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  VIVID

  by ANDREA MURRAY

  Dragon Moon Press

  Copyright 2011 © Andrea Murray

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are imaginary and fictitious. Any resemblance to persons (living or deceased), true events, real locations or organizations is coincidental.

  Print ISBN 978-1-988256-08-5

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-988256-09-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014918333

  This book is dedicated to Terry whose life and death showed us all how precious our time on this planet really is. We miss you, Big ‘T’.

  Prologue

  WHEN I WAS FIVE, I watched my mother die.

  My memories aren’t crystal clear, more like looking through a fogged-up window. I don’t remember why we were standing near a river or why she was smiling and holding my hand.

  I do remember the stormy sky, the strobe lightning, and the screaming—always the screaming.

  Chapter One

  “DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!” I fumble with my lock. This is my fourth lock of the year—a new record—and all the combinations and number patterns from the previous fatalities keep pushing their way to the front of my mind. I smack my hand against the front of my locker as though it’s responsible for the jerks who keep forcing me to buy new locks.

  In this high school if you aren’t one of ‘them’ then apparently you deserve whatever punishment ‘they’ feel is necessary to weed you from the pack. Call it a survival of the fittest check-up.

  In my case someone keeps stealing my combination or just cutting my lock but that only happened to lock number two, probably because it required a key, not a stolen combo. I always try to remember to roll the dial on the lock or shield my hand when I put in the combination, but someone is way too interested in vandalizing my stuff.

  I never understood that. If they hate me so much, why do they waste their time on me? I mean, it makes no sense that someone they see as unworthy occupies so much forethought in their group conscience. (I firmly believe they must all share the same brain.)

  I’m not their only victim. I’m just the only one who ever fights back, fights that typically aren’t physical but are always a pain in the ass and somehow end with me in the principal’s office while the flawless, plastic-people never seem to get caught, making me look like a ‘troubled teen’.

  It started in junior high when we all moved from the separate middle school campuses. The haves versus the have nots, the cool versus the losers, the populars versus all the rest of us who weren’t blessed with perfect features, perfect bodies, and perfect lives. In the center lives the queen bee, Trista Parmer, blonde, tall, tan even in winter, and totally vicious. I’ve never figured out why she hates me, and at this point, I don’t even care anymore. I simply want to stay out of her line of fire.

  I’ve just put my forehead on the cool, blue metal locker, ready to give up, when my salvation arrives in the form of a plump, curly-haired blonde, pushing up her purple-rimmed glasses at the same time she pushes me away from the locker.

  Abby Johnson has a way of making her 5-foot presence seem much larger. We’ve been best friends since this nightmare started in seventh grade when I helped her pick up her books after Trista knocked them out of her hands in front of half the school. We take care of each other. She memorizes my locker combos and gives me rides since I have yet to get a car even though I’ve had my license since I turned sixteen last April, and I, well, I’m not sure what I do for her unless you count insisting she stay at my house when her useless parents are away (and they are always away). I’ve lived with my Aunt Charlotte since I was five. She took me in when my mom was killed, and we’ve kind of adopted Abby, made her an honorary member of the family, not that that means much.

  As Abby’s fingers fly over my lock, I notice her new, expensive jeans with the rhinestone hearts swirled on the back pockets and her pink shirt that cost more than I spend in a month. She has one of the qualifications to be a ‘them’. She has money. Her parents are loaded because her dad is some kind of investment broker, and her mom is a big shot executive. They travel sometimes as many as four days a week, but since the housekeeper found a bottle of tequila in Abby’s room three weeks ago, they’ve made a “new commitment to Abby and the family,” at least that’s what her dad told her. So basically this means they’re trying to stay home more and snarl at each other less.

  They didn’t even punish Ab for the alcohol she took from their own den. She thought if she showed up at the Valentine’s Day lake party that Trista was throwing earlier this month she might finally be accepted by them, and they might leave her alone.

  “Call it a peace offering,” she had said as we drove out to the party in her car. I didn’t bother to get out, hadn’t even changed out of my ratty sweat pants and hoody. She was dressed in what she calls her ‘skinny-girl’ outfit of jeggings and a low-cut sweater. She wanted so much to make a good impression, the impression she thought they wanted to see. But the whole thing was an epic failure when she came back to the car, unopened bottle in hand. They’d all been wasted and laughed at her. I don’t know why she wants to be accepted by that bunch of fakes, but that’s just Abby I guess. She’s not even close to being as tough as she wants to appear. All of this races through my mind as she opens the door and turns to me, lock in hand.

  “Bad day?” Abby sighs.

  “You have no idea.” I run my hand through my long, reddish-brown hair. That’s my nervous habit, and if this year doesn’t end soon, I may end up bald.

  “So spill. What happened this time? The dime squad?” That’s what we call the popular girls, all those cookie-cutter ‘10s’ – identical, disposable, and easily-tossed around. Ok, maybe not that last one, but a girl can dream.

  Instead of answering, I hand her the rumpled paper I’ve been gripping in my left hand and tug on my t-shirt in frustration. She smoothes the paper enough to see the red writing on the top of the page.

