THIS IS HOPE Chapter One (again) and an update

Happy Monday (said no one ever). It's my last few days of vacation, as job #2 starts on Wednesday. I'll be teaching Comp II...as long as the class fills. Time will tell.

Because a few people have asked--and I haven't updated since dinosaurs roamed the earth--here is the latest version of Chapter One of THIS IS HOPE. This is version six or so, though the first chapter hasn't changed much. Enjoy.

The full manuscript is currently on an in-house read at Curtis Brown. While I'm waiting, I'm working on a new shiny idea. I'll post more about that eventually.

xo

Dori

Chapter One

Day One

We were still in bed when the power went out.

            I lay on my stomach, propped on my elbows, the sheets tangled around my waist.  It was a hot day, and the windows stood open to the breeze. The late afternoon sunlight spilled across the room, lighting the mussed bedcovers and throwing long shadows onto the wood paneled walls. Overhead, the ceiling fan spun lazily, drying the sweat that still beaded my shoulders.

            James lazed back against the pillows, piled in a white stack against the dark wood headboard. His dark eyes were closed, black lashes a spidery pattern on his cheeks. He was not sleeping. A small half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

            God, he was beautiful.

            I loved it when he was still like this. A government agricultural inspector by trade, living up here on the edge of nowhere, James never stopped moving. Whether he was outside enjoying nature, in the kitchen—damn, the man could cook—or working, he was in constant motion. I’d know him since we were both freshmen in high school, more years than I cared to count, and he’d always been like that.

            Once, he’d been thrown out of class for it.   Always mischievous, a kid who in later years would have been diagnosed as hyperactive and medicated, James Foster had taken an early dislike to our freshman biology teacher, Miss Harvin. A tall, thin, skittish woman, Miss Harvin was a screamer, and even at fifteen James had had an issue with authority figures.

            Miss Harvin was often late for class, leaving her twenty-three Biology Honors students to sit at our desks and wait for her. She would stroll in, five or ten minutes after the bell, coffee in hand.  The day before James had decided to teach her a lesson, a day she’d actually been in class on time, she’d yelled at James when he dashed in the door seconds after the tardy bell.  He’d muttered something under his breath, and slunk to his seat in the back.

            She’d filled her classroom with stuffed animals. Not the cute, cuddly toys but actual dead animals that had been stuffed. The many creatures that adorned her walls—everything from the local raccoons and squirrels to more exotic monkeys and even an anaconda—loomed over us as we filled in Punnet squares and diagrammed the parts of a worm. One of the most menacing looking animals was a mangy raccoon, frozen in mid-snarl, yellowish fangs bared and one paw raised to attack. The thing creeped us out.

On that particular Tuesday afternoon, James slid into his seat before the bell. To be honest, I’d hardly noticed him before that day. We weren’t really friends, just classmates. When the late bell sounded, and no Miss Harvin appeared, James walked to the door and looked down the hallway. He snorted and walked back into the classroom. At least half the class, myself included, watched him. When he dragged Miss Harvin’s stool across the room, and climbed up onto the counter, he had our full attention.  At fifteen, he was already over six feet tall, and had very little trouble lifting the scary raccoon down from its perch overlooking the class.

James jumped off the counter and crossed the room to the door. Twenty-two heads turned to follow his motion. He placed the raccoon in the middle of the open threshold, snarling snout toward the hallway. He quickly got back into his seat, a smirk on his face. We could hear Miss Harvin’s high heels clicking down the hallway. We sat silently, waiting to see what would happen.

Miss Harvin entered the doorway and was confronted with the snarling raccoon. She screeched, the sound echoing in the cinder block room, and dropped everything she’d been holding. Papers and books scattered everywhere, and her coffee cup shattered, sending shards of white pottery and hot liquid flying all over Kara Grossman, who sat up front. Kara screamed, Miss Harvin shrieked, and the rest of us burst into startled laughter.

Only James laughed hard enough to fall out of his seat.

The headmaster, who taught a few rooms away, came running. He hauled the still-laughing James out by his shoulder and pushed him down to the office.

