping up and down.
“Look over there!” she hissed.
I looked in the direction she was pointing. DJ Billy Bob Flex was playing some more up-tempo music now, and a spontaneous dance party had broken out in the center of the cul-de-sac. And right in the center, bumping and grinding like a dance hall queen. . .was none other than my sister Georgia. At first, I was so shocked that it didn't even register who she was dancing with.
“Is. . .that. . .Georgia?!” I spluttered in disbelief. Georgia was so shy and mild-mannered, always doing everything in her power to stay out of the spotlight. I don't think I had ever seen her dance before—even around the house—let alone in public!
“You're missing the point! Look who she's dancing with! Chandler Bingle!”
I squinted. She was right. Directly across from Georgia, I saw gyrating a familiar tall and lanky form.
“Did you know that his family's like super rich?” Emory asked, relieving me of my tea and downing it all in one loud gulp.
“So?” I said. Who cared?
“So. . . his friend Darcy's family is even richer. He lives in Savannah. . .downtown Savannah. . .the historic district. Savannah, the city.”
“Yeah, I got that. I didn't think you meant me, Savannah the person. What's he doing here anyway?” I asked, steering the subject away from a catalogue of the Fitz family's wealth, which was sure to begin pouring from Emory's mouth at any second.
She shrugged. “Just hanging out with his friend Chandler for spring break, I guess.”
Emory's daddy, a short, fat clueless fellow with a shallow rim of gray hair surrounding a mostly bald pate, wandered over in search of a cup of tea.
“You ladies having a good time?” he asked, nodding to me.
Just then, Darcy Fitz materialized directly in front of Mr. Lupin in line. (Seriously, how did everyone keep sneaking up on me like this? I was going to have to start paying a lot more attention.) I hastily swiped at my shirt, now hopelessly stained with tea, courtesy of my best friend Emory.
“Ah, you're the Bingle boy's friend, aren't you?” Mr. Lupin greeted Darcy in a friendly tone. I cringed, and could feel Emory stiffening beside me.
Darcy didn't respond; he just looked at Mr. Lupin disdainfully. DJ Billy Bob Flex blasted a new tune.
“That DJ Billy Boy Flint or whatever he's called is certainly playing some hip tracks,” Mr. Lupin said, trying—and failing—to sound cool. “You young people should be out there dancing. Living it up while you can. Darcy, you're a good-looking young man. Which of these pretty young girls would you like to dance with?”
“Daddy!” Emory squealed, but it was too late. The damage was done.
Darcy stood rigid, his face twisted in a grimace, looking as if he were in extreme pain.
“I don't dance,” he said, and started to walk off. He was stopped by Chandler Bingle, who walked up with his arm around my sister Georgia, both of them breathless and red-cheeked from exertion.
“Quit being such a jerk, Darcy, and dance,” he said, then added in what he thought was a whisper: “Georgia's younger sister there is pretty hot. Dance with her.”
I blushed and turned away.
“She's not really my type,” Darcy said, loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear, then stalked away.
And of course, Freddie and Augusta picked just that moment to show up. Would everyone witness my humiliation?
“Gaw, what's his problem?” Augusta said, loudly.
“Seems to me like he's totally PMSing,” Freddie blurted, and the two of them dissolved into helpless fits of giggling.
“It's the effects of the full moon,” Augusta added, causing Freddie to snort. But I saw Emory's eyes widen at Augusta's careless comment.
Emory looped her arm through mine and hauled me off, away from the crowd. I didn't object, as she was dragging me away from the scene of my personal humiliation. When we were out of earshot of anyone else, she stopped and turned her huge, brown, bush baby eyes on me.
“He's a werewolf!” she hissed, a note of triumph creeping into her voice.
“What? Who? What are you talking about?”
“Darcy Fitz! He's a werewolf. The classic signs are all there. On the night of a full moon, he's displaying agitation, agression, anti-social tendencies. . .”