  “You are the only person I know who stresses over a 98%. It’s not normal, Viv. Normal people WANT good grades. Let me guess”—she rolls her eyes—“highest in the class?”

  When I just turn and stare at the back of my locker, she shakes her head, smiles, and lays her hand on my back.

  “I don’t get it, V. If I were like genius smart, I’d smear it in all of their faces! Don’t give me that look, Vivian Cartwright. Why pull your punches? Why do you even bother to try at all if you won’t let yourself make the grades you’re capable of making? I know, I know. I’ve heard it before.”

  She stops and does the air quote thing which she knows drives me crazy and tries to make her voice sound like mine. “You ‘don’t want any attention,’ at least not more than you already get.”

  “I am not that whiney, and it’s not just the grade.” I run my hand through my hair again. “It’s the lock and the grade and the fact that this morning Mr. Thompson asked me to serve on prom committee,” I say, ticking off each catastrophe and throwing my hands up in surrender.

  Abby turns my shoulders, forcing me to face her and gasps, “Prom committee?!” Her blue eyes are wide, her expression unbelieving. “I thought prom committee had been chosen a long time ag
o. I mean, this is like the end of February; prom’s in two months. Haven’t they already been meeting? Do you have to? What are you going to do?” With each question, her eyes get bigger and bigger, and she seems to be holding her breath, waiting for my reply.

  “Yes, no, and definitely not happening,” I say in answer to her questions. “Apparently, Taylor Johnson can no longer serve because of some issue with grades, and Mr. Thompson thought it would be good for me, help me out of my shell.” I roll my eyes at the stupid cliché. He’s not the first teacher who has tried to help me, to save me from my future life as the lonely cat lady. Teachers think they have to make a somebody out of everybody. Don’t get me wrong; Aunt Charlotte is a kindergarten teacher, so I know how hard they work and everything, but come on! Some of us just want to survive this hellhole and move on without their interference.

  I feel the need to continue reassuring Ab if for no other reason than to return her eyes and breathing to normal. “You know I don’t need any more hassle with Trista and her acolytes.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She releases her breath with a whoosh and grabs me in a bone-crushing hug, and I know she thinks I made the right choice. Prom committee would most definitely put me on the dime squad radar even more than I am already. She pulls away from me so quickly I might have tripped backward if she hadn’t held on to my upper arms. I may be three inches taller than Abby (a whole 5’3”, thank you very much), but she definitely can hold her own, as Aunt Charlotte says.

  “Come on; let’s go to lunch. I brought you a cupcake.” She shakes her polka-dot lunch tote and talks to me like Aunt Charlotte used to when I was little and wouldn’t eat my veggies. “The kind you like with the super-sweet icing.”

  She tugs my shirt as I grab my black, nylon lunch bag, slamming my locker with my free hand and not even bothering with the lock since I can’t remember the combo anyway.

  As we wind our way around the hall stragglers, I wonder how she does that, how she makes me feel better and seems to know what I need. As long as I have Abby, the dime squad, the jocks, the emos, all the cliques, can kiss my ass. Just a year and four months and I’ll be gone, out of this town. I’ll earn a great scholarship, and finally go somewhere new, somewhere better. I can do that. I can survive that. And I suddenly wonder just who I’m trying to convince.

  Chapter Two

  AHH, THE CAFETERIA, probably my least favorite place on the planet. The place where I am forced to mingle with the gossiping masses but, more importantly, the place where Queen Trista and the dime squad reign supreme at the center table. I’ve tried hiding out at lunch, but I keep getting caught and sent back, a la Groundhog’s Day, to relive the same crap as the day before.

  I take it all in, the 1970s multi-colored chairs in putrid shades of green, orange, and brown; the mind-numbing noise level equivalent to a small jet engine; the nauseating smell of… I’m really not sure what that smell is (nor am I sure I want to)—maybe brown beans, ensuring all of the boys will be gassed up and making our afternoon classes less than pleasant.

  The room is already pretty full when Abby and I enter through the side door, skipping the small line at the serving counter. The usual groups are already there in their spots. Trista is surrounded by her friends, all of them so alike they could be the same person. She glances my way, giving a lop-sided sneer. She’s dressed like she should be going to some party with her skinny jeans and silky, low-cut top. Is she wearing stilettos? Who wears high heels to school? When she turns back, she says something that makes them all laugh hysterically. I’m sure she still thinks her recent prank on my locker is supremely clever.

  We are peripherals, sitting on the edge of the herd. We like to sit at the farthest table in the back of the room, our backs to the wall with the big ‘Home of the Bulldogs’ painting, a cartoon dog complete with red t-shirt, disproportionately muscular arms, and a fierce scowl that seems to taunt all of us who don’t fit in. If we sit there, we can scan the room and make fun of all of those people we aren’t cool enough to be. It makes us feel empowered even if it’s only for forty minutes every day.

  I can’t think about this too hard because then the rational part of my brain will realize how pathetic this little ritual truly is.