            That was all years ago, though, years before I wound up in bed with him when the world ended. There we were, both married—though not to each other—thirty-eight years old, laying in bed naked when it all fell apart.

            Not that we realized it at the time.

            I looked at James, laying there in the afternoon sunlight. I’d known him for more than half my life, known him intimately for the last five years. It still startled me, the way this had turned out. I propped myself on one elbow to study James’s face in the fading light. He must have felt my gaze, because he opened his amazing eyes. Dark brown with flecks of bright gold: I’d noticed his eyes years ago in high school, long before I’d noticed the rest of him. He grinned then, setting off a deep dimple in his right cheek.

            I leaned towards him. He pulled me onto his lap, buried his face in my neck.

            The ceiling fan stopped. In the other room, something popped, and James’s black lab, Rolf, gave a startled woof. I started to sit up, but James tugged me down again.

            “Just the power.” His mouth pressed into my neck, each word sending chills through me. “Happens all the time.” He reached up for my face, and I lost myself in the kiss. His hands slid around my waist, onto my hips, pulled me close against him. I’m not sure how much time passed, but it was certainly less than ten minutes. Perhaps a whole lot less, as I was paying more attention to James than to anything around me.

            The entire house shook at the same time a dull thud sounded, somewhere far away. It broke into my awareness. Startled, I looked up. James’s hands stilled on the small of my back. We both stared toward the windows.

            The curtains, also white, blew gently in the breeze. Outside the afternoon slid towards evening, sky streaked with pink and orange. The many trees waved slightly. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

            “Earthquake?” I was still looking toward the windows.

            “Don’t think so.” James swore softly, but the moment was over. I slid off him a bit reluctantly and reached for my shirt. James got out of bed and slipped on a pair of shorts. I admired him in the sunlight for just a moment before getting my own pants off the floor. “I’ll be right back.” Shirtless, barefoot, James walked out of the bedroom. He greeted Rolf as he walked by. The screen door slammed, and I

heard his footfalls on the front porch.

            Out of habit as much as anything else, I reached for my phone, lying on the bedside table. I pressed the button, to see if anyone had called —a brief vision of my husband and sons flashed quickly before my eyes, and I banished it guiltily.

            Nothing. The phone refused to light up. I pressed the top button twice, then held it down, thinking I may have powered it off. The screen remained stubbornly blank.   “What the hell?” It puzzled me. The phone was more than three quarters charged. But it was completely dead.  I didn’t even get the annoying white apple. I got out of bed and pulled the rest of my clothes on then walked across the wooden floor and joined James on the porch.

            He stood just at the top of the steps, looking out across his driveway. Rolf lay at his feet, panting. The air was still hot, very humid. I stepped up beside James, slid my arms around his waist. My rental car was parked beside his truck. For a few days a year, I pretended that we had something, pretended that we could make this work. The rest of the time, I lived in the real world, but these days were my fantasy. I resented that something had broken into it.

            “My phone is dead.” I leaned my cheek against his arm. His bare skin felt warm and slightly damp.

            “What?” He turned toward me.

Something in his voice warned me. He was most of a foot taller than me, and I had to tip my head way back. I repeated it. He frowned slightly. “Do you need to make a call? The landline should work.”

I shook my head. “Just wanted to see what time it was.”

He smiled. “That’s easy.” He turned to walk back inside. I followed. He picked up his own phone off the counter where it had been charging. He pressed the button.

Nothing. A plain black screen.

James said nothing, just dropped the phone onto the counter.

“Maybe something took out the cell towers.” I still leaned against the granite, which felt almost cold to my heated skin.

He looked at me. “Do you only use your phone to call?”

I shook my head.

“No. You use it to check the time, right? To write stuff on lists and on your calendar, keep track of your clients? None of that is dependent on the tower.” I looked at him, not sure where he was going with this. “You just need the phone to turn on, just your battery to run those things. Even if every cell tower on the planet stopped working, your clock would still work. Mine could have been fried, I suppose, if there was a power surge. But yours wasn’t plugged in.”

