Just a Taste: Chapter 2

Author's Note:

        First, I made a couple changes in the first chapter that will make some parts of this chapter more clear. I added a new scene as the opening scene, where Ellena is picking Mable up from work at the food truck, so the reader gets the feature of the food truck right away. Ellena has an awkward little encounter with one of the food truck workers, and that's the Frisbee incident mentioned in this following chapter. It's not all that important, but just letting you know for clarity sake. I'm also adding in a scene before Ellena decides to take the shift at the food truck where she goes into her kitchen at home and toys with the idea of actually cooking. 

       For this second chapter, the focus is Ellena's first experience working at the food truck. Ultimately, I'd like to know if y'all are happy with the amount of description, or if you are having trouble imagining things. Should I amp up the chaotic factor? Do you get enough of the food truck staff characters or should they have more interaction/dialogue? This was such a tough scene to write because there were a lot of visual details, logistical details, and emotional details all going on at the same time.  As for emotions, does Ellena seem to be appropriately reacting to being in this environment again? Ultimately, what's working for y'all and what's not, because this chapter is super key to setting up so much of the rest of the book!

Chapter 2

            A couple days later on Saturday morning, I pulled up into the dirt-worn, grassy parking lot next to Quichey Keen.  The food truck stood on the fringes of the community park downtown, near the baseball diamonds.  The metal serving window was closed up, the slightly faded image of a steaming white coffee mug with the truck’s block-letter logo spread across the left side.  Even from inside my car I could hear music thumping from the burnt orange-colored truck.  Nervousness tingled in my stomach as I rubbed my lip-balmed lips together, retying my high ponytail for the fourth time.  I still wasn’t sure this was a good idea, if I was ready to be in a kitchen that wasn’t shrouded by the late night darkness of my home.  I looked at the truck through the windshield once more, not having any idea what awaited me inside, before finally getting out of the car. 

            Mable had been stingy with the details, only telling me to “dress casual” because she didn’t want to “spoil the surprise.” As if that was comforting or informative at all.  I looked at my reflection in the side of my car, smoothing the creases in my loose black khaki shorts and plain white t-shirt and trying not to think about how horrified my dad would have been that I wasn’t wearing long pants in a kitchen. The sound of a metal door slamming open jerked my attention from my reflection.

            “Seriously, y’all, I didn’t burn it! Brooke’s the one on coffee duty today, not me.”  I recognized Henry, the weird Frisbee guy, as he stormed out of the truck and down the few rickety wooden steps leading up to the truck’s entrance.  He was wearing the same “I’m the cheese” shirt, and had a half-full coffee pot in one hand and his round headphones in the other.  A muffled shouting came from inside the truck, and Henry proceeded to slosh out the, apparently, burned coffee onto the grass next to my car, barely missing my ankles.

            “Oh, sorry, didn’t see you.” Henry lifted his chin and squinted at me.  “Hey, weren’t you here the other day?  Picking up Mable?”

            I shifted my weight, eyeing the pool of coffee slithering across the grass. “Um, yeah, that was me.  I’m taking her shift today, actually.”

            “Whose?”
            “Mable’s…”

            “Oh, okay.  Does Coen know?”

            “I think so? Who is that?” I couldn’t remember who Mable told me I was supposed to talk to once I got here.  Henry stood looking at me and then turned and stepped back into the food truck, much like the strange Frisbee experience from the other day.  This time I followed him, careful to avoid the puddle of coffee in my path.

            As soon as I stepped into the narrow doorway, I was hit with the familiar scent of coffee grounds and bacon grease I’d smelled on Mable, along with fried egg, pancake batter, and, oddly, curry.  Then there was the heat.  It was like all the humidity in Virginia had been sucked up and spit out in this food truck, churned around by wafts of heat from opening ovens.  I had no idea how anyone could breathe properly when the door and serving window were shut.  Once my mind and lungs wrapped around the heat, I finally noticed the actual insanity happening in front of me.  The roughly 15x7 kitchen was a blur of motion.  A thin girl with too-short cut-offs and a bad ombre dye job that looked like she’d somehow dipped the lower half of her head in peroxide was mixing batter with furious circular strokes in an industrial sized mixing bowl.  Behind her, a lanky guy with intricate sleeve tattoos on both arms and long hair scooped up into a bun was chopping assorted vegetables and piling them into impressive mounds on the stainless steel counter.  Henry stood next to Man-Bun, grinding coffee grounds to the beat of the still-thumping techno-meets-reggae music.  The ultimate sense of chaos came from the guy standing across the kitchen by the driving cabin, who was shouting out orders rapid fire from a notebook over the cacophony of mixing, chopping, grinding, and thumping. 

            “I need at least two more ham and spinach quiches in the oven before we open up, guys.  Brooke, that better be enough batter to cover the waffle sandwiches, too, okay?  Today’s special is gonna be the Tofu Curry Scramble Burrito, so be prepared to explain to people what’s all in it.  And Henry, for the love of God, will you calm it down with the coffee grinding over there?” Despite the lack of response to his questions and demands, it was clear everyone had understood their tasks.  He scanned his notebook once more and gave a tight nod before wiping his brow on his flannel shirt sleeve.  I had no idea how he could stand to wear flannel without sweltering to death, but his grey chino shorts must have compensated.  He had sandy brown hair shaved shorter on the sides and a normal length on top, the kind of edgy look you would see more in Portland than Alexandria.

            Everything about this kitchen felt at once so familiar and so foreign.  The shouting orders, intoxicating mix of smells, and general fast-paced whir of cooking were all elements I grew up with, and loved, at Augustine’s.  I could almost hear my dad bellowing out the number of fish and steak orders for the first round of dinner guests, which in his kitchen would have been promptly received with a “Yes, chef!” from the staff.  Here, though, was not Augustine’s.  The music was so loud, the kitchen was barely big enough to accommodate four people, let alone five if I ever made it past the threshold, and the space seemed to completely lack any organization at all.  Processing what was in front of me, I took a deep breath and swallowed hard.  I could do this.

