HAPPILY EVER AFTER by Madeline Mora-Summonte

This month our guest author is a pinch hitter. She stepped in rather last minute and delivered this awesome tale. We're lucky to have her and her talent visiting LQR. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Madeline Mora-Summonte.

Delia doesn't remember a lot of things, but she'd remember stealing a baby. Wouldn't she?

***

Delia doesn't remember stealing the baby.

She stops walking, stares into her rusty shopping cart. The baby girl, swathed in a clean pink blanket, sleeps among the lumpy garbage bags stuffed with Delia's life. Delia leans over, sniffs. She can't always trust her eyes – she sometimes sees things that aren't there. Her nose twitches. The smell of innocence - baby shampoo, apple juice, cookie crumbs – punches through Delia's own stink, knocks down any doubt still standing.

Delia whirls around, panic scratching the inside of her throat with familiar fingers. No, no, no. Not the police. They'll lock her up. Not the doctors. They'll put her away. Again.

But the area around Delia, the edge of town, is deserted. She pushes the cart down an alley, breath rattling the fragile birdcage of her chest. She leans against the wall. The baby watches with serious eyes. Delia rubs her aching forehead. She doesn't remember taking this baby. But she doesn't remember a lot of things. She frowns. The baby's brow furrows in response.

"Don't worry, princess. Here . . . " Delia rummages through a bag, puts the storybook on the baby's belly. The baby gurgles, ruffles the book's swollen pages, gnaws on a corner of the stained cover.

"I can't read it to you, little one. I never did learn so good." Delia knows only from the pictures that it's a book of fairy tales, of princesses and dragons and knights who save the day.

She used to wish someone would save her from the voices inside her head, and the ones outside that called her names, that demanded she do nasty things. She used to wish someone would save her from dark corners and probing fingers, from blood and bruises. But she learned early that fairy tales don't come true for people like her.

Delia shuts her eyes, hard, tight, searching her memory for where she found this baby, for picking her up, for putting her in the cart. But Delia can't find anything anywhere. She gasps, opens her eyes. What if . . . what if she didn't steal this baby? What if . . . what if someone gave her to Delia? To protect. To save.

Delia studies the baby, who looks healthy, clean, well taken care of. But so did Delia. Once upon a time.

Rage fills Delia's heart with the heat of a dragon's fire. She will save this baby, save her from a life like Delia's. She will not let this baby girl down.

Delia pushes her cart, her life, behind the dumpster then scoops the baby into her arms. They have to go. Now. The baby hugs the storybook and gives Delia a big gummy smile as if she agrees, as if she knows Delia is her destiny.

Delia leaves town, taking back lanes and worn paths. She whispers to the baby, to herself, "You are a beautiful princess, and I am your guardian ogre, and we are running, running, running from the dragon . . . "

Delia walks until her knees almost buckle. She sings and tells stories until her throat scrapes. She bounces the baby in shaky arms, muscles turning to rubber. An unfamiliar deserted road winds and twists under her, ahead of her. Heat rises from its cracked, scaly surface.

Off in the woods, an old-fashioned school bell clangs. Delia stumbles, stops. Her mind sweats, her thoughts swim in salty confusion. She looks down at the baby. Is Delia supposed to take her to school?

"You want to go to school, little princess? You can learn to read, read that book to me." Delia brushes the baby's cheeks with gentle fingers.

The baby wriggles in Delia's arms, smiles.

Delia steps among the trees, into their cool, damp embrace. The baby gives a joyful screech. Delia laughs. The bell cheerfully beckons them, but Delia's not sure which way to go. She turns slowly, stops, squints. A path. She thinks.

They burst into a clearing.

Artist: Abby McClean

Two burnt, crumbling walls still stand. Charred beams stretch across the sky. Shattered window glass, milky with age, stares up from the ground like eyes filmed with cataracts. A gaping hole yawns from the floor, edged with the jagged teeth of broken boards.

The bell, shiny and sturdy, slows, quiets as the boy riding the rope lets go, landing with a soft thud. Children turn and face Delia as one.