It wasn’t a question. I answered it anyhow. “No.”

“Did it have a charge?”

I nodded. He paced across the kitchen. The slate tiles squeaked under his bare feet. I leaned against the counter, saying nothing. When he was concerned, James moved. I just stayed out of the way. He picked up the sole landline telephone with a cord, almost an antique, and hung it back up. “Not even a dial tone.”

The first tendril of fear uncoiled in my stomach. “What does that mean?”

James walked back into the bedroom without an answer, and I followed him again.  I didn’t know what else to do. James rummaged through the pockets of the jeans he’d taken off earlier. Tension marked the line of his shoulders. I sat on the edge of the bed, watching him, suddenly sure something was very, very wrong. I clasped my hands together to hide their shaking. James pulled his keys out of his pocket, and walked back outside. His stride was much longer than mine, and I hurried to keep up.

I watched him from the porch when he jumped, ignoring the steps completely. I quite honestly believed he had forgotten my presence. He pressed the unlock button on his key fob and walked to the truck. He pulled the handle, but the door remained locked. He swore, jammed the key into the lock, and opened the door.  James slid behind the wheel, put his key in the ignition. He turned the key. I watched him as the last of the light bled out of the sky.

Click.

It was almost unearthly silent outside, and the sound carried through the still air.

“Oh, fuck, no. Not today.” James hit the wheel with one hand and tried again. Nothing. The truck sat in the driveway, sleek, the last bits of sunlight glinting in the black paint. He drove a Ford F250, rugged, nearly new. James was not the type to leave his lights on or let his battery die. Was he?

Something was wrong, and I was completely confused.

            The sun set, then, the dark nearly complete. James lived on the top of a hill a few miles outside of town. The night before, we’d sat outside and looked at the stars. The lights of the town had been below us, like closer stars, twinkling though the many trees. Tonight, there was nothing but darkness down the hill.

            James reached down under the seat of his truck for something. I sucked a sharp breath through my teeth when I saw him straighten back up, rifle in hand.  Fear flared briefly, then passed quickly. He held the weapon with authority, with a practiced casualness. James was an excellent marksman. A few years ago, after ridiculing my ultra-liberal gun control stance, he’d taught me to shoot that rifle on a lazy late summer afternoon. He’d explained it all to me, that afternoon and since, and I’d come—reluctantly—to see his point of view. “It’s necessary out here, Em. Where you live, the police are moments away. Here, it can sometimes take an hour for help to arrive. I’m my own best protection. Besides, I hunt.”

I sank down on the steps, watching him. Rolf at his side, James walked off towards the road, holding the gun with a familiarity that shouldn’t have surprised me. Instead of upsetting me, though, the presence of the gun was strangely reassuring.

            What a strange situation ours was. Five years ago in our hometown, we’d met up by accident. Neither of us still lived in the area. We’d grown up in southern New Hampshire, one of the many towns that boomed as the ever-expanding suburbs of Boston crawled north of the border. I’d been home from Atlanta with my boys, then seven and nine, and he’d been visiting from Montana, where he’d recently moved after getting the job he’d always wanted.  I literally ran into him at the grocery store. I’d pushed my cart around the corner and connected with something solid. I looked up, mortified, into those gorgeous golden brown eyes. Memory rushed in.

            “James Foster?” I said the name in surprise. He’d been awkward as a teenager, too tall, with long thin arms and legs. Now he…wasn’t. His sheer physical presence took my breath away. The old Red Sox tee shirt he wore couldn’t hide the definition in his arms. I’m sure he realized that I was ogling him, and I’m equally sure he was used to it.

            He smiled, setting off the damn dimple in his cheek off. “Emma? Emma Houldson.”

            I couldn’t help smile back; his grin was contagious. “Ryan, now.”

