Eliza Lentzski's Blog, page 4

Calling All Super Readers

For those of you who read this blog, you'll know that I love movies. Growing up in a small town in the upper midwest, my family went to the movies at least once a week, sometimes twice. In the years before the internet, movies & books were my escape, showing me interpretations of lives I otherwise would have never had access to. And it was probably no accident that I watched Kate Winslet in Titanic six times in the theater.

You'll also know from reading this blog how I lament that Hollywood, in comparison to television, has been slower in giving us queer ladies the happy endings that we deserve. Instead, our heroines end up with men by the end of the film, they go crazy, they go to prison, or they kill themselves. In fact, Winter Jacket came as a result of there being so many movies featuring a student-teacher romance (Loving Annabelle, Bloomfield, etc.) that never turn out okay for the teacher. My own novels contain happy endings because of the lack of happy endings elsewhere. 

I'm consistently asked if I would ever consider turning one of my books into a movie. I've always dismissed the idea for numerous reasons, but lately I've been starting to think more seriously about the possibility. The problem is, I have no idea which story to pick to develop. It's like picking from amongst your children--you love them all equally, for different reasons.

So this is what I'm asking from all you Super Readers out there: which of my novels do you think would make the best movie? I'm going to take Winter Jacket off the table because there are already multiple student-teacher lesbian movies, and I'm not convinced we need another of these in the world. I would love your feedback, including why you think that particular story would be the best to develop.

In book news, I'm really close to wrapping up edits on Sunscreen & Coconuts--thank you all for your patience with this one! It's been a challenge writing in 2017-18.  I'll let you know via social media when it's available on Amazon. Look for its release sometime before Labor Day.

prost,

Eliza

 

Preview: Sunscreen & Coconuts

Sunscreen & CoconutsPROLOGUE

Cube. c-u-b-e.

Fell. f-e-l-l.

Brother. b-r-o-t-h-u-r.

“Oh, you nearly got it, Aidan,” I murmured. I scribbled the correct spelling next to the misspelled word.

Door. d-o-o-r.

Fast. f-a-s-t.

I cringed at the misspelled word on the next line: Field. f-e-i-l-d.

I ran my hand over my face. “I before E, you guys,” I muttered aloud. “We spent forever on that lesson.”

“Except after C, right?"

I looked up from the lined paper that was rapidly becoming marked up by my green pen. My waitress smiled down on me, a filled coffee pot in one hand.

"More coffee?" she offered.

I placed my hand over my nearly empty coffee cup. “I’ve had too much already,” I refused. “You’ll have me bouncing off the walls pretty soon.”

“What are you working on?” she asked.

I shuffled through the remaining papers on the table. “First grade spelling quizzes.” 

“Oh, are you at the Friends School?” She named the private elementary school only a few blocks from our location. 

“No, I teach at Woodrow Wilson.”

My waitress rested the coffee pot at her hip. “I don’t recognize the name. Is it a charter school?”

“Nope. Regular old public school.”

I could have predicted the look she gave me—a mix of sympathy and bewilderment. But after five years of teaching in Boston’s public school system, I was used to it by now. 

“Wow. Good for you,” she admired.

I forced a wavering smile to my lips.

Back in the 1970s, there had been an attempt to integrate Boston’s public schools. The history textbooks tell about Jim Crow segregation and Brown v. Board of Education, but northern cities are largely lost in the narrative. Attempts to balance the racial makeup of Boston’s public schools through forced bussing had led to massive white backlash, and in recent years, the elected school board appeared content with the status quo. 

This had resulted in the gross underfunding of schools in the district where I taught. Luckily, in the first grade, my students didn’t yet require expensive textbooks or individual laptops, but even then I typically ended up buying my own supplies for my classroom when the storage closets ran out of crayons, glue sticks, and construction paper. 

“Want me to clear away the other place setting so you have more room to grade?” she offered.

“I’m good. I’m waiting on someone.”

I’d been hoarding the table for two for the better part of an hour. Between my employment as a public school teacher and my seemingly solo status at brunch, I couldn’t imagine what she thought of me. I probably seemed to her the saddest person on the planet.

“I guess I could handle another re-fill,” I said.

It took a long moment for her to realize what I was requesting.

“Coffee?” I supplied.

She barked out a laugh. “Oh, right!” 

A knock on the plate glass window pulled our joint attention towards the front of the restaurant. The person for whom I’d been waiting smiled and waved at me through the restaurant’s front window. 

Between the awkward exchange with my waitress and my friend’s tardiness, I was already in a tested mood. I tapped at my wrist where a watch would be. “You’re late.”

I doubted Racy was able to hear my censure through the thick glass, even without the competing sounds of the neighborhood on a Sunday morning. But my disapproving gestures were enough for her to understand my complaint.

She clasped her hands together as in prayer—a mea culpafor leaving me to fend for myself at brunch.

“I’ll grab you another menu and freshen up that coffee,” the waitress announced.

I felt the slight tug of smugness. I wasn’t entirely pathetic.

My friend Racy skirted through the restaurant’s entrance, pausing briefly at the hostess stand to indicate that the other half of her dining party was already seated. I shuffled papers on the table for two, collecting my students’ spelling quizzes, and packed them away in my workbag.

Racy dropped her oversized purse on the floor and her body in the seat across from me. “I know, I know,” she huffed. “I’m late—unforgivably so. But I have an excuse this time.”

“You always have an excuse,” I pointed out.

“But this one’s actually good,” she countered.

Instead of offering up the explanation for her tardiness, Racy reached across the table and confiscated my glass of juice. She took a quick sip and made a disgusted face the moment the liquid passed her lips.  ”Oh, God, “ she practically gagged. “What is that?”

I grabbed the glass back. “Orange juice.”

“Just juice?” Racy continued to express her disgust. “What’s even the point?”

“I was waiting for you!” I defended myself. “I didn’t want to drink alone.”

“Why not? I do it all the time.” Racy removed her sunglasses and flung them onto the table. They stopped when they struck against my near-empty coffee cup. “God, I’ve had a day,” she sighed.

“It’s not even noon,” I remarked.

“My point exactly.” She sat up straighter in her chair and craned her neck. “Where’s our waitress? Did I interrupt you trying to get your game back?”

“Why do you think I’m flirting every time I talk to another woman?” I accused. 

“I don’t know how you lesbians work,” she dismissed me. 

“Do you flirt with every man you talk to?”

“Yes. Obviously.” 

I audibly sighed. “Where were you this morning? Chewing your arm off to get out of some investment banker’s bed? Carrying your heels through Chinatown?”

“Not this time.” She continued to look distractedly around the restaurant in search of our elusive waitress. “I was planning our Christmas vacation.”

Racy and I weren’t dating. Even if she’d been my type—which she wasn’t—she was the definition of hyper-heterosexual. We’d traveled together over the past two Christmases, however, because we’d grown up in the same small, Midwestern town. Even though we’d graduated high school together, we hadn’t exactly been friends back then, more like acquaintances, but we’d reconnected in recent years when our respective parents discovered we were both living in Boston. 

I visibly slumped in my chair. “I told you I don’t want to go back there.”

“And neither do I,” Racy was quick to correct. “Which is why we’re going to be spending Christmas this year—wait for it—at an all-inclusive resort on the beautiful, exotic island of Curaçao.”

“Curaçao?” I echoed.

“It’s in the Caribbean, just off the coast of Venezuela.”

“That sounds expensive,” I lamented. “You do remember I’m a public school teacher, right?”

“You remind me every chance you get,” she countered. “Listen, it’s the off-season. Everyone heads home for Christmas, so these resorts offer incredible deals. Trust me, even you can afford this trip.”

“Isn’t it hurricane season?”

“Nope. That ends in November. We’ll have nothing but perfect, blue skies.”

“I’ve heard that a lot of the islands down there aren’t gay friendly.”

“I’ve thought of that, too,” she grinned. “I did some research, and according to everything I’ve read, Curaçao is the most gay-friendly island in the South Caribbean.”

While I delayed, Racy continued to explain her plan: “They speak English, and they drive on the right side of the road. It’s an adults-only, all-inclusive resort on a white, sandy beach. There’s an incredible man-made lagoon, and at night you can see the floating cities of cruise ships just off the shoreline. We can leave as soon as your semester is over and come back before New Years Eve when the flight prices spike again.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve really put a lot of thought into this.”

In my experience, Racy wasn’t much of a planner—more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants-er. The fact that she’d made sure I would feel safe in a foreign location spoke miles for the effort she’d put into this idea.

“Don’t say no, Mercy,” Racy pled. “I know how much you covet your school breaks, but wouldn’t you rather spend your Christmas drinking a Mai Tai on a white, sandy beach surrounded by women in bikinis instead of shoveling your car out of snow bank?”

I folded my hands on the table. “You make a compelling argument, Ms. Sawyer.”

Racy’s grin widened. “So is that a yes? Christmas in Curaçao?”

 

CHAPTER ONE

A disembodied voice floated across the airplane’s public address system: Ladies and gentlemen, the cabin door is now closed. At this time, please turn off all cellular devices and assure your seatbelt is fastened and secured.

My seatbelt had long been fastened. I’d turned my cell phone to airplane mode even before my flight had boarded. I had a paperback mystery novel in the front seat pocket, and a bottle of water and a pack of gum to keep my ears from popping. I was ready for my seven-hour flight.

Or at least I’d thought I was.

The woman seated in front of me turned around. “Excuse me. Would you mind switching seats so I can sit with my son?”