Shock sends Delia to her knees. The storybook falls to the dirt. Delia can only take in pieces – scalded skin, blistered faces, boiled skulls, tufts of hair, withered limbs. She blinks hard, rapidly. Is she seeing things again? She sniffs, gags on the stench of rotting, decayed flesh. Her bowels let loose. The baby whimpers.

The boy who was ringing the bell hobbles forward. He grins through crisped skin. His one eye gleams with excitement.

"He told us you were coming." The boy's voice rasps.

Delia shakes her head, terror seizing her speech.

"The dragon." The boy points to the hole inside the school. Black and blue smoke plumes lazily, a languorous forked tongue tastes the air. "The dragon said the ogre would bring a princess to play with us."

The other children circle around, their skin crinkling. The baby wails, the sound piercing Delia's ear, her heart.

"But I . . . I saved her."

The boy holds out his arms.

"I…I'm her guardian ogre."

A horrible, horned reptilian head rises from the bowels of the burned school, as a remembered truth rises inside of Delia.

Fairy tales don't come true for people like her.

***

Madeline Mora-Summonte is a reader and a writer, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections, The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls. 

The Outfit

Sometimes the best outfit isn’t the one you planned.

***

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my head cocked to the left as I critically analyzed another outfit.

My favorite worn pair of black Sketchers and dark green knee socks. A little throwback to my Catholic school days. Nothing wrong there.

Green and gold plaid skirt. I held my hands at my sides, fingertips grazing the edge of the hem. Short, but still within the rules.

White oxford with sleeves rolled below the elbow. The rolling was perfect, but the collar was a different story. I couldn’t get it to stand the way I wanted—high in the back, edges flipped up and out just right. I’d tried buttoning and unbuttoning buttons, but it was useless. It didn’t look the way I wanted.

“Should have had a back-up plan,” I muttered as I undid the buttons and tossed the top onto the growing mountain of clothes piled on my bed.

Three weeks ago I’d picked out the perfect outfit to wear to for the first day at my new school: a cute sundress and strappy sandals. Then yesterday we got the notice from school concerning “appropriate clothing”. No spaghetti straps. No foul language or inappropriate comments on shirts. Skirts must touch your fingertips. No displaying of undergarments.

Goodbye sundress. It failed two of the requirements: spaghetti straps and too short by a fingernail.

If mom and I hadn’t gone back to our old home for a final goodbye, I would have known in enough time to plan something else out, but no such luck. Even though we’d left early in the morning, traffic was a nightmare, and we pulled into the driveway an hour after the stores closed. Mom had convinced me I’d find something in my closet, but so far nothing worked. They either failed the new rules, didn’t fit, or would make me look like a total dork. Not a good way to start a new year in a new school.

I opened my dresser and rooted through my T-shirts, halting on the forest green practice jersey I’d worn last year for soccer. A large, goldenrod-yellow number five filled the back and three matching stripes ran down each sleeve. I pulled it on and looked in the mirror.

Not bad.

A glance at the clock revealed I had five minutes to get down to the bus stop, or I’d be walking to school. This outfit would have to do as I had no time to change again.

I ran a brush through my golden blond hair and pulled it up into a high ponytail. A swipe of gloss, a spritz of body spray, and I was ready. I scooped up my messenger bag and ran out to the bus stop.

Twenty long minutes later I pushed through the doors of my new school, schedule gripped in my hand like a lifeline. Unlike my former school, Pine Valley was small enough that there was only one bus run for everyone in kindergarten through twelfth grade. And, based on what I saw this morning, high schoolers didn’t ride the bus. I’d definitely need to talk to my mom about driving. Or make friends with someone who could pick me up.

Students congregated in clumps in the lobby, and I sidestepped my way through, looking for the hallway with the lockers. I’d had a tour of all my classrooms two weeks ago, but the lockers hadn’t been assigned yet, so I had no idea where mine was.

A handful of students were already at their lockers, most still socializing in the lobby. I stopped in front of the first locker and checked the number. 102.

“Guess this is the even side.” I shifted my bag on my shoulder and peered down the hallway, calculating that my locker would be about halfway down.