            Then, finally, the guy who had been giving orders noticed my presence.  His face twisted in confusion, which lead me to believe neither Mable nor Henry had alerted him to my arrival.  The nervous tingle took over my stomach again. 

            “Who are you?” He shouted across the kitchen.

            “I’m—,” my voice cracked, “I’m Ellena, Mable’s friend? I’m covering her shift for her today.” I craned my neck over the people between us, silently cursing Mable for obviously forgetting to clue her workplace in to her change of plans.

            The guy looked down and shook his head before turning and passing through into the driving cabin.  I bit the inside of my cheek and remained standing frozen in the doorway, confused as to where he disappeared to.

            “Well, I guess you’ll be getting the crash course this morning.” I jumped and spun around to find him standing behind me at the bottom of the wooden stoop. “We open at 9:00, so you’ve got about five minutes to figure this joint out.  You can thank Mable for that.” His teeth clenched, emphasizing his jawline. Up closer, I was surprised how young he looked, only a couple years older than me at most.

            “Sorry, Mable can be a little all over the place.” I let out a nervous laugh and popped the hair-tie on my wrist. “But, I’m happy to help out.”

            “All right then. Well, I’m Coen.  Nice to meet you…”

            “Ellena.”

            “Right.  Ellena.  What’s your experience? Know how to cook?” Coen started up the few stairs to meet me in the doorway.  I found myself shaking my head, no.  No, I wasn’t ready yet. No, they didn’t need to know that I probably had more culinary skill than all of them combined. No, just being here was already almost too much to handle.

            “Well, hey, that’s all right. We can always use another dish washer,” Coen winked.  As he passed me through the doorway, I caught a whiff of wood smoke.

            I made my way to the deep stainless steel sink on the other side of the girl, who I assumed must have been Brooke, and who was still stirring the gallons of waffle and pancake batter with such tenacity she didn’t seem to register my existence.  The sink was already full of various sauce pans, baking tins, and utensils.  I hadn’t been delegated to dishwashing since I was 11, when my dad decided I’d reached the appropriate age to be his “apprentice.”  But now, I welcomed the sight of burnt oil and caked on crust.  This was something I could do just fine.

            “Okay, let’s crank her up guys!” Coen started tugging on a chain hanging on the wall behind me and the serving window began to roll open like a garage door.  A line of about five people had already formed outside. “Here, you’ll need this.” Coen tossed me a navy apron with the Quichey Keen logo screen printed in orange on the front. “Make sure you keep up the pace and you’ll be fine.  Have fun!” Coen flashed a smile before ducking out of the driver’s cabin door and into the small crowd of customers, handing out menus and wishing them good morning.

            I turned to look at the other trucker staffers.  Man-Bun was now filling quiche tins with his chopped veggies with the same quiet concentration as Brooke with the batter.  It seemed a little strange to take food truck food preparation so seriously.  Henry saw me staring and gave a stern salute before abandoning his coffee post to flip the pieces of bacon on the oven range.  I gave a little smile and turned back to my own work, grabbing the sponge and dish soap.

            The rest of the morning was even more hectic then I could have imagined.  The flurry of orders and quick turn-around time for dishes was impressively fast compared to what I was used to.  I didn’t know how Brooke and Man-Bun, whose name I learned is Asher, kept up, especially since I hadn’t been able to work out any sort of ticket system for keeping orders straight.  It was like they had sponges for brains, absorbing every word Henry called out from the service bar.  And I felt like I had sponges for hands after three straight hours of scrubbing pan after bowl after pan, as well as all the flatware and plates and bowls used by customers “eating in.”  Apparently Quichey Keen promoted a “green standard” that tried to minimize the paper and plastic throw-away serving products by encouraging customers to stay and eat at one of the few picnic tables in the surrounding area.  Which also meant my fingertips were prunes and my shirt was almost entirely soaked through with soapy water and sweat.  I was more than thankful for the apron covering up my white, now see-through, t-shirt.

            Once it hit the noon mark, things began to die down.  Quichey Keen’s breakfast/brunch themed menu catered mainly to morning joggers, commuters, and dog-walkers, and only stayed open later than 3:00pm for special catered events.  So by 12:30pm, everyone in the truck was able to take a break.

            “Whoo!  I am so never making pancakes again.” Brooke slapped a hand towel against the counter. She’d finally loosened her concentration once the batter was mixed and could start flipping pancakes in rhythm with the music that still thumped even after opening up for service.  Her only mishap was at the fault of Henry who tried to jump in with his Frisbee in order to reattempt his flipping technique. Needless to say, Brooke was furious when several ladles of batter ended up on the rubber floor mats. 

            “You say that every day, but then you don’t like the way any of us make them,” Asher said into his chest, his head tilted upside down to re-pile his man-bun.  Brooke didn’t respond, too interested in filing her acrylic French manicure. 

            “She says that every day because she knows she’s the pancake-master and just wants us to beg her to keep making them.” Coen nudged her with his elbow.  He’d spent almost the entire morning outside the truck acting as a sort of informal host, and passing back customer compliments and complaints. (Apparently it’s possible for eggs to taste too “eggy.”)

            Coen opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of chocolate milk, taking a giant swig before passing it to Asher.  “So, you’ve been real quiet.” Coen raised his eyebrows at me with a smile.

            “Oh, you know, I’m just taking it all in.” I looked at my grey sneakers with neon orange laces.  I didn’t know why I was feeling so sheepish since my initial nervousness had faded away with the safe and methodical assignment of dish washing. “I’m not sure my hands will ever un-prune, though.” I held up my wrinkled fingers for them to see.

            “Oh, just go stand in the sun for about four seconds, you’ll dry out quick.” Asher offered me the chocolate milk jug before heading out the side door, Brooke following.  Asher handed off the jug to Henry sitting at one of the picnic tables, bobbing his head to whatever was playing in his headphones.