            We stood there talking for a long time, long enough for the ice cream in my cart to begin to melt. My boys materialized from the aisles, lugging junk food, which they dumped into the cart. Robbie, small, thin, almost delicate with my blond hair and his father’s dark eyes, watched James but didn’t say anything. Jordan, taller than his brother though he was two years younger, with his wide grin and floppy dark-blond curls, immediately made friends. His eyes were a bright hazel-brown, a perfect combination of mine and Robb’s.  I introduced them.

            “Can I take you to dinner tonight? To catch up?” James smiled and held up his left hand. The fluorescent grocery store lights reflected in a gold band on his ring finger. “Just as friends, I promise. Pick you up at seven?”

            I agreed. My mother was more than happy to take the boys. They weren’t much younger than my half-brother, who lived with her, and the three of them would have a fun night, playing video games and basically being boys. At the last second, I decided to change into something nicer than the old shorts and flip flops I’d been wearing. I put on the one dress I’d brought with me, a white sundress, with a pair of decent sandals.  I can’t help thinking my life might have turned out differently if I hadn’t made the effort, but there it was.

            We spent hours at dinner, and two hours after that in his truck. I knew I was making a mistake. I didn’t care; for the first time in nine years doing something completely selfish. I thought it would end there, be nothing but a one-night-summer-fling.

            I was wrong.

 James became a drug to me, something addictive that I should have stayed far away from. I saw him five more times in the two weeks I was home, and each time had the same result.  I went home to the sweltering heat of Atlanta in the summer time, and swore I would never see him again.

            I’d lied to myself, and even then I knew it. Through text messages, emails, and a few cell phone pictures I never mentioned to anyone, we continued our affair. When his wife went away a few months later, I invented a real estate convention that I needed to attend in Chicago—I worked as a title lawyer—and hopped on a plane. Once there, I boarded another plane to Billings Logan Airport. He called in sick, and I spent four glorious days in his arms. The next year, James came to Atlanta on a pretext, and I snuck away to his hotel room every chance I got, dropping the kids off at school and calling out of work, getting dressed only in time to get home that evening.

            Five years passed. My Robbie started high school, though even at fourteen he looked closer to eleven or twelve. He’d gotten very sick as a toddler and had eventually been diagnosed with Type I diabetes. Diabetics were often small, his pediatrician assured us, and he’d grow bigger. Eventually. Jordan, who had been taller than Robbie for years, started playing football. Both boys loved fishing with their father, camping, playing video games. As they got older, they needed me less.

            Any guilt I had started to ebb away, too. If Robb knew what I was doing, he never called me on it.  Between trysts, which never happened more than once or twice a year, I acted the perfect wife, mother, and lawyer.

            And yet, on that humid mid-September afternoon, everything changed.

            I sat on the porch until James and Rolf returned. The darkness was nearly complete by then. In the distance, thunder rumbled, the only sound. The clouds blacked out the moon and stars. James sat beside me on the steps, and Rolf dropped at our feet.

            “What’s going on, James?” I banished the panicky edge to my voice. “Why won’t your car start?”

            He let out a sound, half-way between a grunt and a sigh. “No idea.” James still had the rifle, now balanced on his knees. The breeze of that afternoon had picked up, and the air felt good. It was so hot out.

            Off in the distance, there was a strange dull orange glow. It was in the wrong direction to be a city, toward the Wyoming border and the National Parks. “What is that?” I asked James. He turned toward it, just a lighter shadow against the black.

            “A fire.”

            “Like a wildfire?” I leaned against him and felt his arms circle my waist.

            James shrugged. I couldn’t see him but I felt his shoulder move. At that moment, the thunder rumbled again, closer. Lightning lit up the sky, spider webbing out behind the clouds, beautiful but a bit scary. James stood up beside me. “Let’s go inside.”

            I followed him, stumbling on the steps in the dark.

            Inside, I stood by the door, surprised by the complete darkness. James moved across the pitch black space with perfect confidence, reaching the kitchen with no trouble. I heard him open a cabinet door.  Lightning flashed outside, and I got a brief glimpse of him, dark head bent, looking at something in his hands, before the darkness returned.