She gestured to the boy in the middle seat beside me. He looked about fifteen with his scruffy brown hair poking out from under his Red Sox baseball hat.

I was loath to move; we would be taking off any minute. The seatbelt sign was illuminated and flight attendants were running through the final steps in their pre-flight routine. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I didn’t want everyone in the vicinity staring at me and wondering why I was switching seats at the very last minute. I wanted to tell this middle-aged woman that if she’d booked her flight earlier, she wouldn’t be having this issue, or that she should stop being a helicopter parent and let her teenaged son sit by himself.

I wanted to say all of these things and more, but I didn’t. I unfastened my seatbelt instead. “Of course,” I conceded.

I collected my belongings in the immediate area and waited for the teen boy to unfasten his safety belt. Our movement set off a domino effect, disrupting the elderly woman who sat in the aisle seat and the two passengers in the seats next to the suburban mom.

A flight attendant rushed up to the congestion in the center aisle. “We’ll be taking off soon.” Her look of annoyance gnawed at my conscience. “Please return to your seats.”

“I’m so sorry,” I felt obligated to apologize for the entire group.

More shuffling and maneuvering and knocking my knees and nearly my head transpired before I successfully exchanged seats with the overly protective mom. 

Once in my new seat, I fastened my safety belt and prepared for takeoff. Even though I sat in coach, each seat was equipped with its own miniature monitor. I couldn’t help noticing that all the other touch screens in my row were illuminated except for the monitor directly in front of me. I jabbed my index finger against the blackened screen, but it failed to respond.

“Great,” I muttered aloud. 

Yet again, my inability to say no to inconveniences had resulted in more inconvenience. At least I was still by a window. I would have never been able to relax in the center seat, too worried that I might unintentionally drift across the invisible seat boundaries, and my elbows always got rammed by the beverage cart when I sat in the aisle seat.

For the next few hours I tried to lose myself in my novel. I rarely had time to read for fun anymore. Not having a traditional 9 to 5 job made carving out free time a challenge. As a teacher there was always grading to do or lesson plans to construct. 

My reading was periodically interrupted by the snoring man seated next to me. Unlike myself, he appeared to have no qualms about spreading into my personal area. I found myself shrinking closer and closer to the airplane window to evade his creeping form.

He seemed to choke on a particularly violent snore, and in the process, woke himself up. I observed him out of the corner of my eye as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He reached his arm across me to pull up the shade covering the small airplane window. I felt his shoulder press more tightly against mine as he leaned even closer to the window. 

“Where are we?” he asked, as if I’d be able to tell by looking at the nothing but blue ocean below.

“I’m not sure,” I mumbled before returning my attention to my book.

He leaned back into his allotted space, but continued to invade my mental space. “Huh. I haven’t seen one of those in a while,” he observed. 

I had no idea to what he was referring, and I really didn’t want to engage in conversation, so I simply raised an eyebrow.

“Your book,” he clarified. “Most people read on their tablets these days if they even read at all. I’m a Candy Crush kind of guy myself.” 

My seatmate continued his attempts to draw me into conversation, asking questions about where I was from and what I did for a living, but my resistance proved stronger than his curiosity. Eventually he returned to intermittently snoring until we reached our destination. 

The flight had tested my patience, but I felt my mood lift when our landing gear kissed the pavement of the tarmac. As the pilots taxied toward our gate, I pressed my nose against my tiny window to the outside world, eager to see Curaçao for the first time. I would have to wait a little longer to start my vacation, however, as the passengers around me reclaimed their carry-ons and we collectively inched towards the airplane’s exit.

I shouldered my carry-on bag and scanned the vicinity for directional signs. I always felt a little overwhelmed upon exiting airplanes. I needed a moment to regain my bearings. 

I spotted the familiar sights of airport concessions and travel-oriented shopping, but a small part of my brain registered that we were in Willemstad, Curaçao, nearly 2,500 miles from Boston. 

Racy’s excited grin and a blast of refrigerated air greeted me when I finally de-boarded the plane. She waved at me a few yards from our gate. We’d been on the same flight from Boston, but she preferred the luxury of First Class while I didn’t see the point of overspending for a little extra leg room.

“Wow, you didn’t waste any time getting into vacation mode,” I remarked with an amused chuckle.

Her black leggings, sweater, and Uggs from earlier had been replaced with an aqua-blue romper, wedge heels, and an oversized sunhat.

“You were taking forever,” she explained, “so I changed in the bathroom.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You make it sound like I wanted to be at the back of the plane.” 

“You should have flown First Class with me.” 

“You know I don’t have that kind of money.”

“You know I would have paid for your upgrade,” Racy countered.

“You know I don’t like handouts.”

She sighed loudly. “I know.”

I often wondered why Racy insisted on spending time with me. As an investment banker, she made significantly more money than I did. I consistently felt like my budget held her back, but to her credit, she worked hard to not make me uncomfortable about it. She just couldn’t control that I always felt uncomfortable.

“How was your flight?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes. “This vacation isn’t off to a great start.”

Her smile flattened. “Oh, no. What happened?”

“Not important. It’s fine. Let’s get through customs and find the resort shuttle. I’m ready to actually start this vacation.”

From the slow-moving line to retrieve our checked luggage, we moved next to the even slower-moving line towards the island nation’s custom agents. For it supposedly being the slow season, the line wrapped back and forth through the large ground-level space.

Racy had her phone out and blindly shuffled forward in line without looking up from her phone screen.

“I hope you’re not doing work,” I chastised.

“Just a few more e-mails before I totally go off-grid,” she promised.

I leaned against a concrete column. I was more than eager for vacation to actually start—to be through customs and at the resort where I intended to change into my bathing suit and read my book by the pool and not leave my cabana until it was time to catch my flight back to the States. I closed my eyes and rubbed my fingers against my temples.

“Headache?” 

I didn’t know how Racy had seen me; her eyes hadn’t strayed from her phone.

“Uh huh.”

“There’s aspirin in my bag.” Instead of getting the medicine for me, she shrugged off the shoulder strap and dropped her purse into my hands.

I unzipped the main zipper and rummaged around inside. Instead of finding the shape of a pill bottle, my fingers closed around a different kind of shape.

“What is this?” I asked, pulling the red, shiny orb from her purse.

Racy’s eyes flicked briefly in my direction before returning her attention to her phone. “Looks like an apple. It came with my in-flight meal.”

“You can’t smuggle fruit into a foreign country!” I hissed.

“Then throw it away.”

“But we’re in line.” I felt myself begin to panic. “I can’t get out of line to find a garbage can.”

“I’ll save your spot,” she offered.

My voice pitched. “No savsies!”

She arched an eyebrow at my anxious outburst. “We really need to get you away from those kindergartners.”

“First grade,” I corrected her.

“Whatever. Same thing.”

I normally would have set the record straight about the many and varied differences between kindergartners and first graders, but I had an apple to make disappear. 

I continued to pick apple remnants from my teeth after we breezed through customs; I’d never eaten a piece of fruit so quickly in my life. 

Racy and I left the air conditioned confines of the Willemstad airport in search of the shuttle that was supposed to bring us to our all-inclusive resort. The sun was bright outside of the airport, and I could feel the heat of the blacktop beneath my bargain store flip-flops.

I juggled my bags, while I searched for my sunglasses. Racy continued to walk at her brisk, city pace while I dug around for the sunglasses I was sure I’d seen earlier. I walked, shuffling in small steps, my eyes lowered to the inside of my purse.

“Racy. Hold up.”

“I see our ride,” she told me.

“Just give me a second.” I stopped so I wouldn’t trip on my flip-flops. 

“I’m gonna check-in with the driver.”

“Wait,” I pled.

I successfully located my sunglasses at the bottom of my cavernous bag, but when I looked up, I realized I’d found my sunglasses but I’d lost my friend. I scanned the immediate area with no sign of her aqua-blue romper.

A small man with a clipboard waved in my direction. I looked to my right and to my left. He appeared to be beckoning me, but I couldn’t understand why he was standing in front of a beat up, white passenger van. That couldn’t be our ride to the resort.

I took a few tentative steps in his direction, not completely committing. A big, floppy white hat appeared through the opening of the sliding side door. A feeling of dread settled in my stomach. What was Racy doing in that dilapidated van?

“Hustle up, Mercy,” she called to me. “We’re all waiting on you.”

The man associated with the battered van hustled to my side. “Help you with your bag?”

He didn’t wait for my response. He grabbed the long handle of my wheeled luggage and my sweaty grip slipped. I could only watch in anguish as the man loaded my suitcase into the back of the van. I winced when he slammed the back door shut.

“Inside please, Miss,” he encouraged.

I supposed if I were going to be kidnapped or murdered for stepping into a stranger’s van, at least I’d be going with my best friend.

I ducked my head and entered through the sliding side door. The back of the van was filled with other people, but I spotted Racy and her giant hat in the middle row. The man who’d sat next to me on the plane was alone on the short bench immediately in front of me. A young couple—newlyweds maybe—sat in the very back. They were too busy taking selfies from multiple angles to notice anyone else.

The air conditioning had been running, so at least it was mildly cooler in the van than outside. The side door slammed behind me, and I had no choice but to sit down. I ducked my head so as not to start vacation with a concussion and flopped down on the middle row of seats next to Racy

I reached for the closest seatbelt. “Are you sure about this?” I quietly grumbled for only Racy’s ears.

I uselessly mashed the ends of my seatbelt together, but the pieces wouldn’t fit.

“It’s fine. I’m sure the hotel’s regular shuttle vans are just all filled up.”

