Fractured Light (2 page)

A
SPECIAL THANKS AND A HUGE DEBT OF GRATITUDE
to the following:

All those at Cedar Fort who played a roll in turning
Fractured Light
into something wonderful, specifically Angie Workman, who said, “We want it.” Emily Chambers for making it shine, Mariah Overlock, Laura Jorgensen, and Josh Johnson for telling the world about it. And Brian Halley for a book cover that rocks.

The Idaho Falls Chapter of the IWL for telling the truth. Their honesty helped me become a better writer, especially that of Gary and Wally, the Godfathers of writing.

My beta readers whose excitement and sound advice kept me going, specifically Jan, Jenelle, and Michelle.

Liane, Valerie, and Anna for making me believe in myself.

My sisters Stephanie, Alana, Liane, and my brother Michael for not laughing at my ideas.

My father for his wisdom, and my mother who passed on her love for writing.

My husband and children who remind me daily of what’s important in life.

“S
IGMUND
F
REUD ONCE SAID THAT THE GOAL OF ALL LIFE IS
death.”

I paused from getting into the now-empty hearse, looking from the black-gloved hand gripping my arm to the woman who’d spoken the depressing words. She wore a frumpy hat with white feathers that looked like they’d been glued on by a kindergartner. I tore my eyes away from the feathery concoction and stared at her. Like a typical adult speaking to a teenager, she most likely thought her words profound—a small, passed-on piece of wisdom to make me feel less miserable about suddenly becoming an orphan.

“What are you saying?” I asked, wiping my wet, snow-colored hair away from my cheek. Rain at a funeral meant something, but I couldn’t remember what.

The woman tilted her head and gave me a sympathetic smile as if my simple brain couldn’t reason. In actuality, I knew full well what Freud meant, but I simply thought it was a stupid comment. Why would life’s goal be death? Unless life was on Prozac and lying in bed all day watching the Soap Network, I highly doubted life’s goal included death. Anyone living life shouldn’t be concerned with death at all. My mother had taught me that. Sure, her life ended tragically, just like my father’s, but all those who knew her knew that dying was the last thing on her mind. Maybe that was the problem—and the problem with my father too.

The woman began speaking again, no doubt explaining the rationale behind the lame quote, but I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t even staring at her papier-mâché hat anymore. I looked beyond it, back where my father lay stuffed in a casket. Only my uncle Jake remained, staring into my dad’s grave. He would be like the rest of my family and wouldn’t avoid death if it came for him.

But I would.

I made up my mind right then and there, while nest-head rattled on about the necessity of death. Death would never claim me. I would blend in with society and not try to stand out as others of my kind always did. Inevitably, that was always what got them killed. Even my mother, who insisted she was safe, died—in spite of the fierce, almost obsessive protection of my father. She could’ve lived a lot longer if she hadn’t been so boisterous and colorful. Of course, that is why everyone loved her—she brought joy to their normally depressed lives. This, she told me, is the Aura’s purpose: to use our gift to comfort the heavyhearted and provide light to those who are lost. At the time she told me this, it sounded as wonderful as pink lemonade and cotton candy in summer, but now the thought of being someone’s raggedy Kleenex was unbearable.

I ignored the lecturing woman and jumped into the front seat of the hearse, shutting the door behind me. The driver asked, “Did you want to wait for your uncle, Llona?”

“No, he’ll come when he’s ready. Please just take me home.”

As we pulled away from the cemetery, I didn’t look back. My mind was on the future and on my survival.

“E
VERY LIVING THING WILL FIGHT FOR ITS PLACE ON EARTH,
” Mr. Yazzie, my science teacher, said. He stood in front of the class, chalk dust smeared on the front of his blue polo shirt. The blackboard behind him contrasted with the yellow walls, but his polyester pants matched the mustard color perfectly.

I leaned forward, chewing on my pen while he continued. “But if their environment changes and they don’t learn to adapt, then they will inevitably die. Nothing can save them.”

I lowered my gaze to the desk, wondering if I’d done enough to adapt. I hoped so because I was sick of moving. Since my father’s funeral five years ago, my uncle Jake and I had moved four times, finally settling in Bountiful, Utah.

I liked Bountiful. It had a rural feeling to it and lots of tall, mountainous trees, but at the same time had all the amenities of a big city. I couldn’t complain about the weather, either. Utah wasn’t as cold as Wisconsin. Gratefully, I only had to endure the Wisconsin cold for a few months before I decided it was time to move again.

A bell sounded, interrupting my biology teacher just as he was about to reveal who he thought would win in a cage fight—protozoa or flagella. His face fell when students jumped up and rushed to the door.

“Don’t forget about the assembly,” he called after them.

I let the classroom empty before I stood to relieve my stiff joints. Because of my delay, I caught Mr. Yazzie contorting his body into what looked like a dance position—elbows bent, hands outstretched. He shuffled his feet a few times before he finally thrust his hips forward and left the room. I felt confident he wouldn’t have done such an uncharacteristic move if he’d realized I was still in the room, but alas, I often go unnoticed. Being invisible is, after all, my priority.