When I reached the middle of the hall, I stopped and checked the numbers. 604. Shrugging, I backed up a few steps. 502.

“What the…” I looked at my schedule and then back at the lockers. 496, 498, 500, 502, 604, 606, 608. “Where’s 548?”

A group of guys in green and gold soccer jerseys walked by, nudging each other and chuckling as they passed. A red haired guy glanced at me, turned away, then did a double take.

“Geez, Eggleston,” Red smacked the guy beside him in the arm, “the season hasn’t even started and you already have a fan in the new girl.”

Eggleston turned, revealing a yellow five, inside a large ‘C’ on the left side of his shirt. Great. My outfit would have the entire school thinking I had a thing for the captain of the soccer team.

The captain stepped forward, brown shaggy bangs dipping into his eyes, and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ben Eggleston. Welcome to Pine Valley High.”

I hesitated, trying to read his body language to see if he was sincere in his greeting or getting ready to prank me. He didn’t give off any odd vibes, so I set my hand in his, surprised at the tingle that raced up my arm with the contact.

“Hi, I’m Rachel Brown, and I’m totally lost.” Heat burnt in my cheeks as I realized what I’d just said.

“Well, Rachel, it’s your lucky day. Seeing you seem to be my biggest fan,” he smiled, revealing a deep dimple in his cheek, “it would be rude of me not to help you. So, senior?”

“What? Oh, no. I’m a junior. You?”

“Senior.”

“I should have guessed, given your captain status.”

He shrugged. “Coach decides who wears the ‘C’. Last year it was a sophomore. This year it’s me. Who knows, next year it could be a freshman, although that’s unlikely. But…it could happen.” He pointed at my schedule. “You mentioned you’re lost. Not sure where your first classroom is?”

I grinned, charmed by his modesty and kindness. “No, I can’t seem to find my locker. Number 548. The numbers jump from 502 to 604.”

“Ah, yeah.” His cheeks pinkened and his lips twitched. I raised a brow, waiting to see what he was so amused and embarrassed about. “Over the summer a few of the seniors removed the number plates from some of the lockers and swapped them around hoping to confuse a few freshmen.”

“I see.” I bit back a chuckle. “And were you one of the pranksters?”

“No,” he shoved a hand through his hair, “but I was here when it happened.”

“And you just let it go?” Granted, I didn’t know Ben at all, but he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to stand back and let kids get in trouble.

He shrugged. “It was a harmless prank. If it was dangerous or mean, I’d have stepped in. Besides, the guys who did it will get the numbers swapped back around by the end of the day.”

“Great. So, how do I find my locker now?”

Ben grinned again, his dimple sending flutters to my heart. “That’s easy.” He led me over to locker 648. “It’s only fitting that my biggest fan be right beside me.” He pointed at his locker, 546.

I turned away, not sure how to respond to the knowledge I’d be locker mates with the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Hands steady, despite the edginess racing through me, I spun the dial and opened my locker. After dumping all my supplies inside, I grabbed what I’d need for first period. When I backed out, Ben was still there, leaning against his locker, waiting for me.

I closed my locker with a quiet click and faced Ben. “Guess this means I’ll need to come to your game, tonight. You know, to say thanks and all.”

“I’d like that. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

He brushed a finger over the stripes on my shoulder, following them down my sleeve. “Don’t change your outfit. It’s about time I had a fan in my jersey up in the stands.”

I arched a brow, ignoring the butterflies swarming in my stomach, and pretended I wasn’t the least bit affected by his touch. “I find it hard to believe no one has ever worn your number. And this isn’t your jersey. It’s mine.”

“You play?”

I nodded. “Since I was five.”

“Me too. What position?”

I grinned. “All of them, but I’m best at goalie. You?”

“Forward.” He wiggled his brows. “It must be fate. Maybe we can play sometime, see just how good you are.”

“I’d like that. Name the day and time and I’ll be there.”

“You got it.” A bell rang and the noise level in the hall doubled. “May I walk you to your first class?”

I arched a brow. “Did they change the room numbers, too?”

He laughed. “No, I was just hoping to spend a little more time with you.”