            “It’s all right, working in a kitchen isn’t for everyone, especially working in a portable one.” I blushed at Coen’s remark.  If only he knew how comfortable in a kitchen I used to be. “But, you know what, things will be pretty slow the rest of the day if you want to take off.  There won’t be much washing to do from here out today.” My stomach dropped as I realized I didn’t want to leave yet. Not after finally getting used to being in this environment, however different from my old norm, again. “But you can keep the apron as a souvenir.  Unless you’d want to come back.” Coen smoothed the longer middle section of his hair back.

            My heart skipped thinking about returning. I just thought it would be a one-time deal. “I don’t know, y’all are pretty cramped already so I don’t know if there’d really be room with Mable here, too,” I shrugged.  “This was fun, though, I’m glad I got to be back…here for Mable.”  I almost let slip I’d been in a kitchen before.

            “Just think about it.  You never know, Mable might need another shift replacement.” He rolled his eyes and laughed.

            I didn’t know how I really felt about working more at Quichey Keen.  The chaos had been exciting for a few hours, but what if they found out I’d lied about my cooking experience?  Would they force me to cook? What if Mable tells them during her next shift? The nervous tingle sprung up in my stomach again. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

            

Chapter 2ish

Author's Note:

Hey guys! I tried working on several things with this section, mainly involving characterization, relationships between different characters and voice. My main concern is how the Spanish and English flow together, so if something doesn't make sense or gets annoying regarding Spanglish please let me know. I included more scenes with Olivia so hopefully y'all can get a better sense of who she is and how she interacts with others. I also included more of Abuela Linda and introduced Axel. I tend to struggle a lot when it comes to "emotional" scenes and I try really hard not to make them sappy and overly dramatic. That said, if at any point it feels like you're reading the print version of The Bachelor or Bachelorette please let me know so that I can either quit life as a writer or make the necessary edits. All criticism is welcome and encouraged!
Enjoy!

Chapter 3

            “Oli, you should go outside and get some air,” says Abuela Linda.

I’ve been in my room reading and occasionally sticking my finger in the fish tank that’s sitting on my bedside table. The small blue fish rushes to the surface to nibble on my fingertip every time. It kind of tickles.   

            “I’m busy,” I say as I tuck my dark brown curls behind my ear. From the corner of my eye I can see Abue’s light flickering, annoyed. I sigh and put my book down, turning to look at her.

            “You can read outside,” she says floating closer to me.

            “Yeah, but I can also read inside,” I reply as I look back down at my book. I grab it and grandma drifts towards my nightstand.  

She hovers over the small fishbowl before darting across my room and disappearing through my window. I sigh, putting my book back down. I look at the pathetic little fish floating in its bowl. Its fins are moving but it remains in the same place, close to the surface. I get up, put on some flip-flops, and grab my purse that’s hanging from my desk chair. I’m walking out of my room when I stop to grab my phone that’s sitting next to the tank. I slide my phone in my pocket and I’ve already reached my door when I double back and grab the fish tank, closing the door behind me.

***

            “You can’t tell Mom,” I say to Abuela Linda.

We’re sitting in my small yellow car waiting for the order of fries and the sundae that I just ordered. Abuela Linda is glowing excitedly from the center console. She loves car rides. I look down at the passenger leg space where the fish tank is sitting. The water is sloshing along the smooth edges of the tank, fighting the Saran wrap that I tightly placed over the tank’s mouth to prevent water from spilling all over my car.

I finally get my order, but not without having the cashier give me a funny look after spotting my fishy passenger. I place the fries and sundae in my cup holder before driving off.

“¿A donde vamos?” asks Abuela Linda.

“I don’t really know,” I say as I grab a fry and dip it in the sundae.

I’ve worked my way through half of the order of fries when I realize that I’ve been driving without paying much attention at all to where I’m going.

“I think we’re lost,” I tell Abuela Linda. We’ve been driving on small back roads and forgotten highways across the Sonoran Desert for about forty minutes.

“Ay, mi hija.”

“You didn’t say anything so I thought you knew where we were,” I say.

We drive a few more miles into the desert before I decide to make a U turn. We drive without talking for a while, the radio playing softly in the background as the desert sand and vegetation stream by.  

“I’m sorry about Capri,” she says, breaking the silence.

I nod my head and keep strumming my fingers against the steering wheel as we drive along.

“It must be hard. Not having your friend while others like me get to Splinter and—“

“Abuela, por favor.”

“I’m just saying—“

I reach over and crank the music as loud as I can, trying to block her voice from my head.

“Olivia, stop.”

I see her light glow before it dissolves in the air, leaving a wispy trail behind.

I don’t know how long I’ve been driving but my leftover sundae is completely melted and the remaining fries are cold and soggy. The beautiful desert light continues to stream in through my car windows, like those old movie projectors. I glance down at the fast food scraps and at the lapping fish water and that’s when I feel the itch behind my eyes. The one that makes them water. I blink madly, trying to scare the tears away, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“Capri?” I ask in my head. 

I wait, holding my breath.

I finally breathe in again, the back of my eyes stinging.

“Capri?” I ask out loud.     

I wait, holding in my breath.

Nothing.

***

“Cementerio Viejo Paraiso” reads the green exit sign. I take a deep breath before switching on my blinker and getting on Exit 36. I follow the weathered signs until I reach the wrought iron archway that marks the entrance to the cemetery. Since I was last here several weeks ago both metallic A’s have been stolen from the large lettering. I make my way into the cemetery, following the winding gravel road until I reach the parking lot. I   park the small yellow car and unbuckle my seatbelt. I take a deep breath before getting out of the car and walking over to the passenger seat, bending down to grab the fish tank and precariously placing it on the yellow roof. I grab the leftover fries and sundae and shut the car door. I grab the fish tank off the car and tuck it under my free arm before making my way to Capri’s barren grave.

It is very fitting, and depressing, that the Lost’s final resting place is itself lost. I’m the only one walking down one of several narrow cobblestone pathways, passing row after row of headstones and plaques scattered on the desert sand. I hobble along, fish and food in tow until I get to the rows designated for last names starting with R. I go down the path until I find Gloria Ramos’ grave. A few lots from hers I find Capri. I stop on my tracks, facing the small bronze plaque.

Capri Ramos

May 16, 1998-June 8, 2015

~

            That’s it.