“I thought you said this was the slow season,” I practically accused.

“Okay,” she shrugged, recognizing the flaw in her argument, “maybe the regular fleet is being maintenanced.”

The man with the clipboard hopped into the driver’s seat and shifted the vehicle into drive. The engine revved and the airport began to disappear in the rearview mirror. Any misgivings I’d had would have to be put on hold.

The man taking up the front bench leaned forward to talk to the driver. “What can you tell me about Le Mirage?”

The driver turned his head slightly. “Pretty good time.”

“What about the women?”

“Depends on what you like.”

I glanced sharply in Racy’s direction, but she was back on her phone.

The man eventually sat back in his seat and left the driver to his task. 

“I booked us a snorkeling excursion for tomorrow morning,” Racy announced.

“Just now?” I marveled.

“Those things fill up fast, so I made arrangements when I booked our hotel. It’s a smaller group so we’ll get plenty of individual attention.”

“Kind of like this five-star shuttle experience?” I couldn’t help the dig.

Nothing about our vacation thus far had me feeling relaxed. The van bumped down dusty, unpaved roads. No street signage reassured me that we were going the right way. Small shanty houses lined the street. The driver frequently slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting livestock that darted into the road.

“What have you gotten us into?” I muttered for only Racy’s ears.

“Lighten up, Mercy. We’re on vacation now.” Her words said one thing, but the confidence had drained from my friend’s tone, which made me even more worried.

The van approached a mechanized gate. The security fence around the perimeter of the property was too high to see what was beyond the gate. I knew we’d probably come to our resort, but between our dented van and how rocky the trip had started, I expected the worst. American women being sold to the highest bidder, just beyond the gate. 

The driver rolled down the window and typed a code into the security box at the entrance. I leaned forward to try to make out the numbered sequence, but the fatheaded man seated in front of me obscured my view. I exhaled loudly; we might have needed to know that code in order to escape. 

The mechanized gate soundlessly opened and our van inched forward. My previous misgivings melted away upon seeing the grand driveway leading up to the resort’s main building. The driveway to the resort was close to a quarter mile of lush vegetation and meticulously landscaped yard. Vibrant flowers in full bloom lined the long paved driveway that led up to a towering building that looked like a giant thatch roof. As we approached the main building, my excitement increased; the lobby area was open on all sides with a clear view of the ocean just on the other side.

I only looked away from the picturesque vistas when I felt a hand on my knee. Racy’s smile looked smug. “I did good, right?”

As much as I hated giving her too much credit, I nodded.

The young men working the valet stand opened the side door. Everyone in the vehicle poured out onto the concrete sidewalk and waited while staff worked quickly and efficiently to unload our luggage from the back of the van.

A woman with a tablet approached Racy and me while we stood on the hot concrete.

“Bon bini. Welcome. Names please?”

“Racine Sawyer and Mercy Lewis,” Racy provided for the both of us.

“Ms. Sawyer, Ms. Lewis, welcome. I have you in an ocean view room with two queen beds, checking out with us on December 27th. Is that correct?”

“You got it,” Racy confirmed. 

The woman swiped two key cards through a credit-card reader attached to the top of her iPad. 

“Here are your room keys. I won’t need to link your credit cards since we’re an all-inclusive resort. You won’t need to charge anything back to the room, and please remember not to tip your servers or other staff.”

“Why not?” I felt compelled to ask.

The woman smiled evenly. “Because we’re all-inclusive.”

She hadn’t answered my question, but she pressed our room keys into our hands and moved on to the next hotel guests before I could ask any additional questions.

“Well that was weird,” I grumbled, shouldering my toiletries bag.

“What is?” Racy asked.

“Why can’t I tip if I want to? Are they trying to keep their staff in perpetual poverty?”

Racy laughed. “You and your conspiracies. They probably want all their guests to receive the same treatment and have the same experience. If you start tipping, it throws that philosophy out of whack.” 

“If you say so,” I said, still not convinced.

Our room was located in the main resort building; a short elevator ride to the third floor had us to our final destination. Once I ascertained that my key card worked on our room door, I felt myself finally beginning to relax.

“Do you have a bed preference?” Racy asked before throwing her oversized purse on the closest bed.

I shook my head, not really paying attention; I was too distracted by the big blue ocean beyond our hotel windows.

Racy flopped down on the first bed, apparently claiming it for herself while I continued to walk towards the full length windows that turned out to be sliding doors that opened onto a narrow balcony. Quiet music filtered up to our room from the large pool directly beneath the balcony, but I was far more impressed by the crescent-shaped lagoon at the edge of the resort property. I couldn’t hear the ocean, but I could definitely smell it in the warm, salty air.

I closed my eyes and exhaled. The warm sun was gentle and reassuring on my face.

Racy’s knowing voice called to me from inside the room. “Ready for this vacation to start?”

“Hell yeah.”

Love, Your Very, Very Old Grandma

I’m lying in my childhood bedroom. On the other side of the wall, my little sister is in the living room, quietly playing church songs that we grew up with. She hasn’t played the piano in years. I listen to her peck out the familiar songs, one timid note at a time. We’ve just returned from the funeral for our 96-year-old grandmother.

The church had been packed, like everyone in my small hometown had shown up to pay their respects. Five priests officiated the service, a small tribute to this woman—the best person I knew.

I spent yesterday looking through old family albums, trying to find pictures of my grandma. She’s there, but not in the ways you might expect of keepsakes. The back of her head. Bending over to pick something up. An arm. A leg. Always doing something, always in motion, never standing still long enough for a proper portrait. But I suppose when you’ve raised eleven children (nine boys and two girls), along with innumerable grandchildren, that’s the way it is.

Christmas at Grandma’s. Grandma opening a present in the foreground. I’m with my mom in the background, sporting a Strawberry Shortcake dress and admiring my new See N Say. 

I was raised Catholic. I went to mass every Sunday with my extended family and was an altar server when I was old enough. I remember feeling so solem and so proud to be at the front of the church, serving the mass, and so proud to know that it had been my grandmother who’d fought so girls could finally become altar servers at my hometown parish.

She lied to me once. She told me raw potatoes were poisonous to eat. But really she was tired of me eating the uncooked potatoes intended for dinner as quickly as she could peel them. I was (and still am) a good eater, much to her delight. No trip to grandma’s was complete until she’d fed you to her satisfaction, even if you hadn’t been hungry to begin with.

Her hands felt like bread dough, which she made from scratch every week. They were always soft, with a pleasant sheen like if she’d used Crisco as lotion. She would prep dinner and I would sit at the kitchen island listening to her stories about growing up on a potato farm during the Great Depression and how she didn’t have running water and electricity in her house until she was married with two children. Her stories are a major reason why I became a historian and why I love telling and writing stories myself.

She sent Christmas cards every year and signed them “Love, your very old grandma.” At some point over the years she added another “very” to her signature and would write, “Love, your very, very old grandma” in a squiggly cursive at the bottom of the card. And my very, very old grandma always addressed the card and envelope to both myself and my wife. I’ll never be able to grasp the vastness of her unconditional love.

I already miss you, Grandma.

I’m (Still) Writing a Novel

Hi. I know it’s been a while. I’d been hoping to publish my new novel (now titled Sunscreen & Coconuts  ) before my upcoming vacation, but I’d rather sit on it a little longer to get it just right  rather than rush it along. You’ll see something new from me relatively soon, though—and hopefully you’ll find this new standalone worth the wait.

Make sure you’re following me at the usual social media places for upcoming previews! 

Prost,

Eliza  

For Alec

A few months back, a young man named Alec contacted me. He'd read Apophis: A Love Story for the End of the World on Wattpad and thought the story would make a great comic book or graphic novel. I didn't know much more about Alec at the time except that he was 15 years old and an incredibly talented artist and illustrator. 

Over the next few months, Alec offered me a small window into his world through concept art and sketches of my characters and their environs. We communicated about color choice and shade and typography. It was exciting witnessing Sam and Nora come alive through someone else’s eyes in vivid inks and colors.

He and his design team even created a book cover for the comic and the first panel of the Prologue. (Click on that link. The Prologue panel is amazing). I was consistently impressed and in awe of this young man's maturity and his talent.

Most recently, Alec emailed me for more details about Sam's tattoo—a bird on a string—as he'd begun to sketch it.

I received an e-mail a few days ago from someone on Alec’s design team telling me that Alec had committed suicide. He apparently suffered from depression and anxiety and could no longer endure the bullying in his life.

I've been sitting with this news for a few days, not sure how to respond or react, but knowing that I needed to do something to mark Alec's life and his potential. I couldn't just file away his e-mails and his art as if they—or he—had never existed.

We’ve all been touched by suicide or an unexpected death. For many, the death of a childhood friend is often our first experience with death and mortality. According to the folks over at DoSomething.org, two-thirds of people who complete suicide are depressed at the time of their deaths. Depression that is untreated, undiagnosed, or ineffectively treated is the number 1 cause of suicide. Suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death for 15 to 24-year-olds and 2nd for 24 to 35-year-olds.

This blog post is for Alec. It’s a place for his art and his potential to be memorialized and preserved. And it's for any of you reading this who are presently enduring a challenging time. I see you, and I'm here for you.

One of Alec's final sketches was of Sam's tattoo—a bird tethered to a string. 

  From Apophis: 

"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

She shut her eyes and shook her head. Her loose blonde hair fluttered around her face. "No. But you should get some sleep, hun."

I felt a tug inside my chest at the small endearment. "Maybe I just want to watch you sleep."