“Sure.” I did a little happy dance inside, thrilled that the hottest guy in the school wanted to spend more time with me.

As we fell in step, I breathed silent thanks to whoever updated the clothing policy and forced me to wear a different outfit. Sure, my sundress would have been cute and flirty, but it was my old jersey that caught the eye of the guy who made my first day in a new school one to remember.

***

This story is set in the same world as The Boyfriend Project. 

Twisting tales one story at a time. 

YA author Mary Waibel’s love for fairytales and happy-ever fill the pages of her works. Whether penning stories in a medieval setting or a modern day school, magic and romance weave their way inside every tale. Strong female characters use both brain and brawn to save the day and win the heart of their men. Mary enjoys connecting with her readers through her website: marywaibel.blogspot.com

***

Tales from the Field: Mac’s Ultimate Prank by Katie L. Carroll

Central High women’s soccer team: schooling the boys’ team on the field since 2012. Now it’s time to school them off the field.

I mute the music and kill the lights on my mom’s SUV, packed full of my teammates, as we approach our rival school, Valley High. The speedometer hovers below 20 mph. A block away from the school, I park behind a beat-up sedan, also packed full of soccer players.

Malcolm, the captain of the boys’ team (yes, I said boys, not men…because no high school guy is actually a man), leans against his car, his dreadlocks peeking out from under a black winter hat. We’re all dressed in black to blend in with the October night. Megan and I slip out of the SUV to talk strategy with him.

“Mac. Megan,” he whispers in greeting, his breath puffing in the cold air. We’re not close enough to the school to be heard by anyone there, but we’re not taking any chances of talking loudly and disturbing the neighborhood. “You ladies ready for this?”

“We were born ready,” I say before Megan can answer. She’s our captain and the boss on the soccer field, but I’m in charge tonight.

The thing is every year the Central High women’s soccer team has a better record than the boys’ team. And it goes without saying (though I’m going to say it) that we look a helluva lot better out on the field than they do.

But there is one thing the boys’ team is better at than us: they always pull the best Dog Day Eve prank. So this year (my senior—and final—year), I’m determined to one up them by stealing Benji the Bulldog, Valley’s mascot. And I’ve come up with a brilliant plan.

It’s a brilliant because there’s little fear of retaliation. Our mascot is also a dog (a husky), but unlike Valley’s bulldog, our husky isn’t real. The dog is a costume worn by the gym teacher. (It used to be worn by a student until two years ago when there was an unfortunate incident with a bare bottom underneath said costume. Both hilarious and gross!)

From my pocket, I pull out a drawing of the school and a flashlight. I point to the bus drop-off circle. “This is where we park. It’s easy in/easy out. They keep Benji in the janitor’s office until the night janitor takes him home around ten p.m. I’ve got dog treats to keep him quiet.” I add as an afterthought, “For the dog, not the janitor.”

Malcolm stifles a laugh. “How many are going in?”

“Four of us. Me, Megan, you, and whoever you want to take.”

“Jimmy’s my wingman.”

I make a snap decision. “Okay. The four of us will take your car up to the circle. Everyone else can wait here.” My mom will kill me if I get dog hair (or worse) all over her SUV.

Malcolm ducks his head into window and in true clown-car fashion an impossible number of boys file out of the tiny sedan. I tell them they’re not going to fit in my car and they can wait outside.

While Malcolm chats up Addison (who we all call Hunter) in my front seat, I flip my car keys to Denise (my best friend), who is squished into the very back with Sadie and Paloma. “You’re in charge until I get back. No boys allowed inside.”

She ducks low and makes her way to the front. “Got it.”

I let Malcolm drive up to the school (only because it’s a stick and I don’t know how to drive one) and we park at the end of the drop-off circle for a quick getaway.

I’m about to get out, when from the backseat Megan locks my shoulder in a death-grip. “Wait, MacKenzie. You never told me how we’re supposed to get in. It’s after hours, way after hours. All the doors are locked. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner.”

Before she can spiral further into panic (any sense of unpreparedness makes Megan slightly crazy), I pry her hand away. “I’ve got it under control. My cousin’s boyfriend goes to Valley. He spilled a bunch of chemicals in the photo lab and convinced the teacher to leave a window open to air it out.”