I gathered my books and followed Mr. Yazzie out the door. He didn’t attempt the awkward jig again, but I had to wonder what caused this sudden break of character. Perhaps he had a hot date tonight, a lady friend he had met on the Internet.

Walking in front of me, Mr. Yazzie suddenly reached behind his back and tugged at an invisible wedgie. Okay, so maybe not a hot date. Maybe it was the season premiere of some new sci-fi series involving flagella and cilia battling one another to the death. This theory made much more sense.

I veered to the left and down a long hallway to my locker, where I dropped off my books. I considered skipping the morning assembly. It was just a mini pep rally put on by the principal to get us excited for the new school year.

Behind me other seniors had the same idea, but they bravely acted upon their desire and disappeared out a nearby door. I decided not to follow in case someone saw me. I might be considered “cool” if caught and thereby labeled. I was comfortable with my current label of “weird-girl” or “who?” and I didn’t want that to change.

I followed the sounds of noisy students down the hall and toward the gym. Highland High was like every other school I’d been to: light tan brick exterior, white interior walls, and short-weave blue-speckled carpet. The schools even smelled the same: sweat and chemicals, masked occasionally by a squirt of fruity perfume.

I moved into the gym and was about to cross to the other side when I heard, “Llona! Up here!”

I looked up and saw May sitting at the top of the bleachers, holding a bag of chips. Today she was sitting with the goths, and actually blended in quite well. She wore a baggy, black sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. Her dark, shoulder-length hair may have been combed earlier, but now looked a mess. Her whole appearance looked unnatural, masking her true beauty.

I maneuvered my way up to her, careful to avoid stepping on anyone. About halfway, two freshman boys began wrestling, and one of them bumped into me, knocking me off balance.

Afraid to reach out, I fell forward toward a girl with red hair. She had a metal clip of a grasshopper or a dragonfly—I couldn’t be sure—sticking out of her hair. I closed my eyes and waited to feel the bug’s sting when arms suddenly encircled my waist and pulled me back up.

The grip was strong, the motion skilled, and I instantly pictured a Navy SEAL. They were the kind of men that, despite extreme conditions, lack of sleep, and dangerous quests, still worked hard, knowing a job had to be done. They were a dying breed of real men—or so the commercial goes.

I turned to face my SEAL to thank him for saving me from being speared by a metal bug, but when I looked into his eyes, I couldn’t speak. They were the shimmering blue of a dragonfly’s wings.

“It’s Llona, right?” the boy asked, smiling.

I flinched when he said my name. He was the first person besides my parents to pronounce it correctly. Most people say my name the way it’s spelled—Lona, but in actuality, it’s pronounced E-o-na. I never corrected anyone. I’m used to it now. Even Jake didn’t call me by my real name; with him it’s always, “How’s it going, Tink?” I’d had a thing for Tinkerbell when I was little, and used to love it when he called me that.

“It’s Lona,” I corrected, barely above a whisper. It felt awkward, like chewing on water, but I couldn’t have him pronouncing my name the way my parents had.

The Navy SEAL tilted his head of brownish-blond hair. “Llona it is,” he said. “Are you all right?”

I gurgled something unintelligible, making him frown. The frown looked awkward on him, unlike his smile, and I wished I could’ve told him so, but I suddenly became aware of his hands still touching my waist.

“Hey, Llona! You coming up here or what?” May barked from above.

I looked past my SEAL. Behind him, May stood, hands on hips.

“Gotta go,” I said.

I slid past him and quickly took the next step up the bleachers, barely finding room for my big foot between two students. Finally, I sat next to May, my head down. I didn’t dare look up for fear of meeting the SEAL’s eyes again.

“What was that all about?” May asked.

“I almost fell. That guy saved me.”

“Who is he?”

“Is he looking?”

“He’s way good looking.”

I elbowed her. “Is he looking at me?”

“Um … nope. Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Give me to the end of the day. I’ll find out everything there is to know about him.” May sucked a chip into her mouth.

From the center of the gym floor, the principal, Mr. Wilcox, began to speak. “Welcome, students. Thank you for coming to this exciting assembly this morning,” he bellowed into a microphone. “We have a great program today and a wonderful speaker who will share her valuable experiences with us.” He pulled up his pants—his signature move. He had a belly that made him look like he was pregnant with triplets, and beneath the bulge were exceptionally small legs. This odd combination must’ve made wearing pants extremely difficult.

Mr. Wilcox opened his mouth to speak again, but a sound to his left distracted him. On the far end of the bleachers, two boys argued, their voices growing louder with each passing second. A few teachers hurried over to break it up, but before they could, the taller of the two boys shoved the other into a group of nearby students.

Suddenly the entire area became like a mosh pit at a Linkin Park concert. Teachers swarmed the area, trying to take control of the situation, but because of all the students, they couldn’t get up the bleachers. All they could do was yell, which was as effective as a soccer coach for three-year-olds.

Everyone, including myself, stood to watch the mayhem slowly spread across the bleachers. Fights broke out everywhere. I watched in horror as a girl who looked like a sophomore, accidentally got punched in the face. Blood spurted from her nose.