            A warm glow filled the small kitchen. I crossed to where James was leaning against the bar. I suddenly felt bone tired, as if I had been standing for days rather than for minutes. A small battery-operated lantern, the type I used while camping, stood on the counter. James had two wine glasses in his hands. He took the pitcher of sangria he’d made earlier out of the fridge and poured.

            “Enjoy the chilled wine.” James turned his glass, so the dark red liquid shone in the dim light. “It might be a while before you get any more.” He took a big gulp of the wine and then another. He topped off his glass.

            “Why?” I took the glass from him but didn’t sip.

            “The power can be out here for a day or two, Emma. It’s not the city. They get to us when they can.” He took another sip of wine.

            I didn’t drink. “Is this just a power outage, James?” I looked at him. He stood very still, an obvious contrast to the restless motion he’d shown before. His eyes glowed in the light, and I was again amazed at his beauty, at my luck at being here with him.

            James sighed. “Take a drink, Emma. You’re going to need it.”

            I frowned. “Why?”   

James shrugged again. “Generally, landline phones work in a power outage, Emma. And cell phones. Always, the cars work. Always before now, anyhow.”

“Maybe your battery is dead.” I watched his hands on the glass. Swirl, swirl, sip. Repeat.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up. “Maybe. Give me your keys.”

I picked up the keys to my rental from where they lay on the counter. James walked outside and I heard the car door open, then nothing. After a moment, he came in, brushing raindrops off his shoulders. He shook his head. “Nope, dead.”

“So what do we do?”

James raised his wineglass, toasting me in the weak battery-powered light. “We drink, Emma.”

I reached for my glass and took a sip. The sangria was delicious, fruit flavor bursting across my tongue. “And then?”

James smiled, and I felt heat slice through me that had nothing to do with the weather or the wine. “Oh, I’m sure we can think of something.”  

THIS IS HOPE

            People suck.

 

            James Foster tells Emma Ryan this the night the world ends, but it takes a sadistic psycho with a hunting rifle to beat the lesson into her. After a traumatic adolescence, Emma’s built herself a perfect little bubble: great job, beautiful house, adoring family…and a little bit of James on the side.

 

            But Emma never could have predicted this. The power’s gone, planes fall from the sky, crazies emerge from the hills of Montana, and Emma’s stuck eighteen hundred miles from home with a man who isn’t her husband.

 

            With the last remnants of society crumbling around them, James makes Emma a promise: he’ll get her to Atlanta or die trying. They set out to traverse the country on foot with only his dog for company.  Emma and James try to avoid people. But, people find them. They come across the best—and worst—of humanity. When they have their backs to a wall, seconds from an extremely nasty death, they are saved by the kindness of strangers. In the hell the world has become, even kindness isn’t free. The cost for Emma and James may destroy what little normalcy they’ve managed to cling to.

 

Everything has to end, and when Emma and James’s journey finally does, it is nothing like either expects.

           

It's amazing what an offer does

In terms of agents, that is.

I got an offer--the offer, actually--last Friday, and it has been insane. My phone is constantly ringing with "blocked" numbers, my emails are piling up, and I've been sending out chapters and author bios left and right. Honestly, an agent I hadn't queried contacted me.

And the offer itself? The only word to describe it is magical. There was one agent who all along has been a huge champion of my story, and the fact that the offer came from her is quite astounding. The fact that people are reading what I'm writing? It's like a dream. I never thought that I would be choosing between agents.

I am starting to have faith that this could actually happen. That one day, I could hold a copy of a book that I've written in my hands and see it on shelves. I had to buy a book for a friend's baby shower on Saturday, and I stood there in the fiction section for a moment, looking at all the books. As I have since I was young, I thought "Someday...."

But now? Someday seems like it may be a reality.

I will be making my decision in the next day or so. Exciting times! I'll announce it here, and on Twitter, and FB and I may even scream it in the streets.
Dori

Feeling discouraged

When emails go unanswered, I feel sad.

Hanson Hornets?

Not too bad, considering. The color is right, and the H...