Just a name and a date.

I take a deep breath before kneeling down in front of the plaque, putting the fish and the soggy food on either side of it.

I sit there, not entirely sure of what to do now. I have never done this before, or heard of anyone visiting someone here.

I remove the Saran wrap from the fish tank and stick my pinky finger in. The blue fish rises to the surface, nibbling on my finger.

“Háblale, mi hija.” Talk to her.

Abuela Linda’s voice takes me by surprise and I jump, nearly knocking over the melted sundae.

“Abuela!” I yell surprised, balancing the sundae and preventing a sweet disaster from taking place.

“Talk to her, Oli.”

“How?” I ask, turning to look at the glowing orb.

“Like this,” she says.

“Its not the same, she’s—“

“Ignore it, just talk to her.”

Before I can come up with a remark she has dissolved into thin air.

I look back at the sad inscription on the ground before me. I clear my throat and stick my pinky back in the fish tank.

“Capri?” I ask out loud.   

Nothing.

I clear my throat again.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but its me, Oli.”

I can’t help but feel like an idiot talking to a sheet of metal. I stop talking and look back at the little fish. It has stopped nibbling on my finger and has gone back to floating in place.

“Charlotte got me a fish to replace you,” I say as I swirl my pinky in the fish water. “Loca, right?” I pull my finger out of the water and dry it on my shorts. “I haven’t named it yet,” I say. I point at the sad blue fish and tap the glass. It doesn’t budge. “I saved you fries and sundae…Sort of.”

***

The longer I talked the easier it got. I told Capri about my uneventful summer ever since she’s died. Her Lost Ceremony and Laura’s ugly dress. I told her about visiting The Nest, what’s left of it. How Maurice Fink gave me a ride home. I tried telling her about that night, when I heard the sirens.

The sun’s starting to go down and the desert wind’s picking up, tiny sand grains hitting my bare legs like miniature bullets. I readjust the plastic wrap on the fish tank and carry it back to my yellow car. I left the fries and sundae for Capri. I don’t know if that’s technically considered littering, but its too late now. I make it to my car and I’m bending over, placing the fish on the passenger side, when I hear someone clear their throat behind me. For the second time today I jolt, slamming my head into the car’s doorframe.

“Coño!” I cuss as I clutch my throbbing head.

“Someone’s got a sailor’s mouth,” I hear someone say behind me. The voice is rugged and gravelly sounding. The voice of a chain smoker.   

I turn back, ready to give a piece of my mind to whoever is creeping on me at the damn Vejestorio and I see its Axel Rivera.

Axel and I have been going to school together since I moved here. His family has probably been here just as long as Capri’s. Unlike the Ramos though, the Riveras are known for all the bad things. Theft and drugs being some of the items on their long family record.

Axel is tall and fit, but I wouldn’t describe him as muscular. He has tan, caramel skin and short dark hair that matches his dark eyes. He has soft facial features that reveal his age.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, still rubbing my head.

“I work here, güera.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that. I’m not blonde,” I say as I shift my weight from one foot to the other and run my hand through my brown curls.

“Close enough, Blondie.”

“What’s your job anyway?”

“Security,” he says as he sticks his hands in his jean pockets.

“Well you haven’t been doing a very good job,” I say as I point down the road at the archway with the missing letters.

“Whatever. No one ever comes out here anyway.”

For some reason this strikes a chord and I’m tempted to jump in my small car and run him over.  I cross my arms over my chest and look back at the barren cemetery.

“Well, maybe someone ought to care.”

I turn back towards my car, ready to go home. I reach the driver’s door and I climb in, buckling my seatbelt. I’m about to close my car door when I notice Axel has moved and is standing a few feet away from my door.

“Olivia,” he says leaning towards me.

I clamp my fingers around the steering wheel, anticipating the awful “I’m sorry” and pity smile combo.

“Is that a fish?” he asks.

I’m surprised by his question and it takes me a few seconds to process what he’s actually saying. He knits his eyebrows together and points at the fish tank sitting on the floor of my passenger seat. I follow his finger to the tank, the question finally making sense.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to act like toting a fish around like a purse is perfectly normal.

“Cool,” he says as he straightens himself back up. “What’s its name?”

“Spud,” I say as I shut my car door. I crank my car and Axel steps back, sticking his hands back in his pockets. I back out of the spot and drive towards the winding gravel road that leads to the archway. As I speed off I look in my rearview mirror and see Axel still standing there, and arm waving me away.

Chapter 4

I’m sitting on a beach towel, doodling in a notebook while listening to music. Whenever the breeze picks up it hammers desert sand against my skin and the cemetery plaques, making a sound similar to rain. For the third time this week I’m sitting in front of Capri’s grave eating French fries and a sundae while Spud floats in his tank. I’ve been sketching a drawing of the small beta fish for over 20 minutes now and its finally coming to life. Unlike what has become the typical Spud pose I have captured this fish swimming, its long fins and tail swelling with the movement of water like parachutes. The wind and sand rattle the pages of my notebook, so I take a break and close it, waiting for the wind to come down.  I trace my index finger over the raised engraving of Capri’s plaque, spelling her name with my finger.

The name Capri was selected as a sort of inside joke between her parents. Whenever Mrs. Ramos discovered that she was pregnant again her and Mr. Ramos decided that this would be their last child. They then agreed to spoil her rotten and joked about all the wondrous things they would do for their new daughter. At some point Capri’s father said that they were setting themselves up to raise the ultimate caprichosa. Capricious. They joked of their newest daughter being a temperamental, unreasonable, and impulsive brat. Soon they shortened it to Capri and it stuck. This was one of Capri’s favorite stories to tell. It was also one that I had probably heard over a dozen times since teachers and classmates where usually curious of the origin of her rare name.

I trace over Capri’s name a few more times before deciding to pack up and call it a day. The wind doesn’t seem to be coming down and I’m getting a thorough exfoliation from being brushed by the drifting sand. I leave the remaining sundae and fries and take the rest of my stuff to my car. I’m walking down the pathway that leads to the parking lot when I see Axel sitting on the vibrant hood of my car.

