Collide

By Alyson Kent

Copyright 2013 Alyson Kent

Smashwords Edition

Cover designed and illustrated by Tomoka
Murakami

Cover copyright Tomoka Murakami and Alyson
Kent and may not be removed, reused, or altered in any way

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Table of Contents

Chapter
One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

About the Artist

Chapter One

I ripped out a clump of grass from my
mother’s garden and muttered a word that I had heard my Dad yell at
the TV whenever his baseball team was losing. I knew that if Mom
heard me say that word it would mean a trip to the bathroom to have
my mouth washed out with soap, but at that point I was beyond
caring. The prevailing thought in my brain was that life was
extremely unfair. Deep musings for a seven year old, but I had been
banished to Mom’s garden through no fault of my own. How was I to
know that my twin brothers, two years old and still walking into
walls, were tall enough to reach the seat of the chair where I had
set my Easter basket?

Two large chocolate eggs, a chocolate bunny,
and a bunch of jellybeans later and my brothers had thrown up all
over the floor, the chairs and themselves. I was grossed out. Mom
was really, really angry and sent me outside with a light swat to
my butt and an order to pull grass from her garden, something that
I hated to do because I could never seem to get all of the roots
out without digging deep into the dirt, and you just never knew
when you might run across a large, slimy, icky worm.

I sniffled and threw the clump I had just
pulled up over my shoulder and into the yard.

“
Stupid brothers. Stupid chocolate. They
ate all mine, and I won’t get any now. It’s all their
fault.”

“
Whatcha doing?”

I looked up from where I had been muttering
at a very stubborn clump of grass to see my best friend, Maria,
smiling at me.

“
Weeding,” I said, and told her what had
happened with my brothers.

“
Well, that’s stupid,” Maria said when I
was done spilling my woe. “You didn’t make them eat the
chocolate.”

“
Right!” I agreed as I finally yanked the
grass free and tossed it.

“
Oh no, Jane!” Maria cried as she ran to
pick up the grass I had just thrown. “Don’t treat it so badly, it’s
not the grass’ fault that it’s in your mom’s garden.”

“
Huh?” I asked and looked at her. She was
cradling the clump of grass, dirt and all, in her hands as if she
were holding a bird’s egg or something equally breakable.

“
It’s mean to just throw the grass away
because it was in the wrong place! I’ll help you pull them out, but
we’re going to take it into the forest and replant them so that
they can grow and feed the animals.”

I nodded and smiled; willing to promise Maria
what little was left of my Easter basket if only to get her help in
the garden. She crouched down and began to pull up some of the
other clumps. I watched her and carefully set my own batches down
the way she did so that I wouldn’t “hurt the roots”. Soon we had
pulled out all of the grass, and I followed Maria into the shade of
the trees, where she proceeded to dig holes and showed me how she
wanted the grass placed. Once we were done, she stood back and
grinned at me.

“
Now the deer won’t go hungry in the
winter!”

I smiled back and nodded, my reply drowned
out by a strange, annoying beeping.

Thud
.
Groan
.

Why, oh why do alarm clocks have to be so
obnoxiously loud in the mornings? Why can’t they sound like, oh, I
don’t know, butterflies frolicking in meadow breezes? Though I
guess that would defeat the purpose of an alarm clock in the first
place, since I highly doubt frolicking butterflies make any sound
what so ever. Still, it was a pleasant thought and I resolved to
mention it the next time someone was looking for the next “big
idea”. In my considerable opinion, whoever thought it was a good
idea for alarm clocks to sound like screeching blue jays needed to
be taken out into the street and shot.

I dragged my comforter up over my head and
curled into a tight ball, reluctant to leave my comfy nest and face
another day in a world gone mad. I drifted lightly on the wings of
sleep as my dream of a time when life was much simpler, back before
everything changed and flew down the toilette bowl faster than you
could hit the flush peddle, floated through my mind.

Beep beep beep beep beep! Thud.

“JANE ALEXANDER!” my mother shouted from the
bottom of the stairs. “IF I HEAR THAT ALARM CLOCK GO OFF ONE MORE
TIME I’M COMING UP THERE AND DRAGGING YOU OUT OF THE BED!”

I sighed and sat up. A shudder wracked my
body as cold air hit skin exposed by the thin tank top that I
preferred to sleep in. You’d think that because I slept on the top
floor of the house that my room would be a sauna due to the whole
hot air rises/cold air falls rule, but no, our house was a
converted church that we had moved into eight years ago, and while
it was extremely cool that we still had some of the original
stained glass windows and that the ceilings in the main rooms were
arched with a few of the original light fixtures still in place, it
also sucked because the entire building was made out of some kind
of concrete or stone, and thus there was no insulation. It wasn’t
so bad in the summer when the thickness of the walls kept the
inside at a comfortable temperature, but it was hell in the winter,
especially since we have hardwood floors. Sure, there are rugs, but
you can only cover so much space with them and I was only allowed
to have one small space heater because, according to Mom, any more
than that would constitute a fire hazard. I once suggested that we
buy tapestries to at least cover up my bedroom walls and help
insulate against the cold, but she nixed that idea faster than my
brothers could down a stack of pancakes.