Next to Megan, Jimmy lets out a long whistle, clearly impressed by my prank skills. He has no idea how long I’ve been planning this.

“Let’s do this,” I say, and then we’re out of the car and creeping around the school to the photo lab’s, which is in fact cracked open (I barely refrain from shouting with joy that my boyfriend’s cousin has come through for me).

Between the hushed whispers and the squeak of the window being pushed farther open, we’re making way more noise than we should. I make another executive decision.

“Only two of us go in. The other two wait outside and stand watch.” I didn’t want the boys involved at all (so they can’t try and steal all the credit for the prank), but no one on my team could take Benji overnight and Malcolm agreed to do it.

“Me,” Megan says. “I’ll go with Mac.”

“No way,” Malcolm argues. “It should be me. I’m the one housing the dog tonight.”

Before a real argument breaks out and blows up my whole plan, I shush them. “Malcolm comes. Megan and Jimmy wait outside.” Maybe I should have been captain of the team (not really, too much responsibility).

Amazingly we sneak down several hallways to the janitor’s office and find it empty except for Benji. I slip a couple of dog treats to him and open the dog crate. I swear he smiles (though bulldogs always kind of look like they’re grinning) and attempts a leap with his stubby legs. But he’s quiet.

Malcolm grabs him around the middle and we take off in a jog back to the photo lab. That’s when all hell breaks loose! As Malcolm is passing Benji through the open window Jimmy, the dog starts barking, and barking, and barking. Benji squiggles in Jimmy’s arms, and Jimmy swears, loudly.

We sprint toward the car, but by the time we reach the front of the school, lights are turning on inside. Jimmy practically throws the still-barking Benji into the car and we all pile in. Malcolm guns it out of the driveway.

Megan screams, “Slow down! We’ll get caught. We’ve gotta look inconspicuous.”

Malcolm decelerates the car to a normal speed. I stuff the last remaining treats into Benji’s mouth, and he finally calms down.

A squad car rushes past, no lights or sirens (but definitely in a hurry). Malcolm puts his blinker on to turn down the street where we left everyone else, but I direct him to head to the mall. I’ve resigned myself to letting all those boys into my mom’s SUV and text Denise to meet us there. (No way am I staying so close to Valley High with the contraband.)

At the mall, the guys and Benji head off with Malcolm and I start the long process of taking all my teammates home. My hands are still shaking with adrenaline as I take the wheel.

Megan recounts what happened and the atmosphere in the car is giddy with the excitement that we pulled of such a great prank. Swallowing back the lump of nerves in my throat, I join the celebration by blasting loud, brain-cell killing music. 

At home, I crash hard and wake up late. All day I can’t shake the butterflies wrecking havoc on my system. I tell myself that I’m just excited about the final phase of the prank tonight at half-time of the football game.

I pick up Denise and Megan and we head to our school for the football game (the football players never come to our games so we make of point of not attending theirs, but we have a special reason for attending tonight).

We sit with a bunch of our teammates and players from the boys’ team. Megan has forbidden anyone from talking about what we did last night. Those of us who were part of the prank keep shooting glances at each other. The high-fiving and giggling are rampant. Malcolm gives me a nod and heads out of the stands. It's almost time!

The half-time whistle blows and the anticipation in our section of the stands is palpable. Before the cheerleaders can take the field for their annual mid-game exhibition, a tennis ball is thrown at the 50-yard line (I bribed a freshman to do this without knowing why she was doing it). Benji (strategically released by Malcolm from the cover of the trees on the far end of the field), dressed in Central’s red and white colors, trots to the ball.

A cry of fury breaks out in the Valley stands as they realize the dog is their mascot. Our fans whoop and holler with glee. One of Valley’s cheerleading coaches scoops up Benji and stands in the middle of the field as if waiting for instructions on what to do. I think my sides are going to split I’m laughing so hard.

I bask in the triumph of a well-executed prank for one full minute before a heavy hand falls on my shoulder. All those butterflies that have been hanging in my stomach threaten to come out of my mouth.