"Creeper," she teased.

My eyes fluttered when she traced her fingers along the tattoo on my hip. She dragged the pad of her index finger along the dark lines.

"Tell me about this."

I would have been content to let her keep touching me without need for conversation, but she clearly had other ideas.

"It's a bird on a string," I said. My breath hitched when her fingertips traveled dangerously close to a more intimate area, but then they returned to their previous innocent spot on my hip.

"I can see that," she said, lightly swatting at me. "But what does it mean? Why did you get it?"

"It's stupid. I was 18," I said, as if that answer alone would satisfy her. I should have known better by now.

Nora frowned and removed her hand from my hip. "You're not very good at telling stories."

I grabbed her hand and put it back on my tattoo. I'd tell her whatever she wanted to know as long as she kept touching me. "It represents the need to be free from constraints."

Her fingertips resumed their dance along my skin.

"I love my family, but I was never able to be myself around them. They never would have accepted me if I …" I trailed off.

Nora's hand paused, but she didn't remove it completely. "If you what?"

I bit my lower lip. I had never said the words out loud before. "If I had told them I was gay."

Nora didn't blink. "You should have. Maybe they would have surprised you."

 

Happy Friday the Thirteenth!

FragmentedCHAPTER FIVE

I drove down a long gravel driveway, following the directions on my phone’s navigation app. The turn-by-turn directions had steered me out of the city limits and into a neighboring suburb that looked more like a farm than a subdivision.

I reached my destination and turned off my car. A modest ranch-style house spread out in front of me, a far cry from the high-rise condos and multi-story walkups I was better used to. I checked the address I’d made note of in my phone again and, confirming I was in the right place, I got out of my car.

My boots crunched on loose gravel as I walked up to the front door. The windows were shuttered and only a dusty red van in the driveway suggested that anyone was home. I knocked, and a woman with stern features and hair pulled back into a severe bun answered the door. She wore a long denim skirt that reached her ankles and a white turtleneck. A large silver cross hung around her neck. “Yes?”

I was startled by the woman’s appearance. I didn’t know why I’d expected Raleigh herself to answer the door. “Oh, um, hello,” I greeted, pulling myself together. “Is Raleigh here?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw the door close just a little. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m Harper. Harper Dawkins. I go to school with Raleigh. She said I should stop by to pick up the psychology notes I missed today.” She actually hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to tell this woman that I’d shown up on her doorstep, unannounced and uninvited.

“Harper.” The way the woman said my name sounded like it left a sour taste in her mouth. “I’ll never understand why parents give their children such strange names. Of course my own sister did the same thing when she allowed Anna to start going by her middle name.”

I didn’t know if I should defend my name or let the insult drop. “Who’s Anna?” I asked instead.

The woman nearly rolled her eyes. “Raleigh. Anna Raleigh King.”

My features scrunched together. “Raleigh’s real name is Anna?”

“Yes.” The door seemed to shut even more. “Why are you here again?”

I fished a notebook out of my messenger bag as if it were evidence that I was telling the truth. “I go to school with your niece?”

The woman, apparently Raleigh’s aunt, finally let me in.

When I walked through the front door, I resisted the urge to duck my head. The low popcorn ceilings were high enough that slouching was unnecessary, but the décor was disorienting; the house looked like it had been built in the 1970s and hadn’t ever been updated. I felt my anxiety spike at all the religious paraphernalia I found inside. I’d never seen so many crosses outside of a church.

Raleigh’s aunt hadn’t instructed me to take off my shoes, but I did so out of respect or reflex.

As I passed a formal dining room I saw one of those word paintings, only instead of something warm and encouraging, a somber message from the Old Testament was scrawled across the wall: The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

“Third door on the right.”

“Huh?” I tore my eyes away from the Bible verse.

I could tell Raleigh’s aunt was rapidly losing patience with me. “Anna’s bedroom is down the hallway, third door on the right. Didn’t you say you came here for school notes?”

 “Oh, right. Sorry.” I mentally shook myself. I needed to keep it together or this woman was going to boot me from her home before I ever got to see Raleigh.

I walked down the corridor and passed two open doors—a bathroom and the laundry room. The third door on the right was open as well. Inside the small bedroom, I found Raleigh reclined on a twin-sized mattress with an afghan covering her legs. Sunshine shown into the room, scattered by a white, lace drapery that resembled an oversized doily. The natural light bounced off of Raleigh’s hair, already the color of sunlight. It reminded me of a key scene from one of my favorite old movies—when Cary Grant finally tracks down Deborah Kerr after she fails to show up at the top of the Empire State Building.

I was struck by how peaceful and serene she sat, reading her book. She looked so … so normal. Beautiful, but normal, I decided on—like she might stand up at any moment.

I rapped my knuckles against the wooden doorframe.

Raleigh’s eyes lifted from the page. “Harper.” She closed her book.

“Hi.” I righted myself.

If my unannounced appearance fazed her, she didn’t let on.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

She touched the spine of the old-looking hardcover book. “Swiss Family Robinson.”

I admittedly knew next to nothing about her, and yet the book selection was unexpected. Something more somber and serious like Crime and Punishment or Wuthering Heights seemed more appropriate. Something in my face must have given me away.

“Haven’t you ever wished you were marooned on a tropical island, away from it all?” she posed.

“As long as I have sunscreen.”

Raleigh folded her hands in her lap. My eyes were drawn to the movement. I could see the twin lumps of her kneecaps hidden beneath the blanket. I immediately looked away, however; I didn't want her to think I was staring at her legs yet again.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, right.” I laughed and shook my head. “I was wondering if I could take a look at your psychology notes from today.”

“You missed lunch, too,” she noted. “What happened?”

“The people I babysit for had a last minute emergency.”

Raleigh’s hazel-green eyes inspected me. “You must really be serious about school if it couldn’t wait a day.”

I felt uncomfortable all over again. “Yeah, I know,” I grunted. “But I don’t want to fall behind.”

“All of my notebooks should be in my backpack,” Raleigh said, gesturing to the bag hanging on the back of a desk chair that probably went unused beyond serving as a coat hanger. “I’d get it for you, but that would take a little longer.”

My smile felt tight on my face. I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable every time Raleigh made reference to her condition, even though she’d never been self-pitying about it. She was simply stating facts.

I dug around in the bag, flipping between folders and textbooks and spiral notebooks until I found the notes I had been looking for.

“Did my aunt freak out when she answered the door? We don’t get many visitors out here.”

“She looked a little skeptical,” I admitted, “but she seemed fine.”

I sat down on the floor with Raleigh’s notes and pulled my psychology notebook out of my backpack. I flipped both notebooks open. My own half-earnest attempt to pay attention during the professor’s lectures glared back at me in blue pen. Unlike mine, Raleigh’s note-taking was thorough and focused, and her handwriting was evenly-spaced letters and words. It was maddening how perfect even her notes were.

“You don’t have to copy those right now,” Raleigh said. “You can take them home and return them later.”

“No, this is fine.” I couldn’t admit that I wanted to spend more time with her—not to Raleigh and certainly not to myself. I was only doing this for school, I lied to myself.

I focused my energies on transferring the information from Raleigh’s notebook to my own. Half a page in, I hazarded a glance up at the bed. Raleigh stared back at me, her position unchanged since my arrival and her book still closed on her lap. I hastily looked away, bringing my eyes back to the pages of the notebook.

“Is everything okay?”

“With what?” I asked, looking up.

“The people you babysit for; you said there was an emergency.”

“Oh. That. Yeah, Sasha got sick at school.”

“Poor thing,” Raleigh murmured. “How old is she?”

“She just turned five.”

“That’s a fun age.”

There was something regal and reserved about Raleigh, yet sly and knowing. It made me wonder what secrets she was hiding. I knew all too well that everyone had secrets.

“Your real name is Anna?”

“That’s what it says on my birth certificate, but no one’s ever called me that—except my aunt.”

“She seems…” I searched for a word to describe the woman who’d answered the door. “Intense.”

“So do you.”

“Touché.”

Raleigh picked at the yarn of the afghan while I resumed copying her notes. She looked up with new curiosity in her eyes. “How did you know where I lived?”

I winced. “I called the university pretending to be someone from your hospital checking up on the school’s ADA compliance.”

“Wow. You really are serious about school.”

“I have to maintain a certain GPA to keep my scholarship,” I shrugged in my defense. “There’s no way I would have been able to afford school on my own.”

“I get that. My parents are paying for me to be here, but before that I was on academic scholarship at Smith.”

“Oh yeah?” I hated my voice. It sounded too loud in my head.

Raleigh nodded. “My parents had been hoping I’d go to Boston College and be closer to home, but it had been my dream to go to Smith, ever since I was little. But then the accident happened. My parents were helping me make the two-hour trip into Boston a couple times a week for PT, but I think it got to be too much for them.” She shrugged delicately. “So, here I am in Chicago instead.”

“Why do you live all the way out here? Don’t they have accessible rooms on campus?”

The modest smile that she’d been accommodating enough to give me faltered. “I need help doing things,” she said simply. “And I couldn’t ask a roommate I barely know to do those things for me.”

I immediately felt bad for prying. I knew nothing about the daily challenges being in a wheelchair provided, and it showed in the naivety of my questioning.

“My parents are paying my aunt a stipend to help me out,” she continued. “She drives me to and from school and brings me to physical therapy downtown. I could probably take a bus or the L, but I’m still a little nervous about public transportation with my chair.”