My dive into YA...Playing on Ice

So, I decided last year, in maybe September, to jump into YA writing. Why? Well, for a couple of reasons. One is that as a high school English teacher, I am completely surrounded by it. Another is that I needed distraction. This is Hope was just in the beginning of querying, and the best way for me to calm those Oh My God, I just sent this to an agent jitters was to start writing.

I'm always a bit of a slow start. Poor Jenna and Wes had to wait until I was halfway done with their story before it grabbed me....you know, before I started living and breathing in their world instead of my own. But I did, and I shed tears in Nebraska when Aaron and Darrell told their story, when Michelle appeared out of a solid rock wall, when Heather told us about Haley, and when Jenna and Wes were faced with the end of their journey. That moment broke my heart.  The best thing I heard about the book was from my mother at Christmas. She told me that after she finished reading This is Hope, she moped around for a few days before she realized what was wrong. She missed my characters. For a writer, another Oh My God! moment. But while poor doomed Luke and Bekah grabbed me from the first moment, Jenna and Wes took about 30,000 words.

Collin and Dani took a lot longer.

But Dani and Collin are different. First of all they're not lovers. They're stepbrother and sister. Second of all, instead of thirty-six in my first book and thirty-eight in my second, they're seventeen and eighteen. They're in high school. And they are both flawed and damaged in ways my other characters haven't been.

So, I was about 40,000 words into a story. I thought I knew where it was going, but I really didn't have any drive to get it there. I was waiting for that moment, for the second when the story would grab me and not let go, the moment I would leave Green Cove Springs, Florida and live in Hanson, New Hampshire. After all, I'd lived in Mashpee and Barnstable on Cape Cod with Luke and Bekah. I'd walked from Smithfield, Montana to Callahan, Florida with Wes and Jenna.

Then, this past weekend, I had some personal stuff go wrong. And I decided to go to Hanson for a little while to recover. And I stayed there for 25,000 words. The story was nothing like I'd thought it would be. It's darker, but also more redeeming.

So I'm calling it, y'all. I've finished the first draft of my very first YA novel. It's a hair over 65,000 words. I expect it to be in the neighborhood of 70-75k when it's really ready to query.
It's called (for now) Playing on Ice. Here's the early draft of my query if you're curious.

Playing on Ice

She took a drink from her boyfriend at a party, and it wrecked her entire life. Daniela Guzman’s sure that nothing in front of her can be as bad as what she left behind. Trusting the wrong person tore her life apart. The high school senior decides to escape the harassment of her former friends and move in with the mother she hasn’t seen in eleven years. When she gets to New Hampshire, Dani only has two goals: finish high school and be left alone

She couldn’t have picked a worse place to disappear. The whole graduating class of Hanson High School numbers just eighty three, and they’ve all known each other since infancy. She’s the only non-white student in the school. In Hanson, ice hockey is life, and Dani’s stepbrother Collin is the captain of the team. Dani is thrust into the social spotlight, especially when one of Collin’s teammates takes an unhealthy interest in her. 

Everyone tells her she’s lucky. Derek’s gorgeous, and he seems like a nice guy, but Dani just wants to be left alone. Derek’s interest turns to obsession, and when he finds out Dani’s history, he uses it to blackmail her into his bed. The betrayal and humiliation, so like what happened to her in San Diego, threatens to ruin what little happiness Dani’s found. When Collin discovers what happened, he rushes to her defense without thinking. The resulting clash has catastrophic consequences for everyone involved. With one classmate dead, another gravely injured, and her so-called secret splashed all over the hallways, Dani is forced to face her own guilt and stop running away. Because in Hanson, she just might have found something worth staying for.

  And, introducing (among others) Collin Anders, Dani Guzman, Derek Powell, Ashlee and Kayla Reid, Cris and Troy Mercier, and Jonathan Campbell. Collectively, they are one-tenth of HHS's senior class. And they all have issues.

Who doesn't?