I look up to find the vice principle staring down at me, her mouth closed in a harsh line of anger. Her other hand is pressed firmly to Megan’s shoulder. Megan sends daggers my way (she might be angrier than the vice principle). The boys’ soccer coach is already escorting Jimmy down the stands.

“You two need to come with me,” the vice principle says.

Best prank of all-time: accomplished. Punishment for my crimes: to be determined (but all signs point to something severe). Maybe I should have left the pranking up to the boys’ team this year.

***

Check out the other Tales From the Field here! 

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, speaker, and soccer player. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

Group Work by Meradeth Houston

Source

Some homework will push you over the edge.

***

Classes began three days ago. There was already homework. And not just the “read chapters 2-8” in your textbook kind. Not here. Some of the students seemed excited about this. It wasn’t as if the assignments were boring. Far from it. But it was also difficult. Tedious. And left him feeling drained.

Hah. Drained. He’d have to remember that.

Tonight’s work involved something that made him distinctly uncomfortable. His professor, the older one with nose hair that needed trimming, had squawked about “the eternal need to belong, to integrate.” So tonight, they were supposed to do just that. Find a group, and using what they’d learned over the past two lectures, figure out how best to infiltrate the group.

The girl sitting next to him, the one who took copious notes and who wouldn’t even look at him, even when he dropped a pen—on purpose—under her chair, smiled as she made a large note in her planner. That was probable what got their teacher to keep assigning things like this, decade after decade. Girls like her. Who liked this kind of thing.

Weirdo.

He hadn’t been the only one to wonder about the assignment, listening in on other students as they filtered from the classroom. Quite a few were already bemoaning the assignment. Several were attempting to figure out a way to lie and pretend they’d done the work. Not that they’d succeed. Not here.

He’d heard stories of students who’d tried to cheat. Someone said there was a plaque with their ears stapled to it somewhere in the office. Urban legend, for certain.

But now, with evening darkening the windows and every other possible task for the next two days of class completed, there was no other choice but to figure out how to best complete the assignment.

Grabbing his wallet, and ensuring he wasn’t wearing anything that might give him away, he made his way out of the dormitories. Campus was mostly dark between the ivy-coated buildings (“Oh, it’s so nice! Very collegiate,” his mother had said when they’d toured the campus when he’d been dropped off last week. His dad had given him a half-hearted shrug. It was his fault he was here, anyhow.). The gates opened to the street, and after some time exploring the internet, he’d found several coffee shops nearby.

Chances were that most of those had already been staked out by his classmates.

Staked out. Hah. Another one to remember.

He figured he’d head a little further away. Google said it would take fifteen minutes to get there, but after two wrong turns, it took more like a half hour.

The restaurant/bar had advertised live music tonight, with the promise of no cover and a good time. Hopefully enough people would be present to try out his skills. That was all he had to do, right? Try? Or would his grade be based on how well he managed to Infiltrate? Why hadn’t he thought to ask that before?

The front of the little place lit up the sidewalk and posters plastered the glass. The thrum of music sounded from inside. Outside, enough smokers congregated to ensure there would be people inside.

His lungs constricted in the cloud outside the door and he decided against his first thought to try and work them. Nope, no smokers. He couldn’t imagine asking for a cigarette anyhow—it would be such a poser move.

Okay, so this whole exercise was about being a poser. But still. It was different.

Inside, he looked around, sizing up the sea of faces, the band on the small stage on the back left. They were belting out something that at least had a decent beat. The woman singing, well, he’d heard worse.

Infiltrate. Infiltrate. How was he supposed to do this again? The lectures over the past few days had covered finding common ground with someone. Starting a basic conversation.

It had all seemed so simple in principle. Now the detailes felt hazy and the purpose even more ridiculous.

Then his stomach rumbled. A hand over it, almost by instinct. No, not ridiculous. Necessary.

Okay, so, pick a group. He went off to one side and when a perky waitress stopped by his table, he ordered a coke. No way could he do this with alcohol in his system. Not even with the fake ID in his pocket—standard issue from school.