I wanted to continue our conversation, but I hadn’t been invited. I was only here to get the notes I’d missed. “Thanks again for the notes,” I said when I’d finished copying the information. I tucked my notebook back into my school bag and returned her notes to hers.

“It's really no big deal,” Raleigh insisted. Her lips curled at the edges. “Besides, now you owe me one.”

Technically we were even because I’d given her my notes when she’d had to miss class for physical therapy, but I found I didn’t mind being in debt to her. I smiled back. “I guess I do.” I slung my bag over one shoulder and paused at her bedroom door. “Is it okay if I go out the front door? Or is your aunt going to freak out?”

“You'll be fine. She’s probably in her room praying or something.” Raleigh made a face. “’I’m sorry I can’t see you out,” she apologized. “Getting into my chair is this whole big thing and the hallway is carpeted, which slows me down even more.” It surprised me how unsure she looked. It was the first time I’d ever seen her uncomfortable.

I waved a hand. “No, no,” I dismissed. “I’m the one who showed up without warning you.”

“That’s true,” Raleigh noted, tilting her head. “Hey, have you heard about a Fall Harvest Festival out on County Road W this weekend?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of like an early Halloween-Homecoming-Oktoberfest hybrid party that Cook County puts on,” I confirmed with a nod. “They have pumpkin carving and hayrides, and kids get their faces painted and all that. I went freshman year with some of my friends.”

“Would you want to go with me?” she asked.

My heart fluttered in my chest and my throat constricted. “Oh, I, um.” I had no rational reason to say no. It was still too early in the school year to have fallen behind in homework, and I didn’t have to babysit for the Henderson’s on the weekends.

“Fall is my favorite season, but I’m afraid that I won’t be able to get my chair through the terrain on my own, and my aunt will be busy at a booth her church is hosting.” She tugged her lip between her top and lower rows of teeth. “And I really haven’t met too many people, and now that I’m saying the words out loud, I realize it’s probably a big inconvenience to ask you to drive all the way out here again.”

I couldn’t ignore how my once fluttering heart now seemed to drop into my stomach. I forced a grin to my face. “It’s no inconvenience at all. Besides, I owe you one, remember?” I assured her. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

+ + +

“You know this is how scary movies start, right?” I announced uneasily. “Two college students on an abandoned county highway take a wrong turn and get cannibalized by a family of inbred hillbillies.”

My car bumped down the unpaved road. It was a foggy night, and I leaned forward, close to the windshield, to make out the road signs ahead. I didn’t often drive out to farm country, and the county highways were unfamiliar.

“I’m pretty sure I can list at least half a dozen movies that start off with that exact scenario,” Raleigh laughed.

Despite my discomfort, I was admittedly eager to spend time with Raleigh outside of school. In the few minutes before the classes we shared we never got the chance to really talk, and at lunch Lauren’s inane questions always dominated the conversation.

I put on my turn signal and pulled my car into a makeshift parking lot that doubled as a harvested cornfield.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” she asked me.

 “I don’t really like scary movies,” I admitted. My own life was scary enough without watching those kinds of films.

“That’s because you haven’t been introduced to the right scary movies,” Raleigh suggested, smiling brightly. “Don’t worry, we’ll have a movie marathon and I’ll have you hooked by the end. I’ll introduce you to all the classics: Friday the 13th, Halloween, Night of the Living Dead, The Shining,” she ticked off. “And don’t even get me started on Hitchcock films.”

“Wow. You really are a fan,” I murmured as I looked for a vacant parking spot in the plowed field.

“I just like movies,” she shrugged. “It’s one activity that I didn’t have to alter after the accident, kind of like reading books.”

“You bring the movies, and I’ll bring the popcorn,” I returned with an even smile.

I eventually found a parking spot and turned off the car’s engine. I was out of the vehicle and grabbing Raleigh’s wheelchair out of the trunk before she could even take off her seatbelt. By the time I reached the front passenger side with the wheelchair, Raleigh had her door open and her legs were swung out.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked. When I’d shown up at Raleigh’s house that afternoon, her aunt had helped her into my car. Her aunt had eyeballed my vehicle as I’d put the folded up wheelchair into the trunk, but hadn’t voiced whatever misgivings she was clearly feeling. I wanted to be useful and not an awkward bystander the second time around.

“Set the locks for me?” she requested. “I’d hate to roll away.”

I did what was asked and stood back. “Anything else?”

“I’ve got this part,” she assured me as she carefully hefted herself out of the passenger seat with just the strength of her upper arms. I couldn’t help but reflect on how jealous Lauren would be. “I’m usually pretty good getting out of cars. It’s the getting in that takes me some time.”

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket and did my best to ignore how families and couples slowed down as they walked by us and openly stared at Raleigh as she maneuvered out of the car and into her wheelchair. I wanted to yell at them like Jenn had done to the red muscle car or at least to shoot them dirty looks, but I didn’t want to make a scene. Instead, I took Raleigh’s own advice and imagined that they were only gawking because she was so attractive. That part wasn’t hard to imagine, at least. She was beautiful.

That night Raleigh had retired her usual sundress and cardigan for jeans and a sweater. Her hair was pulled half up away from her face, but a few loose tendrils were purposely loose and framed her face. A pale pink lip-gloss colored her pouting mouth. Her hazel eyes looked even more dramatic off-campus. Her long eyelashes were expertly mascara’d and the smoky eye shadow perfectly complimented the color of her irises. The night was early, but I’d already caught myself staring at her several times and had to consciously remind myself that I wasn’t single.

My phone buzzed inside my purse with an incoming text. I’d turned off the ringer, but had left it on vibrate.

Call me.

It was from my brother Damien. We rarely talked, only enough to keep tabs on each other. He still lived in the Memphis area with his wife Sandra and their kid, Austin. His messages were usually more verbose, but if it were an emergency he would have called me.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Perfect,” I said. I shoved my phone back into my bag without replying to the message and focused on my company instead.

When Raleigh finally settled into her chair, she gave an experimental push. Her gloved fingers curled around both wheels to see how easily she could operate the wheelchair on the bumpy terrain. “I might need a little shove,” she decided. “The ground is pretty uneven.”

“No problem.” I scrambled to position myself behind her, happy to help. “I’ve got you.”

Scattered hay crunched under my boots and the wheels of Raleigh’s chair as I pushed her out of the parking lot and towards the festivities. I could see long rows of pumpkins, or rather jack-o-lanterns, flickering in the distance. Excited children swarmed around us, darting from one activity to the next. Even though it was too early for Halloween, most of the little kids were dressed in costumes and some adults were, too.

“This is amazing,” Raleigh’s voice rang out. “Candied apples, apple cider, apple donuts. I love fall.”

I smiled at her enthusiasm. “What do you want to do first?” I asked.

“The haunted house, definitely.”

I spotted the sign for the haunted house off to our right. I hadn’t noticed it before. I’d mostly been distracted by the feeling of multiple sets of eyeballs on us and making sure I didn’t tip Raleigh’s wheelchair over. The line to the haunted house snaked around the corner of an old dilapidated barn. I didn’t know why people would pay to wait in line for the chance to be scared when that money could have been spent on caramel apples instead.

“Don’t tell me that getting scared on purpose is your idea of fun?”

She smiled broadly. “I take it you’re not a fan.”

I normally wouldn’t have entertained going inside, but I stupidly didn’t want Raleigh to believe I wasn’t up for anything.

“I suppose since we’re here,” I reluctantly relented. I tipped her chair back on its back wheels to push her over around a particularly deep crevice and wheeled her in the direction of the line waiting to be admitted to the haunted attraction.

They were letting in small groups of about six or eight go through at a time. The line moved forward in short bursts, and as the main entrance of the worn barn came in sight, the more I felt my palms sweat and my stomach churn.

I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my anxiety, but Raleigh seemed to sense that something was off. “You can still back out,” she observed over one shoulder. “I could probably get my chair through there without your help.”

“Not a chance.” I shook my head. “If you’re gonna do it, so am I.”

She saw right through my false bravado. “Because you want to go in the haunted house, or because you don’t want to look like a chicken?”

High-pitched shrieks rose above our conversation. I reflexively tightened my grip on the handles of Raleigh’s chair, but I continued to move forward in line.

This was a bad idea. The last time I’d been in a haunted house I’d been in the eighth grade. It had been summer in Memphis: hot, sticky, and humid. A group of kids from my school were going to a haunted wax house and I’d tagged along, desperately wanting to break into their inner circle and wanting to befriend one girl in particular, who in hindsight had probably been my first real crush.

The wax house had been highly air conditioned to keep the figures from melting in the southern heat, and my bare arms had prickled with goosebumps from the dropped temperature instead. The house had been dark and the hallways we had walked were narrow. The dioramas consisted of wax figures of creatures like vampires and zombies, illuminated by strobe lights. Everyone else had laughed and talked through the entire attraction, but I’d been tense and unsure, not wanting to embarrass myself in front of a significant faction of my class.

Everything had been fine until we had reached the very end. I could see the literal light at the end of the tunnel, and I knew I was seconds away from exiting the wax house unscathed. But just as I was about to step into the sunshine outside, someone had grabbed me from behind and whispered ‘Red Rum’ into my ear.

I’d turned on whoever had grabbed me and had swung with all the strength I could muster. I couldn’t remember much else except that I’d run out of the house, not staying behind to find out whom I had punched or if they were okay, and I certainly hadn’t stuck around to receive the ridicule of my peers. I was a social pariah and nothing except an extreme change of location would remedy that.