“Hey, Blondie.” He’s smoking a skinny cigarette, the picture of not having a care in the world.

“I refuse to respond to that,” I say as I make my way around to the passenger seat, now officially Spud’s seat. I place him on the floor of the car and close the door, making my way to the driver’s seat.

“Isn’t that technically a response?” He asks, taking a drag and knitting his eyebrows together.

I stop at my car door, glare at him, and proceed to hop in. I close the door after me and I buckle up and crank the engine. I’m surprised to see that Axel hasn’t budged and is calmly smoking away. I give him a second and when I see that he hasn’t made an attempt to move I press the horn lightly.

He doesn’t even flinch.

I lay on my horn.

Nothing.

I sigh and roll my window down.

“Would you mind?” I say, sticking my head out the window and pointing at his butt.

“Where are you going?” he asks, taking another drag.

“Why do you care?” I retort.

“I asked first, Blondie.”

“Its non of your business!” I say, getting more irritated by the minute.

“Fine,” he says as he turns back to look ahead of him, “suit yourself.”

He takes one last drag from his cigarette before dropping it on the sand floor. I give him a minute to stand up but he’s still sitting on my hood.

I lay on my horn one last time.

Nothing.

I shift my car to reverse and start backing up. Axel looks back at me, smiles, and brings his feet up, resting them on my front bumper while grabbing on to my windshield wipers. I step on the accelerator a little harder but he’s grabbing on tight. I finally give up and brake, shifting my car back to park. I sigh and poke my head out my window again.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Just answer one question and I’ll hop off and let you go wherever it is you’re going,” he says, turning to smile back at me.

“Fine. Ask your stupid question.”

“What do you think happened to Capri?”

Kylie - Chapter 2

Author’s note:

First, I suggest you read my revised first chapter in order to understand what's going on in this chapter. In this chapter, I wanted to focus on Katherine learning more about what kind of school Holloway is. I wanted to strengthen her relationship with Bridgette, and introduce a few more characters. I also wanted to introduce her legacy and some of the story behind it. I feel like there is a lot of dialogue in this chapter, which I think is because there’s a lot of information I felt I needed to provide. Should there be more moments of action, or is it fine how it is? Am I revealing too much, or not enough? I think I got carried away with focusing on the details of what’s going on, so I feel like I didn’t pay enough attention to Katherine's voice or to the other characters’ reactions and emotions. I’m also struggling with the pacing; there’s a lot of information to provide and characters to bring in, so suggestions about how I could control the pacing would be helpful. The chapter ended differently than I had planned, because the scenes in the chapter took longer than I expected, so if the ending doesn’t seem to do much it's because I wasn’t expecting to end there. 

Chapter 2

The room is strange and familiar at the same time. Cloudy moonlight casts shadows on the wooden walls and illuminates the few objects scattered around the room. The dusty floor creaks as I step forward, breaking the heavy silence. I freeze, but when a minute has passed and nothing has changed, I continue making my way across the room. Beneath the window in front of me sits a large olive-green trunk. I’ve never seen it before, but I am certain that it’s mine. I kneel down on the cold floor and run my fingers over the rough velvet. I take the rusted brass padlock in my hand and tug. 

Locked. 

I settle back on my heels and stare at the trunk, willing it to unlock, and with a dull click the lock pops open. I tentatively remove the padlock, grab the corners of the trunk, and lift the lid. 

The trunk is filled to the brim. There are books with faded covers, stacks of papers with curling corners, miscellaneous tarnished trinkets, jewelry, a few pieces of clothing. I lean over the edge and reach inside, shuffling through the piles and moving things from side to side. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, it isn't here. Which doesn’t make sense. Where else could it be? I stand up and turn around, inspecting the rest of the room, but other than a broken lamp, an empty bookcase, and a stained recliner, the room is empty. 

I should leave, look somewhere else. 

I’m halfway across the room on my way to the exit when I hear glass shatter as a bitter wind bursts through the window. I turn just in time to see a large bird flying straight at me, coal-black eyes glistening and beak open in a piercing screech, its claws clutching a silver chain. A silver chain attached to a small glowing orb. I urge myself to duck out of the way, but instead my hand reaches up just as the bird swoops overhead. I’m about to make a grasp for the chain when the bird’s claws open and the orb drops into my open hand and the room explodes in a flash of white.

* * *

I wake with a start, heart pounding and head spinning, as though I’ve just sprinted to the top of a very tall mountain. My eyes slowly adjust to the warm sunlight seeping through the closed blinds. I prop myself up on my elbows and look over at Bridgette, whose head is buried beneath her pillow. Using magic must take a lot of energy, because after her little demonstration last night she pushed her bags onto the floor and crawled under the covers of her bed. Then the lights went out again and moments later she was unconscious. 

Sleep hadn’t come as easily for me. The thoughts that had been swirling around in my head last night are still there this morning, with the added confusion of the eerily realistic dream I am still reeling from. 

The clock on the bedside table reads six-nineteen a.m., so I slip out of bed, grab a change of clothes and my toiletry bag, and lock myself in the bathroom. As my muscles begin to relax under the pressure of the warm shower water, I recall the cold room with the velvet trunk and the black-eyed bird and try to make sense of it all. But I can’t. It had felt like I was re-experiencing a vivid memory, but there’s no clear explanation as to why that cold room felt so familiar, or why when my fingers grasped that orb of light I felt as though I had finally found something I’d been searching for for a really long time. 

I shut off the water and spend the next ten minutes getting ready. I dress in jeans and a white tank top under a blue plaid button-down, then tie my hair up into a ponytail. When I return to the room, Bridgette is sitting on the floor rummaging through one of her bags. 

“Good morning,” I say, siting on the edge of my bed and slipping on my gray boots. 

“Morning,” Bridgette mumbles before disappearing into the bathroom. 

I finish lacing up my boots and start making my bed. All I have to do is even out the sheets, which is odd because I usually move around so much in my sleep that I have to spend a long minute untangling them. I run my hand over the last wrinkle to smooth it out but instead I hit something small and hard. I slip my hand under the sheets and pull out the object. 