A large group of people around his own age laughed and caroused near the dance floor, too loud and too drunk to be appealing. A couple of tables over, two girls were deep in conversation. Some more people played pool near the door.

And the dance floor itself was occupied by a group weaving to the music.

No one sat alone. If that wasn’t motivation, he didn’t know what was. Once his drink arrived, he drank too much, almost choked on his ice, and felt his ears grow warm.

Maybe he should just go back to him room. Spare himself this embarrassment and take the failed grade. There had to be other ways to do this.

The table next to him, empty, attracted the next group to come through the door. Several girls, two guys. They all knew each other, clearly, which wouldn’t make this easier.

Or would it?

From watching them out of the corner of his eye, it was obvious there were two couples and one third wheel in the group. She was cheerfully chatting with the two couples, the five of them friends. And as they drew nearer, her eyes flickered to him.

And he smiled. The careful, shy smile that didn’t feel fake. The kind that was safe, not weird.

Or so he hoped.

And the girl, she smiled back. Ducking her head a moment, like she couldn’t believe she’d done that.

How to capitalize on that?

Either by luck, or orchestration he hadn’t witnessed, the girl ended up seated near him. She continued her chatter with the group, but even though he bobbed his head to the beat and attempted to look interested in the music, he could see her continue to glance his way.

It took fifteen minutes of this, sweat gathering along the base of his neck, before she walked by, on her way back from the bar.

And then it was so simple.

Not planned, just instinct.

Her purse strap caught on his chair. An “accident” obviously.

And he laughed and freed it. Meeting her eyes, his stomach rumbled, too low to be heard over the music.

“Liking the music?” he asked.

“I love this band!” she gushed. “I come see them here every time they play.”

And with that, it was easy. A few small lies about how much he enjoyed the music. A small compliment on her dress (to be fair, she did look good in it). And a few minutes later, he’d been invited to join their table.

Introductions all around. And he felt the rising wave of elation. He’d done it! Figured out the whole Infiltration thing. Maybe he’d actually pass that impossible class. Impress his dad. Graduate.

The girl, she watched him, laughed with him, and they joked and he couldn’t help wondering if anyone who looked over thought three couples sat at the table.

The singer at the microphone announced a “slow one” to ease them off for the evening. The other couples disappeared onto the dance floor. And the room felt too warm, like the spotlight had eased onto him without his noticing.

He glanced at the girl, while she avoided his gaze. What was the protocol in this sort of situation? They hadn’t gotten this far in lecture.

“Would you like to,” he motioned toward the dancers.

She seemed to size him up for a long moment. Her blue eyes scanned him as surely as an X-ray. But then she smiled. Nodded. Let him take her hand and lead her into the sea of humans slowly circling.

And words failed him. It was all he could manage to keep his hands on her hips, the slow swaying circle, in time to the earthy tones the singer crooned. Would his teacher know if he failed at this step? Would it matter?

He didn’t really care. Because right now, he really did want to know more about her. Curiosity about her life, her school, her lips. Was that the whole point of this assignment?

If it were, that was impressive on the part of the professor.

And, really, he didn’t care. It was enough to enjoy the dance. And when the song finally came to a close, he was almost surprised to see the look on her face, peering up at him.

“Do you think we both get to count this toward our grade?” she asked, a small smirk giving her petite features an impish look.

The implication of what she said took a moment to process, like the cogs and wheels in his brain couldn’t turn fast enough to work out what she meant. And then the gears caught and his mouth dropped open.

“You’re in…” he trailed off, unable to finish that thought. Heat, burning and almost painful, seared up his face and concentrated in his ears.

She leaned in, conspiratorially. “There weren’t any rules against working as a team. And I think we managed pretty well together.”

He let her lead him back to their table, where the others laughed and joked and said their goodbyes. Exchanged numbers to hang out again. And as they stepped out into the night, the fresh air breathing life into him, she grabbed his hand.

“Come on. We’ll work out the details on the walk back to the dorms.”

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Breaking Routine by Kai Strand

Changing things up impacts more than just Sandy’s day.

***

“Check your watch,” Sandy predicted.

Hovering on the edge of his front stoop, the man glanced at his wrist before cautiously stepping down.

