Sample Chapters

CHAPTER ONE

If God created every sound in the universe, then He must have hired a ghost writer to compose the current symphony erupting from under my LES MIZ t-shirt. Thankfully everyone’s more interested in lab partners than my internal organist.

I pop up from my desk in Mr. Snyder’s bio class to join the other sixteen-year-old lemmings headed zombie-like to their next close encounter with frog kidneys and testes.

BAM! I’m staring at Brandon’s belly button.

No. He’s not wearing a halter. He’s tall and lanky with large hands. Basketball player? Nope. B&B pianist.

Yesterday when we were rehearsing “Be Our Guest” he made me miss my entrance. Well… he didn’t force me to miss it.

His face did.

His face doesn’t say “basketball” or “piano.” His face says: “kiss me.”

At least to me it does.

“Please, God! Strike that last thought from the record, and don’t make me look like an idiot,” I pray silently.

Brandon takes a step back. I do too, crushing my sandwich in the process and squirting strawberry jam all over my clean white Reeboks. I pray he doesn’t notice, but, of course, that’s exactly where he stares.

That’s what I get for thinking impure thoughts. I try to shift my focus from my strawberry shoe to a piece of scripture I used to win my 3rd Waterbury Scripture Memorization trophy:

Philippians 4:8 ” if there is anything excellent anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

God, does a high school crush count as praiseworthy?

“Hey, how’s it goin’?” Brandon asks casually.

“Vibin’,” To avoid awkward silence, I quip, “Guess I’m having frog legs for lunch.”

Shoulda just left it with the jammed shoe.

“You going to the game Friday?” Brandon asks awkwardly.

I hate football, but I say, “Not sure,” leaving him lots of room to invite me.

“Me either,” he admits.

I guess, besides music, we both share a common disinterest in football.

What now? My face turns the same shade as my jam.

He blurts, “How ‘bout Winter Formal?”

“Not sure,” I say, like a loser.

His face falls.

As he starts to walk towards the lab tables, I freeze. Did he just ask me to Winter Formal?

I take a deep breath.

“Hey Brandon,” I say loudly enough for him to hear, but not the rest of the

English-speaking world. “Did you just ask me to Winter Formal?”

All heads turn to me.

I scurry for shelter with my group, Rhon and Nette. Rhon has good reasons to dress in a halter and short shorts. But she knows the male teachers would never report her and the female teachers are too envious of her perfectly flat stomach.

Nette makes her own fashion statement by wearing pj’s every day, mostly accompanied by an ugly red plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her clothing choices don’t scream “Look at me. Look how hot I am,” like Rhon’s do. It’s more like: “You got me out of bed for THIS?! This school? This class? These people? Better be worth it.”

I guess I’m kinda mid. I wouldn’t be caught dead in either fashion choice, so I wear what every other girl my age wears: leggings and a cute T. Sometimes I’ll spice it up with neon-colored socks from my dad’s crazy-colored sock drawer. Anyway, I don’t have zits so I’ve got that going for me, but I don’t have Rhon’s perfect body or Nette’s high cheekbones… so there’s that. Fish would willingly leap from the ocean to dive into their boats. Me? I’ve got to cast my line and pray they don’t unhook themselves. And the pickin’s are thin, since we’re all in theater where guys are either gay or others too absorbed with themselves for anyone besides mirrors to be attracted to them. One more reason Brandon’s such a catch. He’s NOT in theater.

___________

I sit in front of the school on brown patches, that self-identify as grass, under the famous graffiti- encased elm that holds decades-old carved initials, hearts, and nasty stuff. “The Brandon Moment” took place just like ten minutes ago, so I can capture every detail in my brand new journal and then figure out my next move.

Dear Jam Brain,

“What the FU- STERBUGIT JUST HAPPENED?!”

Someday I’ll gather all our large-handed children together and I’ll point to this page, right here, and say, “This is when Daddy and Mommy -”

Whoa! Getting a little ahead of myself here.

Great way to start a diary, Erika. Drooling over a guy. Diary page spittle check? None… so far. Yeah, he’s cute and a lot nicer than the theater guys, But do I want to look back on my journal and feel like I’m reading a steamy Danielle Steele romance novel? I’m sure we’ll get to that soon enough. But not in the FIRST TWO SENTENCES.

I’d go back and erase that cliche beginning, but I wrote it in pen.

Oh well, future Erika. Deal with it. It’s not that I need to write something like Catcher In The Rye that’s so deep that my soul gets sucked into a catcher’s glove. That would be depressing.