And my breath catches. 

Coiled in my hand is a silver chain, and on the chain hangs a silver circular locket engraved with swirling lattice designs. Buried in the center is a glass stone filled with a swirling purple smokey substance, and wrapped around the stone is a silver leafy tree branch. Also attached to the chain, about an inch up from the locket, is a silver bird in flight. 

It can’t be the orb from my dream, but it is. I hold it out in front of me and realize it’s a necklace, and the longer I look at it the more I want to put it on. But I don’t know where it came from or what the smoke is. So I shove it into my pocket instead. 

When Bridgette comes out of the bathroom, wet hair drying into loose curls, I’m lying across my bed reading The Call of the Wild. Or rather, I’m reading the same sentence over and over again, because I keep getting distracted by all of the questions bouncing around in my head. So when Bridgette asks if I’m ready for breakfast I close the book and jump up, hoping the day will bring some opportunities for me to get come answers. 

About half of the new students are already in the lobby, sitting on couches or against walls on the floor with plates of food. Bridgette and I grab various fruits and muffins from the food table and take a seat against the back wall. I look around the room as I extract a wild-berry muffin from its wrapper, and I spot AnnaRose across the room, perched upon the arm of a red couch and talking animatedly with a group of girls. She’s wearing ripped skinny jeans and a loose white blouse, with black strappy heels. And fastened around her neck is a black choker, in the center of which is a glass stone set in a gold pendant. I can see orange-tinged smoke swirling inside the stone. 

“Hey, Bridgette, can I see your bracelet?” I ask.

A wary look crosses her face. “Why?”

I don’t expect her reaction; then again, legacies are apparently really powerful, so it makes sense that she would be protective of hers. “You don’t have to take it off, I just wanted to see if it has a stone in it.”

“Oh,” she replies, the suspicion fading from her voice. “Of course it does. All legacies do,” she replies, and holds out her right arm. The bracelet is made of a vintage brass rope chain and a pearl chain, and one of the pearls has been replaced with a glass stone filled with vibrant yellow smoke. 

“What’s the smokey stuff inside the stone?”

Bridgette touches the stone gently, and the look on her face is one of great respect. “It’s magic.”

I’ve never actually tried to picture what magic would look like if it were real, but this definitely isn’t what I would have imagined. It seems so… vulnerable, in this form. 

“Why is it yellow?”

“My brother told me the color of your legacy corresponds with your aura. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I’m guessing it has to do with your personality, and probably your family lineage, too. So everyone’s legacy is unique, in color, shade, brightness.”

I resist the urge to retrieve the necklace from my pocket. From everything Bridgette’s told me, this necklace could very well be my legacy. Which would be great if I hadn’t mysteriously found it in my bed. I have no idea where it came from. Not to mention legacies are passed down through the family, and my family is gone. My parents never mentioned any of this to me, which can only mean one of two things. Either this entire thing is a sham and I don’t belong here any more than I belonged with any of the foster families I lived with. Or, my parents kept a a fairly serious, life-altering secret from me. And though I’m not sure which one I’d rather be true, I know I need to find out.

Which means I need to talk to President Pearce. 

Just then Paul Rogers walks into the room and AnnaRose skips over to him. How is it possible for one human being to radiate that much energy? I wonder if her magic is orange because of how happy she always seems to be.

I wonder what it means that the magic in my legacy is purple. 

If it is my legacy. 

But I don’t get to wonder about that for very long, because after Paul and AnnaRose exchange a few quick words, they come to stand in the middle of the room and Paul clears his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“All right everyone, we’ve got a busy day ahead of us,” he says, glancing down at his clipboard. “First, while everyone is finishing their breakfast, I’m going to go over a few of Holloway’s main rules. I know all of this is probably a little overwhelming, so if you have any questions or concerns, please let me know.”

A boy with floppy hair sitting to my left raises his hand and says, “Are we really not allowed to use cell phones here?” 

“Actually—“ AnnaRose begins, but Paul cuts her off with a sharp look. 

“New students are not allowed to use cell phones. Once you’ve been initiated into your permanent House, you’ll be given access to that Hall’s main server and you’ll get your phones back, which will have been updated to accommodate the work you'll be doing. For now, you’ll be working through a temporary server so you can access the computers for your classes.”

“But how do we keep in touch with our parents?” another kid asks.

“It’s advised that you don’t contact your families very often. A lot of the work done here is not public knowledge and must be handled carefully. Any contact with the outside world poses a possible threat to Holloway. The safest method of contact is by writing letters.”

A few kids groan, some roll their eyes, others nod their heads in understanding. I refrain from asking what kind of work is done here; this place is starting to sound more like a secret agency than a boarding school. Deep down I know I can’t be the only new student who knows nearly nothing about this place, but I don’t want to say anything, for the sake of drawing too much attention to myself and my lack of knowledge.

“So, rule number one, no cell phones; write letters. Rule number two, no one leaves campus without permission from their House prefect, who must get permission from President Pearce. The only time you will leave campus while classes are in session is for the occasional field trip or if there is an emergency.”

I look around the room, and though no one speaks up I can see a few kids are not happy with being confined to the school. But really, where would they want to go? If I’m remembering correctly, the closest town is at least forty-five minutes away, and we’re almost entirely surrounded by mountains. 

“Rule number three, consistent attendance in your classes is necessary in order to succeed at Holloway. Therefore, absence from class will not be tolerated, unless you provide an excuse approved by President Pearce.”

Paul flips over the page he’s been reading from and hands it to AnnaRose, who continues with the rule-telling. “Rule number four, students are only allowed into their own assigned Houses. All other buildings are open to the students, except for the faculty’s housing, which students are permitted to visit through invitation only. Curfews are suggested, but not enforced.”