When Raleigh and I reached the front of the line, we were ushered into the converted barn. We moved deeper inside, making room for the people shuffling in behind us. It was dark in the barn. Too dark. Looking up, there was no sense of where the ceiling was. My body tensed all over knowing that someone could jump out at me without warning.

A spotlight turned on and shined down in the center of the room to illuminate a man I hadn’t realized was there. He was round in build with an impressive mustache twisted with wax at the ends. Someone in our group, a woman I’d guess based on the high-pitched noise, squealed. A collective, nervous laugh followed.

I had managed to not make a noise, but my hands had seized around the handles of Raleigh’s chair.

She patted a gloved hand over mine. “Scared yet?”

I leaned down so she could hear me over the nervous twittering around us. “Bring it,” I challenged with borrowed courage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, gather 'round!” The man in the center of the room had a booming voice, even without a microphone.

I pushed Raleigh’s chair purposefully forward, mindful not to run her into the couple standing in front of us. My phone buzzed again in my purse. I wasn’t one of those people who were constantly on their phone, but I was still tempted to check it in case it might give me a valid excuse to skip out on the haunted house.

I need to talk to you. It was another text from Damien.

“You’re awfully popular,” Raleigh remarked, noticing me on my phone again. “Unless you asked everyone you know to text you tonight to impress me.”

“Is it working?” I leaned closer to Raleigh’s face before I realized what I was doing.

Stop it, Harper. Remember your girlfriend?

I swallowed hard and stood up straight, hoping she hadn’t noticed. But the more I got to know Raleigh, the more I realized that things didn’t escape her notice.

The ringmaster continued to draw our attention, and I returned my phone to my purse. “Gird your loins, ladies and gentlemen, because beyond that door you will come face to face with the most gruesome, horrifying, nightmare-inducing frights this side of the Mississippi.” The spotlight audibly clicked and the yellow glow gained a sickly green hue.

“For those of the faint of heart,” the man dramatically lowered his voice, “I suggest you exit now before it’s too late. But for those of you foolish enough to continue, right this way.”

A hidden door opened across the room, bathing the immediate area with light.

“Last chance,” Raleigh sing-songed, sounding far too cocky for my liking.

I’d run out of smart comebacks, so I wheeled her chair in the direction of the open door as my response.

The barn had been partitioned into a number of separate rooms rather than a winding labyrinth with frights around each new corner. We moved from one scene to the next, each diorama more disturbing than the next.

The first room we walked into played on the farming theme of the barn. People dressed as farm workers populated the scene, but instead of cultivating vegetables or livestock, they were harvesting body parts. Each farmhand wore a uniform of overalls and a flannel shirt. Their faces were painted white and their eyes were heavily shadowed. Stage blood was spackled at the corners of their mouths. The creatures swung lazily like sluggish zombies as we went by. I tried to make myself as small as possible, hunching my shoulders and holding my arms tight against my torso so none of the swiping arms could touch me.

Another room had abandoned the farming motif for oversized dolls and toys. It was hard to tell which figurines were statues and which were real people until you walked by and they jerked to life. When a ballet dancer I was sure wasn’t real began to dance beside me, I sucked in a sharp breath and gripped the handles of Raleigh’s chair tighter. I didn’t trust myself not to take a swing at anyone who might jump out at me, or worse yet, who might try to grab me.

Raleigh leaned toward me, and I bent over to hear her better. “This is …”

“—a little impressive for the suburbs?” I finished for her.

“Exactly.”

Each passageway we went through was partially blocked by thick hanging strips of plastic like we were walking through an old-school car wash. With one hand on Raleigh’s chair and the other pushing the plastic strips out of the way, I was vulnerable to anything lurking just beyond the threshold. Each time we passed through a doorway, I sucked in a sharp breath and only exhaled when I was midway through the next scary scene.

Raleigh was mostly silent throughout the house, and with her back toward me, I couldn’t tell if she was having any fun. For myself, I was simply trying to hold it together until we got to the end of the haunted house without embarrassing myself too much.

We continued to follow the line in front of us into the next room. The doorway was dark and it felt like hundreds of fingers passing over the outsides of my arms. Raleigh made a noise that resembled a giggle. I swallowed down my own reaction. I could have sworn someone whispered my name, but I was sure I’d imagined it. The high stress scenario had me on edge and ready to believe that my surroundings were real instead of the fabricated talents of some local theater program.

In the next room, a manic clown—complete with a rainbow-colored, puffy wig and oversized red nose—stood over a bloody hospital bed. His face was painted in a permanent grin, which made the giant butcher knife he held in one hand even more out of place. He stabbed the hospital bed where a mannequin lay. Every time the knife struck, a woman’s scream pierced over a hidden stereo system.

“Jesus,” Raleigh shuttered. “That’s not right.”

Zombies and giant dolls I could handle, but not this. I spotted the exit nearby and I pushed Raleigh’s wheelchair faster than I had been before. Luckily there was no one in front of us or I might have mowed him or her down. Raleigh must have felt the increase in speed because her hands clutched the arms of the chair to keep from tumbling out.

“I’m sorry,” I breathed out when we finally reached the exit. “I had to get out of there. Hospitals wig me out.”

“It’s okay. I’m not a fan either. Too much time in them lately,” she noted, punching lightly at her legs.

“Oh, right.” I hadn’t even thought of that. I’d only been thinking about my mother and the numerous facilities she’d been in and out of over the years.

“Now that I’ve sufficiently terrified you, do you think we could carve a pumpkin?” Raleigh asked hopefully. “Or do you think that’s just for kids?”

I removed my hands from my jacket pockets and tightened my fingers around the handles of her wheelchair. “Oh, I’m positive there’s a pumpkin in there waiting for you.”

A large banquet-style tent had been erected in a harvested field. Fold-up chairs and long tables were set up with pumpkins of various sizes and decorating supplies on the tables. The ground was relatively flat like the rest of the festival grounds, but deep tilling ridges made my help necessary for Raleigh’s chair to navigate the uneven terrain.

I parked Raleigh’s chair at a vacant table and sat in a seat beside her. She immediately grabbed a squat, round pumpkin and thin bristled paintbrush. In lieu of letting children handle knives, paint and markers were laid out on each table rather than more traditional pumpkin carving supplies. Following her lead, I chose my own pumpkin—a tall, skinny gourd with a long, curved stem.

We sat silently as we set to the task of painting our respective pumpkins. Thinking of the clown from the haunted house, I concentrated on a bright red nose and wide, curving mouth.

“One need not be a chamber to be haunted/One need not be a house/The brain has corridors surpassing/Material place.” Raleigh’s words were a quiet murmur as though she didn’t realize she was speaking aloud.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Emily Dickinson.”

“You and Kelley should hang out. She loves stuff like that.”

Raleigh’s hazel eyes remained focused on her pumpkin. “Maybe I like hanging out with you.”

My lips twitched. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I quickly corrected. “I like hanging out with you, too.” It wasn’t a lie; I was having fun, even the haunted house hadn’t been that bad.

Although I focused on my pumpkin, I couldn’t help my periodic glances at Raleigh much like I did in the classes we shared. Her hazel eyes were trained on her own handiwork and the tip of her pink tongue peeked out from between equally pink lips in a look of concentration and determinedness. She was in her own world, oblivious to the pointed stares of others—mostly curious children who didn’t know not to gawk.

“How do you handle everyone staring all the time?”

“It took some getting used to,” she said. “But I’ve learned that the more at ease I appear with being in my chair, the more it puts others at ease about the chair, too. It’s nice when people start looking at me first and only realize I’m different afterwards.”

Her words brought to mind the first day of school when I’d met Raleigh and how uncomfortable I’d felt because of the elevated lab tables.

I painted the finishing touches on my clownish pumpkin. I scrutinized the finished product with the same critical eye I seemed to use with everything I did. The blue paint around the pumpkin’s painted eyes made the face look more melancholy than I’d intended.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Raleigh rasped.

I frowned at my pumpkin. I was talented at a number of things, but art was not one of them. “Mine’s not very good,” I qualified.

“It’s not a contest,” she reassured me.

“Okay,” came my reluctant affirmation. “On three.”

We counted down together: “One ... two ... three.” I spun the still-wet face of my pumpkin in Raleigh’s direction, and she mirrored my actions.

While I had gone for a whimsical theme, Raleigh had stayed traditionally Halloween. But instead of a scary face, she’d gone for an intricate spider web that sprawled across one whole side of the pumpkin. The brushstrokes were impossibly straight, coming together to form a complicated geometric pattern.

“Wow,” I openly admired. “That’s really cool.”

Raleigh laughed. “Thanks. Yours is terrifying.”

“Hey! I didn’t want to go for scary,” I defended my art.

Raleigh’s smile was nearly as wide as the painted clown grin. “Then you succeeded.”

My phone continued to jump and jerk in my purse, buzzing with a number of incoming messages. I dug my phone out of my bag and skimmed through the new texts. I had messages from Kelley, Maia, and Jenn, each message questioning my whereabouts. Jenn had suggested we hang out over the weekend, but we’d made no concrete plans that I was consciously ditching. I had a third text from Damien, echoing his earlier message that I call him.

“Sorry,” I apologized, fingers already dancing over the text keyboard. “I should probably respond or they’ll never leave me alone.”

I typed out the words I’ll call you later before sending the duplicate message to Jenn, Damien, and my friends.

“We don’t have to stay if you have someplace you’d rather be.”

I looked up from my phone screen. Raleigh was chewing on her lower lip.

“Huh?”

“It's okay if you have to go or something,” she repeated.