No, but you, dearest diary, will be my therapist You’re a lot cheaper and you won’t make Mom and Dad worry that something’s wrong. And what’s wrong? I can’t even put my finger on it. It’s not school. It’s not Rhonette. It’s not my well-meaning, but clueless parents. And it’s definitely not Brandon. I think I like him more to prove to Rhonette that I’m also capable of a relationship. Although neither of theirs ended well, so maybe there’s a little “See? Relationships can work” thrown in there. In junior high I prided myself on not “needing a guy.” Why do I suddenly somehow feel the need for one? DKW.

But WHY?!!!

YIKES!

Thoughts race out like they’ve just been handed a gallon of Red Bull.

I didn’t ask for a journal on my sixteenth Birthday. But I guess Steph thought I needed one. Probably just sick of being babbled to for hours. Don’t really blame her.

I thought I’d fill all your pages on my 16th – all the new insights of being (almost) an adult would come flowing out of me like a very mature fountain. Nope. Not even a dribble. I was so bummed that I didn’t instantaneously have deep Sixteen-Year-Old Thoughts that I left you on the kitchen table with the leftover lasagna. But now you’ve somehow made it into my backpack. And you’re part of my life whether I like it or not. Now, get on with your job!

I guess that I want someone to see me, I mean really see me (even the ugly zitty parts) and not judge (like mom) or change the subject (like Rhonette) or make me feel shallow (like Stephanie) or, worst of all, make me feel like I’m not even worth their time (like Dad).

Am I catching the “Need-to-be-seen” disease? Is it curable?

Rhon and Nette see me. Every day. The “Snap” me. The “Insta” Me. The “not-really-all-of-me” me. Mom sees the “Best In Show” Me, and Dad still sees the “little girl” me. Steph is too busy dealing with her own issues. I know you “see me,” God. But can you give me a better peek back at you?

So that leaves you, my new journal to “see me.” To be my Number One.

Enough of this. Diary, I feel like I need to set down some ground rules:

1) Don’t depress me.

2) Don’t let me get overwhelmed with all your blank pages

3) DON’T LET MY PARENTS FIND YOU!! (If they do, please self-destruct.)

In return, I promise to tell you all my secrets.

I suddenly panic.

But, Dear Diary, what if you have a momentary lapse, forget your part of the bargain and show yourself in plain sight? What if my parents do get their hands on you? ?

They’d have wildly different perspectives, that’s for sure.

I continue to write in my diary (who probably already wishes it had found a different owner).

It’s kinda hard to see how they ever even got together.

Definitely not at a political rally. Unless they were throwing rocks at each other. I mean Mom’s a red state conservative and Dad’s a blue state liberal. I guess they met before it mattered much.

Me?

I’m kinda purple.

At least that’s the color my face would turn if I ever found out they were reading this. I could picture my mom reading this under the guise of “protecting me from evil influences.” Mom’s got a Black Bear side and a Panda Bear side. Unfortunately, the day I turned thirteen Mama Black chased off Panda and she hasn’t been heard from since. I miss her.

The only way Dad would read my journal is if Mom shoved in it his face. And even then, he’d only “pretend” to read it. He respects me… at least I think he does…. hard to tell sometimes. I know he respects my older sister Stephanie. Even though she’s completely unrespectable. I mean what’s she ever done besides question everybody’s faith and enjoy her role as black sheep?

Well, actually, I guess she’s more like a gray sheep. And apparently gray sheep are more appealing to Dad than white ones.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I shift my attention from sheep to something less wooly: Brandon.

What did Brandon actually mean when he said: “Are you going to Winter Formal” two seconds after, “You goin’ to the football game?” He was prob’ly just low key asking if he’d see me there, not inviting me to marry him and bear his children.

Was there a sparkle in his eye or was that just a glint of fluorescent light bouncing off a nearby scalpel? Or was this whole encounter just a formaldehyde fantasy?

NOTE TO SELF: Google “Formaldehyde-induced delusions.” Time for Plan B.

Although “Plan A” was more an accident than an actual plan.

CHAPTER TWO

When Mom pulls up, I dive into the back seat and lock both doors, leaving Steph as

shotgun (thankfully she’s got no bullets!) I get lots of hostile glares from fellow thespians, but my mom gets even more (which she deserves!) I try to escape inside my journal.

Dear (2nd) Most Hated Person in the World:

Sure enough, rehearsal’s cancelled. Peach is spreading rumors that it was my mom who organized all the parents in the “Kill Cabaret” campaign.

Steve’s definitely NOT happy to be sitting in front and her face turns even more miserable when Mom starts grilling her. Steph’s “plus sized” figure contrasts Mom’s “Slim Fast” body. Everyone else in the family drew the long skinny straws. Steph drew the short, meaty one.