Declunking

It's that special time of year...the Dead Zone. Okay, not really. But this is the last day most of the agencies are open, and I won't be able to be obsessively checking my email every thirty seconds. I guess that's a good thing. I have some work to do, anyhow. My editing work for the next few days includes declunking dialogue.

Here's an example:
Un-declunked original version:

I continued.  “But he was a mean drunk. Anything could set him off. It was very important to him that I be perfect, since I was representing him and the Houldson name. Once we moved up to New Hampshire, I had to have my clothes perfectly matched, play every sport, get straight As. He didn’t like it when I failed to perform to his standards. One time, I guess I was about twelve, I tripped on stage in a ballet recital. I was at the back of a big group, so I really hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did. In the car, on the way home, Mom gushed about how cute I looked in my costume and how wonderful I was, but Stephen drove in silence. I guess I knew what was coming.

“When we got home, Mom changed and went to work. As soon as her car left the driveway, Stephen was hollering my name. He had this odd way of saying it, raising his voice on the last syllable. ‘Jenn-AH!’ he yelled. ‘Get your clumsy ass out here. Jenn-AH!’ I about crept from my room, heart pounding in my chest. The move I’d fallen on was a pirouette to a jete, a difficult move for a twelve-year-old to master, but that was no excuse for him.

“I came out into the kitchen, where he was sitting, a mostly-gone beer in front of him. I’d changed out of my leotards, into a pair of shorts and a shirt, but that wasn’t acceptable. He made me put the costume back on, white tights and tutu and even the little hat we’d worn.”

I closed my eyes, remembering. Wes was silent, waiting. I licked my lips and continued. “I think we were swans or something. Anyhow, Stephen made me do the move on the kitchen floor. Again and again. After his third beer, my legs were trembling and my feet ached. I must have done it thirty or forty times, and I remember the tears pouring down my cheeks. I begged him to let me stop.

“He laughed and opened another beer. I took a deep breath and prepared to do it again, but my foot just gave out. I did the leap okay, but instead of langing gracefully, I slid sideways, twisting my ankle, and hit the table. Stephen got up and screamed at me. I sat on the floor, holding my ankle, crying. He threw the beer he was drinking at me. It was about half full and the beer inside stained my white tutu. The bottle bounced off my shin, which really hurt, but it didn’t break.

“Stephen stood over me, and he looked so big. I was terrified. He called me some terrible things, and made me get up. ‘Again, Jenna. Until it’s right.’

“’I can’t stand!’ I yelled it up at him, still clutching my throbbing foot.

“Calm as anything, he reached down and slapped me across the face. ‘Again, Jenna.’

“Sobbing, I climbed to my feet. The floor was slippery, and I fell again, white tights stained yellow with his drink. He grabbed my hair by the bun I still wore and pulled me to my feet. Nothing ever hurt like that. I tried, Wes, I really tried to do the move the way he wanted me to.”

I felt frustrated tears spring to my eyes, remembering. I wiped them away with one hand. Wes put his arm around me, pulled me to him.

“I tried so hard to do it right, but I kept slipping. And every time I’d fall, he’d hit me. Only the first one was on the face; he was too smart to have marks that could be visible. But he began slapping my arms, my legs. By the time he got tired of it, and I was able to run to my room and peel off my tights, my legs and arms were bright red.”

This is Hope, p.149-151.

And here is the revised, declunked version:

I continued.  “But he was a mean drunk. Anything could set him off. It was very important to him that I be perfect, since I was representing him and the Houldson name.”

Wes snorted. “I know the type. Appearance is king.”

“Yup. Once we moved up to New Hampshire, I had to have my clothes perfectly matched, play every sport, get straight As. He didn’t like it when I failed to perform to his standards.”

“Why do I feel there’s an example coming? I’m almost afraid to hear it.”

The memory of the day came crashing into me. “There are lots. Once, I guess I was about twelve, I tripped on stage in a ballet recital. I was at the back of a big group, so I really hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he did.”

Wes kissed the top of my head. “Em, you don’t have to tell me this.” His voice was muffled by my hair.

“Do you want me to stop?” I kept my cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt. I almost hoped he’d tell me to stop talking, to keep it inside.