I turned off the vibrating feature on my phone and shoved the annoying device back in my purse. “Everything is fine,” I said with a reassuring smile. I slapped my hands on top of my thighs to shake off the unexpected guilt that had settled in my stomach. “Where to next?”

We spent another hour at the festival with me guiding Raleigh’s wheelchair from one corner of the pumpkin patch to the other, stopping at craft booths to browse and looking at the jack-o-lantern display. Conversation was easy and light, and for a few moments, I was able to ignore the constant surveillance of the other festival attendees. Raleigh might have been used to all of those eyeballs, but I was acutely aware of how people stared at us.

When we’d eaten our share of Indian fry bread and caramel apples, I steered Raleigh back to my parked car. I waited patiently while she transferred from her wheelchair to the front passenger seat. I smiled at the families who walked by us on their way back to their own cars. Quite a few children openly stared as Raleigh carefully hefted her body from chair to car, but at least their parents had some sense of decorum and tugged harder on their arms to hurry them along or hissed at them under their breath to stop staring in our direction. But Raleigh appeared unconcerned about all the attention, so I tried to put myself at ease as well.

When I stored her wheelchair in the trunk, a flash of red paint drew my attention. “I’ll be right back,” I announced.

Parked a few cars away was a candy red muscle car. It looked like the same body style as the car Jenn had yelled at, but I couldn’t be sure. The antique vehicle was coated with a thin layer of dust like the other cars in the lot. My own car had gotten dirty as well from driving down the gravel road that led to the cornfields. I touched my palm to the hood. The dirt was gritty and the metal felt cool to the touch. The car had been parked there for a while.

Before I could further investigate, I heard Raleigh calling to me from the car. “Harper! Are you ready? It’s getting a little cold.”

I stared for a moment longer at the antique car before hustling back to my own vehicle and my waiting passenger. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I apologized, sliding behind the steering wheel.

“Are you into old cars?”

“Huh?”

“That red car back there?” she clarified.

“Oh yeah.” I shook my head. “My dad had a car just like it.” I didn’t know why I lied, and especially why I had created that specific lie. I had no idea what kind of car my father drove.

Raleigh’s aunt’s house was only a few miles from the county festival. We sat in my idling car in front of the ranch home. A single porch light illuminated the otherwise dark driveway.

Raleigh twisted at the waist and unbundled her seatbelt. “This was really nice, Harper. Thank you for pushing me around.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I countered. “I didn’t realize how much I missed doing things like that.”

Raleigh’s eyes were trained on the tops of her legs. “And thanks … thanks for being my friend.”

I swallowed down the lump that had appeared in my throat. “I know it’s not easy transitioning to a new city and a new school. Do you miss your friends and family out East?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, with a bob of her head. Twin hazel eyes blinked back at me from beneath heavy eyelashes. The moonlight cast peculiar shadows and shapes on her beautiful face. “But Chicago isn’t turning out to be so bad.”

read more

I'm Writing a Novel

I’m not cut out for the single life. This statement becomes all the more obvious as I sit in my living room, listening to a Pandora mix of Father John Misty and watching my cat stare out the window at an overexcited bird with what I can only describe as melancholy. But then again, I’m probably only projecting my emotions onto my cat. My wife is out of town for the weekend, and I’m already contemplating my entire existence while trying not to eat everything in the house. I don’t know how to live alone anymore. 

Since I’ve got all the time in the world, it’s a good time for a quick update. Some of you may have noticed on the About the Author page to Hunter that my next novel is titled Christmas in the Caribbean. I'm about 50 pages in, and I’ve been enjoying writing something fun and uncomplicated (well, not entirely uncomplicated since I really do love wrenching ANGST). My goal is to release this stand-alone—get this—close to Christmas. 

Stay tuned for forthcoming plot summaries and sneak previews! 

Prost,

Eliza

Under Construction

I've got a minute (read: my flight keeps getting delayed), so I thought I'd take a moment to write an update and provide some thoughts on Hunter and what's coming next.  

Feedback on Hunter continues to come in, and you've en masse asked the question I was expecting, so it's probably worth posting my response here. So many of you have demonstrated your continued commitment to Elle and Hunter, and you're wondering if I'm planning on doing a re-write of the first four books, but from Hunter's POV. 

My answer is this: yes and no. 

When I first conceptualized Hunter, I considered publishing it as a novella that would peek into Hunter's life in the initial moments before she meets Elle to the moment she's standing on her front porch in the middle of a storm. I thought I'd be able to tease out just under 100 pages, never imagining it would turn into a full novel at over 200 pages. Turns out, I had more to say than what I'd originally thought.

I've noted this elsewhere, but the challenge with the WJ series is not Jumping the Shark and the desire to leave readers wanting more. Additionally, my writing time is limited. I have a full-time job outside of fiction writing, and my wife and I continue to explore our new part of the country. Right now I'm averaging three books a year, which feels like a comfortable and doable pace. But committing to three more books from Hunter's POV will limit my ability to continue the DCMH series in a yearly cycle and write other original standalones or pursue a spin-off series based on Jessica Merlot.

Rather than three more Hunter books, I'm proposing an anthology-like collection of glimpses into Hunter's life over the span of WJ 1-4. Each chapter would be a standalone short story, essentially of Hunter and Elle's Greatest (and Most Painful) Hits. I feel like this strategy will avoid a heavy-handed approach to tying up loose ends while still giving me time to publish other things. 

So here's where I need you:  Respond in the comments of this blog which moment(s) from the Winter Jacket series you'd like to read from Hunter's POV. I recognize that this is asking you to revisit four entire novels, so if the requests are varied and vast, I'll hold a kind of voting process to narrow it down to the top dozen or so.

Tell me: What do you want to read? 

 

Prost,

Eliza

 

Hunter is here

Warning: Contains mild spoilers.

Writer Confession: this one was hard.  Taking it all the way back to the beginning--to that broken classroom heater--yet even earlier than that, posed challenges I've never had to face in a novel.

Challenge #1: What would Hunter think about?

I've been writing from Elle's POV for four novels, which means I've been inside her head since 2013. Elle's mindset is so effortless for me now, that it was actually initially challenging to see Elle through Hunter's eyes. But then I realized, this book was never about Elle; as the title suggests, it was still all about Hunter. 

We have in Book 1, Elle's internal musings about who she thought Hunter was. She sees someone charming, whose parents treated her as an equal (which is why she seems so mature for her age), someone who seems to have everything together. I made the decision early on to have Elle be wrong about much of that. I play homage to this when Hunter separates Professor Graft from Elle as two separate entities--making up a list of who each woman was and their likes and dislikes. She can't know any of these things. She doesn't really know Elle Graft. Similarly, Elle couldn't know much about Hunter until she shows up soggy on her front porch.

The real Hunter isn't confident. She's not perfect; she's not effortless. She doesn't float through life with everything figured out. Those are the kinds of character traits we afix to the objects of our affection, but when you strip away all the things you think you know about a person you've admired from afar, you find another human, just like you.

Things brings me to Challenge #2: Hunter is twenty years old. 

I haven't been twenty in a very long time. Most of my characters are closer to me in age and experience. With the exception of Second Chances, I haven't ever written a traditional Coming Out story; that's one of the reasons why Hunter connects with that book so much. 

How does a girl in the 2010s discover and determine her sexuality? What might she research? Who would she turn to for help and advice? How does she Come Out to herself and then the people in her life?Hunter's French pen pal, Colette, allowed me to explore Hunter's grappling and coming-to-terms with her sexuality in two ways. First, Coming Out to oneself can be more challenging than admitting it to friends and family, and second--like writing in a diary that could talk back--an internet pen pal played an essential role in my own Coming Out experience.

Challenge #3: Unlike a new original novel, or even a sequel, I had a predetermined timeline with predetermined conversations.

Because of this predetermined framework, I couldn't stray from the path. Elle and Hunter couldn't have additional interactions than the ones that appeared in the original novel. So while staying true to the storyline and Elle and Hunter's interactions from Winter Jacket, I worked to make Hunter feel fresh and brand new. There are several new characters, but also cameos from more familiar individuals, and plenty of Easter Eggs which I hope you'll enjoy.

Writing the Winter Jacket series has been so rewarding, yet each new novel brings new grey hairs. The stakes are high when I re-explore these characters that so many of you hold near and dear. I hope with Hunter you learn something new and fall in love with Hunter Dyson all over again.

Prost,  

Eliza

 

Hunter: Chapter Preview

Chapter One

When they reached the front entrance of the dormitory, Allison stopped.  She pushed out a deep breath from her lungs.  ”Maybe I should just go back to Providence,” she said.

Reagan’s eyes grew wide. “Tonight? It’s after midnight,” she pointed out. “I don’t even think there’s trains leaving the city anymore.”

Allison looked away. “It’s … I’m not feeling very well.”

Not buying Allison’s excuse, Reagan gathered her courage. “Can we talk about your total Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act from the party now?”

Allison’s features were stoical. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said with equal passivity.

“Don’t give me that. We were having such a good time, or so I thought,” Reagan said, exasperated.  ”What happened to trigger High-School-Allison? I thought we were through with her.”

“I don’t know,” Allison said in a quiet voice.  The sidewalk was suddenly very interesting and her gaze remained downcast.

Reagan continued to stare at the uncomfortable girl before her.  Something Ashley had said at the party poked at her brain – Are you sure you two hated each other in high school?

She repeated her original answer: “It’s complicated,” she whispered.

Allison looked back up, not having heard Reagan clearly. “What’d you say?”