I cut her off before she could tick off any more “werewolf traits.”
“Maybe he's just an agitated, aggressive, anti-social person,” I said. “Did that possibility ever occur to you?”
She sighed and glared at me. “Come on, Savannah, you have to admit. It kind of makes sense.”
“No it doesn't,” I insisted. “It doesn't make sense at all, actually. For example, if Darcy Fitz is a werewolf, why isn't he running around right now in a fur suit, howling at the sky? Because last time I checked, he looked totally human to me. And that's just one of many, many holes in your theory.”
“It's just now getting dark,” Emory defender herself, refusing to give up, “Look. It's twilight. The moon's not even all the way out yet.”
“Don't say 'twilight,'” I said, shuddering. “It makes me think of Edward Cullen, and then I start gagging.”
“Look, look at the sky,” Emory nagged.
I looked up. Sure enough, she was right. The sky wasn't full dark yet, but that sort of creamy bluish-purple color it turns just before it fades to black. The moon was just a hazy outline, a sketch not yet fully formed, lurking in the background of the sky, waiting for full darkness to emerge and cast its light.
“And now, look around the crowd and see if you see Darcy Fitz anywhere,” Emory said.
Humoring her, I turned and scanned the crowd. I spotted Chandler Bingle easily enough. He and Georgia were back in the middle of the cul-de-sac dancing again. They had been joined by Augusta and Freddie and the group of spotty-faced junior high boys that had been following my two youngest sisters around earlier in the evening. DJ Billy Bob Flex had left for the evening, presumably en route to a more stylish, more lucrative gig. My sister Marietta was filling in for Billy Bob Flex—she had dragged her portable CD player out from her bedroom and was serenading us with a selection of excerpts from Beethoven's finest symphonies.
“Marietta, what are you thinking?” I heard Freddie shriek. “You're totally killing the mood! We want to dance! How are we supposed to dance to that?”
“This is a brilliant musical masterpiece,” Marietta sniffed. “Did you know that Beethoven was completely deaf when. . .”
“Oh, whatever!” Freddie fumed, and wrested the stereo away from Marietta. She quickly flipped it to the radio and found a local pop station. All the dancers cheered. Marietta crossed her arms and sulked.
“Hello? Earth to Savannah!” Emory yelled, waving a hand in front of my face.
Even when I'm not rambling, sometimes I tend to get lost in my own thoughts. . .
“You're right,” I said, snapping back to the present, “I don't see him anywhere.”
“Exactly,” Emory said, a smile of smug satisfaction spreading across her face.
“That still doesn't mean anything,” I argued.
But I couldn't help wondering if maybe, somehow, it did. I decided to go over the facts. Fact: The moon was full. Fact: Darcy Fitz had exhibited abnormally agitated, aggressive, and anti-social behavior at a public event. Fact: Just before the moon rose, Darcy Fitz had disappeared. When presented in this sequence, the facts could be added up to produce the solution that Darcy Fitz was a werewolf. I shook my head. I had clearly been spending too much time with Emory and my sisters. Because, Fact: Werewolves are not real. Right? Then why did I suddenly feel so uneasy?
This year was my 5th year in a row successfully completing NaNoWriMo - yay! 50,000 + words accomplished in the space of 1 month. And this year came with its own set of challenges. I had to get adjusted to writing on a very weird schedule this year. I couldn't just write whenever an idea popped into my head - I had to save it for whenever Gemma was napping. And when she was napping, even if the creative juices weren't flowing, I knew I had to get to work anyway, because time was short! Another difficulty came when my granny passed away and I had to spend most of a week traveling to and from Kansas City for the funeral. I fell behind while I was out in the Midwest, as I knew I would, but managed to catch up and actually get ahead some when I got back. I was glad I got ahead, because just a couple of days after I got back, we were on the road again, heading up to Bedford, Virginia for Thanksgiving. At which point I fell slightly behind again.