I suppose it would have been smarter to stop
sleeping in a tank top and boxer shorts considering the house was
so frosty, but I loved the feeling of the flannel sheets against my
skin, and I had enough blankets and two down comforters that it was
only when I had to physically get out of bed that I had a
problem.

I knew that my mother would follow through
with her threat since I was still very much out of her favor, so I
quickly turned my alarm off, sucked in a breath of chilly air to
fortify myself, and vaulted towards my bathroom. This was another
reason why I slept in what could be considered our attic; I was one
of the few girls who could boast about having a bathroom all to
herself, which meant I didn’t have to share it with my two younger
brothers who lived on the floor below me. This was a major god send
for mornings like this one, because if I had been required to stand
outside for any length of time to wait for my turn at the shower,
heads would have rolled if I hadn’t turned into a popsicle first.
As it was, waiting was a non-issue, and I gave thanks, yet again,
that I had been smart enough to insist on this room when we had
first moved from across town when I was nine. To be honest, at that
time I think the real reason I wanted the top floor room had more
to do with my love of Rapunzel than a desire for my own bathroom.
Still, it worked out in the long run.

I hit the tiles and shut the door behind me
with a sigh, then quickly stripped out of my sleeping attire and
turned on the shower full blast. I dove under the hot spray and let
it chase away the last of the lingering chill and sleep fog from my
brain as I quickly soaped up and rinsed off. I shivered slightly at
the sudden temperature change when I stepped out from behind the
curtain, but it wasn’t near as severe as when I first got out of
bed, and I toweled off quickly before I started to get dressed.

It wasn’t until after I fastened my bra that
I lifted my eyes and gazed at my reflection. I winced a little at
the bruising that still marred some of my chest. A result of one of
my less than stellar decisions, they had once been a lurid black
and purple, but the damage had faded into a sickly yellowish/green
color that was still very tender to the touch. Even though they
were healing, they were a stark reminder of my extreme level of
stupidity and I quickly grabbed the T-shirt that was going to be
the bottommost layer for the school day and hid them from view.

I sighed and worked especially hard to
conceal the dark bruising under my eyes that spoke of nights of
little to no sleep with make-up tricks I had learned from Youtube.
I ignored the fact that they made a total lie out of my belief that
I was handling things rationally.
Worry about one thing at a
time
, I told myself and looked back at my reflection. I knew I
was considered pretty, and I enjoyed moderate popularity at school,
but recent happenings had marred and distorted things, and for a
moment all I saw was a leering, sweaty face with dough like hands
that reached for me.

I shuddered and broke away from memories best
left unpoked, and finished piling on the layers that were
appropriate for this time of year. Once fall starts to hint of its
arrival, the North Carolina Mountains exhibit a weird sort of
bipolar disorder that made life hard for all involved. The days
would warm up to the point where almost everyone would strip down
to T-shirts or tank tops (provided that they fit in with the dress
code at school) but the nights would occasionally dip down below
freezing, making sweaters and sweatshirts necessary. You quickly
learned how to layer your clothing in such a fashion that you could
change easily without causing a fuss and still have the heavier
garments on hand as needed.

I yawned as I made my way down the stairs,
dodging to the left when several thumps and a clatter alerted me to
the fact that my brothers were stampeding their way towards the
kitchen. I entered shortly after them and took a deep breath,
drawing the scent of eggs, bacon and coffee deep into my lungs.

“Morning,” I greeted everyone as I made my
way to the coffee pot. Mumbles from my brothers matched my greeting
as I poured myself a cup of the thick, black brew that I quickly
doctored to my liking. I grabbed a piece of toast and some eggs,
then sat at the table and nibbled while my brothers dove into their
breakfasts. They resembled a pair of pigs instead of a pair of
humans as they shoveled food into their mouths, and I made a face
when a wad of scrambled eggs slid off one fork and plopped onto the
table with a wet squelch.

“Seriously, boys,” Mom said and lightly
rapped both of them on the head as she made her way to her chair,
“I know you have better manners than that!”

“Yes’m,” the two muttered. They scowled, but
slowed down their eating per Mom’s unvoiced, but heavily implied,
request. I knew it wouldn’t take them long to start off again,
though. Being twelve years old, and twins to boot, the boys were
almost always involved in something that annoyed Mom, whether it
was running around and getting dirty or acting like heathens at the
table.

I looked around and furrowed my eyebrows when
I noticed the lack of a laptop, and gave Mom a curious look.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He had a meeting this morning. He said he’d
try to Skype later, but I don’t know what time that will be.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. Dad was the
curator for the local museum that illustrated the history of the
town, and every now and then he has to take off for some
conferences and classes given by experts in the various fields
relating to conservation of rare artifacts, usually books and old
maps. It wasn’t often, maybe once or twice a year, but whenever he
spent any significant amount of time out of town he always tried to
make sure to Skype with the family during one meal, usually
breakfast (which would make for some interesting times for him
considering different time zones) so that it didn’t disrupt the
family routine too much and he was able to keep abreast of
things.