“Don’t move,” Reagan husked.  She took a step forward.

“Huh?” Allison’s eyes widened in alarm as she followed the trajectory of Reagan’s mouth.  She watched her momentarily hesitate.  Reagan bit down on her lower lip before pressing her mouth fully against Allison’s own.

Allison’s eyes remained open for a second before she felt Reagan press harder against her.  Her eyes fluttered shut and she released an involuntary groan. She was startled by how soft and pliable Reagan’s mouth was.  Although she’d often found herself staring at her thick, dimpled lips (although she’d always told herself that it wasn’t unusual for one girl to admire another pretty girl), she’d never imagined a kiss could feel so tender. It was a far cry from the chapped lips and rough stubble of a man’s kiss.

She felt something gnaw at the pit of her stomach.  At first she thought it was dread, but when Reagan’s teeth softly nipped at her bottom lip, she realized what the feeling truly was—desire.  With their lips moving freely against each other’s, Allison threw caution to the wind, shut her eyes, and threw herself eagerly into the embrace.

I rubbed at the back of my neck to find it hot to the touch. The temperature in my bedroom felt impossibly warm, even though I knew my parents kept the thermostat at a reliable 72 degrees, no matter the weather outside.

I turned my book to the next page before glancing toward my closed bedroom door. Had I remembered to lock the door?

No sooner had the question formed in my head when the door swung open and my mom’s head popped into my room. “Dinner’s ready,” she chirped.

I shut my book as unobtrusively as possible and wiggled it under a nearby pillow. “Okay. Thanks.”

My mom lingered in the open doorway. “What are you reading?”

I pushed the book father beneath my pillowcase. “Something for school.”

It wasn’t.

“Homework and the semester hasn’t even started?” She sounded impressed.

“Some professors have assignments due the first day of classes,” I explained.

That part wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t true for me this semester.

Instead of leaving to finish preparing dinner, my mom seemed to get more comfortable. She crossed her legs and leaned against the door frame. “I’ll be sad to see you go back tomorrow. I know you were only home for a month, but I got used to you being around.”

“It’s not that far away. And I’ll be back for spring break and summer,” I reminded her. We had the same conversation every time a school break ended and I had to go back.

“I know; but it’s not the same,” my mom said, looking wistful. “And soon enough you’ll be graduating, and then I’ll really never see you.”

“I’ve still got another year and a half of school, Mom.”

“It’ll go by fast. You’ll see. The past twenty years flew by.”

“Mom,” I sighed.

She held up her hands. “I know, I know. Children grow up. They fly the coop. That’s how these things work. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when you’re gone for good.”

I made a face. The dramatics were exhausting. “You make it sound like I’m dying. Besides, you still have Brian,” I pointed out. My brother had a few more years until he went off to college.

“It’s not the same. You’re my daughter.” She passed her hand in front of her face to brush away imaginary hair. Instead, her fingers stopped to flick at newly-formed tears. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she proclaimed. She forced a tight smile to her lips, brave but watery. 

She looked like she needed a hug, but I didn’t want to provoke waterworks any more than our brief conversation had already caused. I stayed rooted on my bed. 

“I’ll be right down,” I promised.

“Okay.”

When my mom disappeared from the doorway, I retrieved my book from under my pillow. The book’s cover and title were innocuous enough—far more innocent than some of the other covers I’d seen with their leggy heroines and seam-bursting breasts. 

The book belonged to the public library, but I hadn’t been brave enough to properly check it out. Instead, I’d tucked it into my backpack and had hustled out the front doors. The local branch was too small and old fashioned to have electronic sensors in their books. The librarian would stamp a small notecard in the front of the book with a return date and recorded your name in her desktop computer. It was only a book, but I didn’t want my name associated with the novel. I lived in a small suburban town, and like any other city of similar size, gossip was the lifeblood of my community. I figured I would be back to college before anyone noticed the lesbian novel section was one book short. 

I’d never stolen anything in my life. I’d never caught the kleptomania bug like some of my friends did in middle school—a pack of gum, a tube of chapstick, a pack of batteries slipped into an oversized coat pocket. My stomach had twisted itself into knots just having the knowledge that my friends had stolen something, petty or not.

I got out of bed to join my family for dinner downstairs. I put the book under my pillow again, but thinking better of it, I shoved the book under my mattress. The symbolism wasn’t entirely lost on me: I was literally sleeping on a bed of lies.

+ + +

“Hey, ugly,” my brother Brian greeted as I descended the staircase. 

“Hey, smelly,” I returned.

He curled his lip. “Takes one to know one.”

“So you’re admitting that you stink,” I teased. 

“Why can’t you two behave?” my mom called from the kitchen. “I thought you’d have grown out of that by now.”

I couldn’t help one more quip:“Sure, once Brian learns how to use deodorant.”

My brother pressed his hands over his heart as though injured. 

“That’s enough,” my mom admonished, exiting the kitchen. She held a ceramic casserole dish in her oven-mittened hands. “Some day when your dad and I are gone, you’ll be all each other has and you’ll be glad for the company.”

“Yeah, just me, Hunter, and her 16 cats,” Brian crowed.

My brother was quite the comedian.

  I hovered near my chair and fished a cherry tomato out of the large wooden salad bowl. “Is Dad home yet?” 

My mom’s mouth formed a hard line: “No.”

Dinner at the Dyson household followed a strict routine. We sat in the same chairs and ate off the same dishes we’d had for as long as I could remember. My mom cooked all day and had dinner on the table promptly at 6:00 p.m. while my dad tended to breeze home a reliable half an hour to forty-five minutes late. I could probably count on two hands how many times he’d made it home on time. I’d once asked my mom why she didn’t postpone the meal at least half an hour, but she’d looked at me like I was from another planet, so I’d never made the suggestion again.

“Brian, go wash your hands,” my mom instructed.

My brother, already seated, held his hands in the air like a surrendering criminal. “They’re clean.”

“Wash your hands,” she insisted, this time more sternly.

With the grumble that only a teenaged boy could muster, Brian slunk out of his seat and obediently left for the first floor bathroom. He moved as if he had no bones in his body. 

My mom had a lot of rules at the table—no TV or music in the background. No hats, no phones, no reading. No elbows, no talking with your mouth full, no talking about unpleasant topics. Finish the food on your plate. Beverage choices were two—water or skim milk. But at least she didn’t make us wait until my dad got home to eat. It was rude to let one’s food grow cold, she’d said. 

The three of us ate in slow silence. A polite request for food to be passed around the table filled the quiet. We continued to eat even when the front door opened and closed, half an hour later, with my dad’s arrival. 

“Sorry I’m late!” I heard him call from the front of the house. “There was an accident on 94.”

There always seemed to be a lot of accidents on the highway.

My dad walked directly from the foyer to the dining room after leaving his leather briefcase by the front door. He loosened his tie and surveyed the dining room. “Hello, family,” he cheerfully greeted. “How was everyone’s day?”

Not waiting for an answer, he kissed my mom on the cheek before he sat down. He didn’t have to wash his hands before dinner. My mom’s rules typically didn’t apply to him. “Smells great—what are we having?”

“Lasagna,” my mom answered. “If yours is cold, I can put it back in the oven.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” my dad replied.

I chewed my food with silent resentment. I hated how my mom catered to him. He was the one always late to dinner; he knew how to work a microwave. I loved my parents, but these small, everyday, mundane interactions made me hate them—he for not working harder to be on time for once and she for letting him get away with it. 

“What’s new with everyone?” my dad opened, as if we hadn’t seen each other just that morning at breakfast.

“I bought mulch today to go in the flower beds,” my mom announced.

My dad drank the majority of his water in one, giant gulp. “Isn’t that a little early? We just packed up the Christmas decorations.”

“It was on sale at the garden store,” my mom defended. “And once I get you to sell that snowmobile that you never use, there’ll be plenty of room in the garage.”

“The cedar or the cocoa shells?” he asked.

“I went with cedar this year. The cocoa shells always blow around when you first lay them out.”

“That’s because you’ve got to wet them down with the hose,” my dad said. “I tell you that every year.”

“I know, but it seems like such a waste and expense,” she sighed. “I’m already paying more for the mulch, but then I have to spend money on water to make it last?”

“We could always have one of those yards like folks do in Arizona,” my dad said between mouthfuls. “I wouldn’t mind not having to cut grass anymore.”

“We are not going to have a cactus yard.”

My parents’ inane conversation faded in the background to an indistinguishable murmur as I followed their volley, back and forth. Did they still love each other? I wondered. They were still together, unlike the majority of my friends’ parents, but that didn’t mean their relationship hadn’t lost its spark. But maybe it was unreasonable to expect anything more than housekeeping conversations after being together for over twenty years. When my parents had gotten married all those years ago, was this what they imagined their life would look like, two decades in the future? What had filled their dinner conversations before they’d had kids?

“Do you think we’ve seen the last of the snow?” My dad thought aloud. “I’m almost at the end of a tank of gas in the snowblower, but I don’t want to put more in if I’m just going to have to siphon it out in the spring.”

“God, you guys are boring,” Brian blurted out.

“Brian.” My mom shot my brother a look of warning. 

“Well, it’s true!” he exclaimed. ”Don’t blame me when I pass out in my lasagna from boredom.”

“Show some respect,” my dad growled.

“You think they’re boring, too, Hunter.” My brother flailed for some backup.

I bent my head down, eyes focused on the little flowered pattern at the edges of my dinner plate. I knew better than to get involved. I’d be going back to school the next day, and morning couldn’t come soon enough.