One more thing. I better write this down now so when I’m eighty and everyone thinks I’ve got dementia because I’m calling my sister “Stephen,” I can point to this paragraph and prove I haven’t lost my last fruit loop.

A couple years ago Stephen introduced me to the great and powerful Stephen King, I’d lovingly ask her each night before falling asleep, “Come on Stephen. Tell me another one.”

Stephen quickly morphed to Steve, which is what I still call her when I want to annoy her. Works every time!

Now. Finally. Done with Steve. Although I’ll never be done with the real Stephanie (only years of therapy will do that!)

“You’ve been tardy to almost all your classes for a couple weeks now,” Mom scolds

Stephen. “That’s not like you.”

“Sorry. I’ll stop.” Steph’s a woman of few words, so I figure those three words serve as both an apology and a vow. Back to journaling.

I can guess why Steve’s been late for classes. Probably just trying to get some attention. I mean, I’ve always been the one who steals most of Mom’s attention for being the “Spiritual One” in the family.

The quest for spiritual superiority with Mom started a long time ago. But I must admit. It was never a fair contest. Mom would sneak a sticky note scripture verse into our sandwich bags every day. If you memorized that day’s verse you got a bigger portion of dessert. My brain is wired to memorize stuff quickly so my dessert plate was always full.

On the other hand, Steph has whatever the opposite of a photographic memory is (diarrhea memory?) I remember seeing her at recess sitting by herself on the bench, biting her lip as she held the small strip in her hand and strained to remember words. And then I started to notice that even her favorite foods would remain uneaten on her plate. I started to feel sorry for Steph and would sneak my extra dessert portions into her room after dinner. And that’s how Steph’s eating disorder began… along with the overwhelming guilt I feel to this day.

It finally ended abruptly when Steph was a fifth grader and my parents learned that she was actually diagnosed as dyslexic.

To make Steph feel better (and to assuage his own guilt for not catching it sooner), Dad started to pay lots more attention to Stephen. Scripture memorization (and I) weren’t nearly as important as Steve’s spiritual depth.

But if Dad went diving off the spiritual deep end with Stephanie, mom kept me in the shallow end paddling me along from one scripture competition to another and bragging to all her friends about my many trophies. But now that I just turned sixteen and am not a kid anymore, the award I covet most, since I have to actually work hard to earn it and not just have it pinned to my diaper at birth, is the “Dad’s Favorite Award.”

________________

CHAPTER THREE

After dinner I pass by Dad’s office as usual, and, as usual, he’s praying. But this one catches my ear.

“But that’s when I’m going running with Erika…”

I eavesdrop. Who wouldn’t?

“Holyland? You sure you want to meet me at Holyland USA?” Dad questions. “Why can’t you just reveal my calling to me now?”

His calling? Is he on the phone with Verizon?

“Okay, okay, okay! I’ll go. But what about Erika?” he asks. “What’s she gonna do while you’re giving me my calling?”

It’s silent.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?!!”

“Can you hear me now?” I’m tempted to add. Instead, I sneak a peek into his office.

Odd. He’s not even on his phone.

I continue down the hall to reunite with my best friend. We never finished that car ride conversation.

Dear Cabaret Killer’s Daughter,

What’s up with dad? And Holyland USA? Guess I’ll find out during the run. Maybe he’ll “see me” as we’re running alongside each other. But that doesn’t really count because I’ll be all sweaty. Not really the best way to be seen.

On to more pressing matters.

Today Nette confirmed that Mom was the actual ringleader for the “Kill Cabaret” Campaign. Peach had already spread it everywhere but on her sandwich. Nette was holding back from telling me cause she says she wanted to protect me. That’s what blankets do. They’re the opposite of exhilarating and dangerous.

NOTE TO SELF: start a “Kill Peach” campaign.

Whoops! Definitely not school appropriate. I’ll rename it the “Squish Peach” campaign.

But Jesus reminds me to launch a “Keep Your Mouth Shut” campaign instead.

It makes sense it would be my Mom who’d organize parents against Cabaret. It’s definitely something I could see her doing.

Mom’s what my friends call “Super Spiro.” And believe me, it’s not a superhero I’d ever want to play.

As I settle back on my pillow, I continue.

Now I know. It was Mom’s crazy antics that cost me the lead.

Because of you, Mom, I’m “Third Fork From the Left” in “Be Our Guest” and “Background Drunk Guy” in the Tavern Scene. Kiss solo music rehearsals with Brandon goodbye. Could have been a great chance to get to know him somewhere between “Home” and “A Change In Me.”

Grrrrrrrrrr!