“Now, as for your legacies.” The excited whispers that had started at the mention of there bring no enforced curfew die out almost immediately. AnnaRose takes a moment before continuing, looking around the room at the thirty-odd students. The serious look on her face seems out of place, which somehow makes it more significant. “Your magic is a gift. I know it’s exciting, and all you want to do is find out what you can do with it. But even for those of you who grew up knowing that magic exists, this is new and different, and controlling and using your magic is a learned practice. So the only restriction for using magic is doing so with ill-intentions. Holloway is a school for those who are serious about making a different and finding a way to use their magic for good. Any action performed in opposition to this idea will be strictly punished. But I do want to point out that accessing your legacy’s magic requires a lot of energy, so be smart and mindful when you do use it.”

Liz had been right, Holloway does give its students more freedom than I’d expect from a regular boarding school. Then again, Holloway is obviously anything but normal.

“Now, When I call your name, come up and get your class schedule and student manual from AnnaRose. In there you’ll find a more detailed list of the rules, a map of the campus, faculty contact information, and a bunch of other things you can go through on your own time.”

With that he begins calling out names, and one by one the new students collect their packets. As each one stands up, I try to catch sight of their legacies. I see a lot of bracelets and several necklaces with stones glowing various colors, and a girl with waist-long auburn hair named Samantha is wearing a ring that gives off a dull pink glow. 

I’m the only one not wearing a legacy, which means I’m the only one whose parents weren’t around to hand it down. The thought makes me feel very alone in this crowded room.

“Katherine Claire Lewis,” Paul calls, and I stand up quickly, letting the motion distract me from the sudden urge I feel to cry.

AnnaRose studies me as I approach her, and I’m not really surprised when she asks me where my legacy is. 

“The, uh, clasp broke,” I tell her, patting the pocket where I stowed the necklace. 

She doesn’t look convinced, but she hands me my packet without saying anything else, so I take it and sit back down next to Bridgette, who is skimming over a page titled Guidelines for Success at Holloway Academy. I look down at my own packet. The first page is my class schedule, and the classes I’ve been signed up for aren’t exactly what I’d been expecting. Along with World Literatures, Biology, and Algebra, I’m also enrolled in History of Holloway, Legacy Studies, and Introduction to the Careers: Observers, Keepers, and Seekers.

“The six classes on your schedule,” Paul begins as the last student sits down, “are what every new student at Holloway starts off in. You all have the same schedules. After initiation, you’ll be placed in your permanent House, and will share the same schedules as the students who enter the House with you. Every students takes the same core classes, but once you determine your own career path, you’ll start taking more career-oriented classes and there will be many different electives to choose from.”

“When is initiation?” the floppy-haired boy from earlier asks. 

“You’ll go through initiation during the first week of December, before you leave for break,” AnnaRose replies. 

So in five months, if I haven’t flunked out or if President Pearce doesn’t come to her senses and realize I don’t belong here, I’ll be taking a test that will quite possibly determine what I’ll be doing for the rest of my life. I thought I'd at least have until college to decide what to do with my life, and the fact that I’ll apparently be making that decision in only a few months doesn’t sit too well with me. There’s so much out in the world to learn, and I’m not ready to limit myself to one particular field just yet.

“All right,” Paul says, setting his clipboard on the table behind him. “How about we get outside and see the campus.”

I stand up with everyone else and make my way to the exit, hoping some fresh air will help clear my head. I make a mental note to keep track of how to get to President Pearce’s house, so I can pay her a visit when I get the chance. 

We’re still making our way down the gravel drive outside when a boy maybe a year or two older than myself jogs over to AnnaRose, who’s talking with a few students at the front of the group. After a few moments of conversation AnnaRose turns to the group. “Katherine Lewis, can you come up here, please?”

I knew this was all too good to be true. But for some reason I’d thought it would have taken a little longer before they found out they’d made a mistake by letting me in here. Bridgette gives me a questioning look, and I shrug my shoulders in response. As I make my way through the crowd I wonder if they’ll change their minds when I show them the necklace. I really hope they'll change their minds.

I return AnnaRose’s smile when I get to her, then look at the boy she’d been talking to. “Katherine, this is Nathan. President Pearce sent him to bring you to her office. Don’t worry about missing the tour, you can follow your classmates to your classes tomorrow and I’m sure one of them wouldn’t mind showing you around another day.” Then she’s gone, skipping down the gravel drive to catch up with the group, which is turning the corner and vanishing behind a wall of giant oak trees. 

“So, um, if you’d come with me,” Nathan says, taking a step in the direction he’d come running from. 

“Do you know why President Pearce wants to see me?” I ask as we walk. 

“Sorry, I don’t. But you’re brand new here, so I doubt you’re in any trouble. She’s big on one-on-one introductions, so she probably just wants to meet you personally.”

We walk in silence for a few more yards, then Nathan stops and looks around, like he’s making sure no one is watching. “What are we doing?” I ask.

“President Pearce’s house is on the other side of campus. How about we save some time?” He grins and holds out his hand, and I notice the blue stone set in the leather bracelet fastened around his wrist. 

I give him what I hope is a look that says “you’re-kidding”.

“Oh, come on, you can trust me. It’ll save us twenty minutes of walking.” Behind him a pocket of air begins to swirl, and then a hole opens up out of nowhere. “And I bet you’ve never traveled by portal before.” It’s hard to believe he just produced a portal, out of nothing. Especially because he did so without even breaking a sweat. It’s good to know that apparently magic gets easier to use with practice. Of course, I have to go find out if I’ll even be using magic, first. 

A part of me is still skeptic about this guy and his mysterious portal, but stronger than my suspicion is my excitement. The though of experiencing more magic just isn’t repelling enough to make me walk away. So I take his hand, and he guides me into the swirling hole. 

Instinctively, I hold my breath as the cool, silvery air splashes against my skin. Then everything goes dark, and for a second I see absolutely nothing, and Nathan’s hand is the only thing holding me steady. Then I see flashes of colors in front of me, and I stumble forward as Nathan pulls me and suddenly I’m standing in the perfectly maintained lawn in front of President Pearce’s house. 

“Wow,” I say, letting go of Nathan’s hand and looking around for the portal, but it’s gone. “When did you learn to do that?” I ask as we make our way across the yard. I understand now why he hadn’t been so keen on walking here; who would want to walk anywhere after experiencing something like that?