  Today, I’m feeling particularly crabby, and I am so ready for a round of ‘they’re the real losers’ with Abby when I notice our usual seats are taken. I follow Abby’s lively step, watching her curls flop vigorously. She’s babbling in her bubbly way about some new, cute boy she saw in the office this morning.

  “I really hope he’s a junior, too. Maybe we’ll have classes together! He was so hot, V. You’ve got to see him. We’ll look for him during lunch.” She looks toward the front and stamps her foot, making her glasses slip slightly down her nose. “Oh crap! He’s sitting with the dime squad. I swear if Trista gets her claws into him I’ll—” but she never finishes her sentence because she sees the two girls sitting in our normal seats.

  She stares open-mouthed at the invaders and stops so suddenly I almost bump into her.

  “What the heck? Who is that, and why are they in our chairs?” She points at the girls as though I haven’t already noticed them. I’ve seen the girls in the hall a few times, and I think I might have had study hall with the brunette back in eighth grade year. But I don’t know their names.

  Abby stomps her short frame over to our chairs, pulls back her shoulders, and puffs out her rather ample chest. With her frizzy, yellow hair, she looks like an angry cockatoo. I want to laugh as I trail behind her, but I know that would totally ruin the effect she’s trying to achieve. Abby wants to think she’s a bad ass, and a lot of people probably believe it, but I know better. It’s the tough front, the hard shell she’s built up to protect herself from her own feelings of worthlessness because her parents are never there for her, and her only friend is an outcast.

  “Hey, these are our seats. Move.” Abby glares over the top of her square glasses. She flicks her wrist like she’s swatting a fly.

  The two girls, whom I now remember seeing hanging on the fringe of the dime squad, just ignore Ab and continue their obviously fake conversation about something that happened in PE. They’re making exaggerated hand gestures in an attempt to appear nonchalant, to make our presence seem completely unimportant.

  “Yeah, so he said he only dated older girls, so I hit him with the volleyball, right in the nuts!” The blonde laughs snidely. The other girl, the brunette, just smiles nervously. She apparently isn’t comfortable with something.

  Abby’s face has turned an angry pink by this point; her hands have found their way to her hips. Arms akimbo, she steps closer to the blonde sitting near the end of the table in what is normally Abby’s chair. Her lunch bag dangles from her fist.

  “Maybe you didn’t understand me. Let me start again.” She drops her lunch bag on the table. “These”—she points to the chairs—“are our”—points to the two of us—“seats”—points back to the seats again. “You”—points to them—“move.” She makes a walking gesture with her fingers.

  The girls, who’ve stopped talking during this little instructional session, are now glaring back at us. The blonde sticks her nose in the air. “I don’t see your names on them.” The classic elementary school response.

  “Oh yeah? Maybe you should stand up, and I’ll show you our names.” This from Abby the Bitch Slayer. I can’t contain myself anymore, and I finally let go with the snort of laughter I’ve been holding in since Abby’s march across the cafeteria.

  But then I notice how quiet the typically noisy room has grown, and I realize we’ve been set up. Someone has put these girls up to this stunt, and when I look around, I see Trista, homecoming princess, prom queen nominee, and total bitch, smiling back at me. In fact, the entire dime squad and most of their current arm-candy boyfriends are smiling, too. I also notice that another girl has moved behind me, blocking any escape route.

  Two thoughts cross my mind: 1. Where the hell are the duty teachers? 2. Stay calm so no
one gets hurt. When I get mad, really mad, bad things happen—abnormal, lock-you-away-and-experiment-on-you things. It’s been this way since I was a little kid. It’s one reason I try to stay away from them. Whatever they do to me is nothing compared to what I might accidentally do to them.

  One of my most vivid memories happened around the time of my mom’s death. I remember hearing my mom scream, and I remember being so angry I couldn’t hear anything but her screaming. Then a huge tree near a flapping tent exploded into tiny slivers like tree confetti.

  When I was nine, the boy down the road stole my bike, and when I saw him riding it the next day, he suddenly went flying backward off of the bike and crashed against the side of my house. We told everyone he’d hit a rock and lost control of the bike. Aunt Charlotte had agreed to pay to have his broken leg fixed and told me I had a ‘gift’ which I would have to learn to control. And I did. I learned to use my breathing to calm down—give myself little time outs every time I felt myself getting upset, and for four years, I was incident-free.

  The last time I forgot to control myself was during the summer of seventh grade year. I went swimming at the local pool, and when I dove off of the highest diving board, my suit came untied on one of my shoulders. I was, of course, completely unaware of this catastrophe in the making, and when I surfaced so proud of myself for conquering my fear of the jump, my suit had slipped down on one side. Half of my pathetically small assets were exposed for all to see. I yanked it up as soon as I realized, praying no one witnessed my humiliation; unfortunately, Trista was there, and she pointed and laughed, making sure everyone who didn’t see it happen at least knew about it. I was so mortified and angry that I climbed out of the pool and ran all the way home but not before I accidentally caused the windows in the two cars parked in front of the pool entrance to explode. Maybe that was the moment I became her target, an insecure baby who ran instead of standing up to her.