He was quiet for a long moment. “No. Keep going.”

I sighed. “In the car, on the way home, Mom gushed about how cute I looked in my costume and how wonderful I was, but Stephen drove in silence. I guess I knew what was coming.” I lifted my head off of his shoulder.

Wes said nothing. After a few seconds, I kept talking. “When we got home, Mom changed and went somewhere. Maybe to see a friend. Anyhow, as soon as her car left the driveway, Stephen was hollering my name. He had this odd way of saying it, raising his voice on the last syllable. ‘Em-AH!’ he yelled. ‘Get your clumsy ass out here. Em-AH!’ I about crept from my room, heart pounding in my chest.”

I took a breath, remembering. The move I’d fallen on was jete to a pirouette, a difficult move for a twelve-year-old to master, but that was no excuse for him. No, for Stephen it had to be good. Perfect. All of it. All the time. “I came out into the kitchen, where he was sitting, a mostly-gone beer in front of him.”

The memory floods me. I’d changed out of my leotards, into a pair of shorts and a shirt. I remember that he made me put the costume back on, white tights and tutu and even the headdress we’d worn. We’d been dressed as cygnets for Swan Lake. I could recall the strange way those white feathers felt against my cheek where they touched it. The feathers had curled down, behind my left ear, attached with bobby pins. I remembered how those feathers felt, and my skin crawled. We’d had our faces painted in a sparkly white, making almost a mask around our eyes, glittering plastic gems applied to the corners. Gems that stung like hell when I hit the floor. Sparkly white paint on Stephen’s hand. I swallowed.

Wes was silent, waiting. I licked my lips and continued. “Stephen made me do the move on the kitchen floor. Again and again. After his third beer, my legs were trembling and my feet ached. I must have done it thirty or forty times, and I remember the tears pouring down my cheeks. I begged him to let me stop.”

Wes spoke. “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

“It gets worse. He laughed when I pleaded with him, and opened another beer. I took a deep breath and prepared to do it again, but my foot just gave out. I did the leap okay, but instead of landing gracefully, I slid sideways, twisting my ankle, and hit the table.”

Wes squeezed my hand.

My legs ached with the remembered pain. The words tumbled out even as my tears spilled down my cheeks.  “Stephen got up and screamed at me. I sat on the floor, holding my ankle, crying. He threw the beer he was drinking at me. It was about half full and the beer inside stained my white tutu. The bottle bounced off my shin, which really hurt, but it didn’t break. Not then.”

“What an ass.” Wes paused, then said it again. “Ass.”

“Stephen stood over me, and he looked so big. I was terrified. He called me some terrible things, and made me get up. ‘Again, Emma. Until it’s right.’”

“Wait.” Wes shifted beside me. “He made you do the move on a sprained ankle?”

“Yeah. I told him I couldn’t, but that didn’t matter to him.” I lapse into silence, remembering the anger in his face, the way his hand hovered over me. I’d tried to climb to my feet, but the floor had been covered with beer. I slipped, slid. And he laughed.  I remembered sitting at his feet, white tights stained with yellow beer. He’d laughed out loud, then slapped me across the face. His drew his hand back again and it was covered with the white paint from my eyes. The sparkles had reflected in the kitchen lights. I’d thought he was going to slap me again, but he grabbed my hair by the bun I still wore and pulled me to my feet. Nothing ever hurt like that, not even Conners’ rifle. The tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I tried, Wes, I really tried to do the move the way he wanted me to.”  I wiped my eyes with one hand. Wes put his arm around me, pulled me to him.

“I tried so hard to do it right, but I kept slipping. And every time I’d fall, he’d hit me. Only the first one was on the face; he was too smart to leave marks that could be visible. But he began slapping my arms, my legs. By the time he got tired of it, and I was able to run to my room and peel off my tights, my legs and arms were bright red.”

This is Hope p.151-154

What can I say? It's a work in progress. And now back to an inappropriate conversation with someone I shouldn't be talking to.

Dori