“Second year, Traveling Methods,” he replies. We pass an oval fountain and a cluster of rose bushes and walk up the steps. “That class is only offered to Seekers, though,” he adds.

Maybe choosing a career path won’t be as hard as I thought; if portal-travel is a perk of being a Seeker, I know what House I’m leaning toward now. 

“Okay, well you should get inside,” Nathan says. “Her office is up the stairs, down the hall to the left. I’ve got a meeting to get to. Good luck!” With that he descends the steps and as he jogs past the fountain he jumps into another portal, which disappears as quickly as it had materialized. 

The front door to the house is propped open by a small potted cactus. Clearly President Pearce is a fan of the open-door policy. I walk inside and am met by the subtly sweet scent of lilacs. The house is quiet, and as I make my way to the stairs I notice that all of the doors are closed, hopefully locked, if she's smart. President Pearce may want her students to feel welcome and at home here, but that doesn’t mean she should trust them enough to give them full access to her belongings. 

As I climb the staircase my heartbeat quickens. This is what I wanted, wasn’t it? To find out what she knows about me, if she knows anything. But I’ve just begun to feel like I might be able to grin a home here, and I don’t want to lose this chance. Laura was right, this could be exactly what I need. 

I don’t realize I’ve been walking down a dimly lit hallway until I find myself standing at a dead end. I back up a few steps and stop in front of the only door in the hall, so I assume it’s President Pearce’s, and I knock.

“Come in.”

I turn the brass knob and push the door forward; it’s heavier than I expected. The room I step into is bright with warm sunlight shining in through two large open windows. In the center of the room is a neatly organized desk, behind which is a brown leather swivel chair. Most of the walls are decorated with portraits and paintings, except for the one to my left, which is made up of crowded bookshelves. President Pearce is standing by one of the shelves, fitting several books into their slots. 

I close the door behind me, and when I turn back to the room she is walking toward me, smiling and holding out her hand. I shake it and smile back.

“It’s good to meet you, Katherine,” she says, her voice rich with sincerity. “Please, have a seat.” She gestures to one of two chairs facing the desk, and I sit down. She takes the other chair beside me and turns it so we’re facing each other. 

“I’m sorry to pull you away from your tour, but this is the only chance I may have to speak with you before you get busy with your classes.” As she speaks, I take notice of the shining white stone wrapped in a gold cage and hanging from a thin gold chain around her neck. President Pearce’s legacy. White magic seems very appropriate.

“That’s okay,” I say, and I immediately wish I’d found a more formal way to phrase my response. “I’ve actually been wanting to speak to you, too,” I add. 

President Pearce nods. “I imagined you would have a few questions,” she says. “That’s why I had Nathan bring you over. I can’t explain everything, but hopefully I can tell you enough to make you feel comfortable here.”

Okay, this is going a lot smoother than I expected it to. At least Nathan was right and I’m not in trouble. 

“Liz told me that I was recruited to come here, but why? How do you know who I am?” I ask, deciding to get right to the point. 

“I know who you are because I knew your parents. They were students here. Katherine, you’re here because you belong here.” 

“Why did they never tell me about this place? If they went here, then they knew magic, which means they had legacies. But they never said anything, and then they died, and nothing happened. Why—“

“Katherine,” President Pearce interjects. She waits a moment, takes in a long, steady breath. “Nick and Claire Lewis, the couple that died in a car crash five years ago. They were not your birth parents. They were your god-parents, friends your birth parents entrusted to take care of you.”

I want to say something, to comment on the obnoxious statement that my parents weren’t actually my parents, argue that she’s wrong, even ask another of my many questions, but I can’t form the words. I can hardly form the thoughts. 

I barely register President Pearce walking around to the front of her desk and retrieving something from an open drawer. When she sits back down, she holds out a faded blue photo album, which has been flipped to the first page. I take it with shaky hands, and find myself looking down at a photograph of two couples. One couple is my mom and dad, Nick and Claire. The other man and woman are strangers, yet as I study their faces I feel an odd sense of recognition. He has my narrow nose. She has my green eyes. I flip slowly through the following pages, taking in the pictures of the same two couples, always together, sometimes with other students. Even as I try to come up with an argument, I know President Pearce is telling me the truth. I’ve always felt a little out of place, not just in my various foster homes, but even at home with Nick and Claire. Now things make a little more sense. As does the fact that I never received my legacy. 

Except…

“If Nick and Claire were students here, too, then they still could have told me about magic. And why did my birth parents give me up in the first place?”

President Pearce leans forward, her elbows propped on her knees and her fingers interlaced tightly. “A few months after you were born, Holloway was attacked. Your parents were some of our best agents, and without them we had no hope of stopping the attacks. In time you’ll learn more about the part your birth parents played in that difficult time in Holloway’s history. But for now, all you need to know is they gave you up to protect you, and they made Nick and Claire swear to keep you away from magic for as long as possible. Nick and Claire stopped using magic themselves, hoping it would prevent drawing attention to them, to you.”

It makes sense. Somehow, I’m able to believe everything I’m hearing. But the more President Pearce tells me, the more questions I have. 

“As for your legacy,” President Pearce continues, “your parents hid it somewhere shortly after they gave you up. They told no one where it was, and… they never had the chance to retrieve it. I don’t know what this means for you yet, but-“

She stops when I hold out the necklace I’ve just withdrawn from my pocket. “This wouldn’t happen to be it, would it?” I ask, hopefully, uncertainly.

President Pearce looks from the necklace, to me, back to the necklace. I imagine she wants nothing more than to grab it and inspect it, to prove to herself that what I’m holding is, as I suspected, the very legacy my parents concealed years ago. 

“Put it on,” President Pearce tells me.

Cautiously, I fasten the necklace around my neck. The moment the locket settles against my chest, the stone glows and my skin tingles, and I know that this is my legacy. And though it comes from a family I never knew, and never will know, it may just be the greatest gift I've ever received. 

“Katherine,” President Pearce says, her voice quietly incredulous. “How did you get it?”

        “I found it in a dream.”