Sandy counted his twelve steps to the sidewalk. He always took twelve steps. At exactly the same time each morning Sandy watched him perform the same senseless routine. At the sidewalk he hesitated again before making a precise right angle and taking thirty-two steps to the corner across from Sandy’s school bus stop.

Just then the bus pulled up, blocking her view of the man. But she’d seen him often enough to know he would scan the street in both directions before turning a strict 180 degrees and reversing the routine back toward his front stoop. She assumed he picked up the morning paper on the way back inside, but she was always carted away before he reached the front step where the paper lay in wait.

Sandy flopped into her seat. Aaron already sat across the aisle and Jana was immediately behind her. It struck her they were as habitual as the man she rolled her eyes at each morning. She thought about her day ahead and realized that every move was choreographed until she got home from school. She walked a predictable path through the crowded halls. She stopped at the same places to visit with the same kids, everyday. She even had her bathroom visits worked into her routine.

When had she become so structured? Since she didn’t yet count her own steps, she assumed she wasn’t as phobic as the man she watched each morning, but that provided little comfort. In an odd way, his strange repetitiveness had become part of her own morning routine. Had she been influenced by his repetitious behavior?

At the next stop she popped up and strode to a seat farther back and on the opposite side of the bus. Kids eyed her suspiciously and she smirked at her bold move. 

Two stops later, the bus grew quiet as a boy climbed on. Sandy recognized him as one of the rare upper classmen that still rides the bus, but she didn’t know more about him beyond the fact that she was sitting in his normal seat. She swallowed loudly. He loomed in the aisle and gawked at her.

“You’re in my seat.”

“Well, technically I’m not. We don’t have assigned seats. But you can sit next to me.” Sandy smiled sweetly, but her insides churned nervously. What if he caused a scene and made her move?

The boy stared at her with his mouth agape. Sandy pulled her backpack off the seat and crammed it onto the floor at her feet. “There you go.”

The boy sat, but his left side hung over the edge so far he may as well sit in the aisle. 

Sandy smiled to herself and stared out the window at the less familiar scenery.

At school she chose to go straight to her first class instead of stopping at her locker. If it weren’t for the stuffed reptiles lining the shelves behind Mrs. Anderson’s desk, Sandy might have thought she’d walked into the wrong classroom. A plain looking blonde wore a pretty yellow and white checked sweater. She tapped the erasure end of her pencil ceaselessly on a pile of textbooks on her desk. Sandy wondered if she was new to the school.

“Hi,” she greeted, a smile forming naturally at the girl’s bug-eyed reaction. She dumped her backpack under her assigned desk and slid onto the chair.

The girl looked around before answering. “Um…hi.”

As the classroom filled, sweater girl glanced surreptitiously at Sandy. When the bell rang and the teacher took roll, Sandy paid close attention. Her brow furrowed when sweater girl chirped, “Here,” in response to “Ashley Bruin.”

Well, that’s embarrassing. I’ve been going to school with her forever. She must have gotten contacts and her hair is longer than I remember. She’s a major brainiac, too. No wonder she looked at me funny.

When the bell rang Sandy gave Ashley one last shy smile and hurried out of the room, still embarrassed over not recognizing her. After changing for P.E., she stuffed her backpack and clothes into the tiny gym locker and went into the gymnasium. The volleyball nets were set up.

“Cool! Volleyball.” She plopped down next to Miranda. “I’m so glad we’re finished with physical testing. I’m tired of hearing how inflexible I am.”

“Oh my gall, Sandy. I didn’t think you were here today.” Miranda’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Where were you this morning?”

“I decided to go straight to class.”

“Why? Were you late?” Miranda peered closely at Sandy and pressed hand on her forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

Sandy chuckled. “I’m fine.” This is fun.

Source: Kai Strand

After P.E. she was forced to stop at her locker to exchange her books. Kyle, the hottest guy in the senior class was squatted down, digging through the pile of books and papers in his locker, directly under hers.

Sandy stood on tiptoe and reached over his muscled mass to dial her locker combo.

He smiled up at her. “Just getting here this morning?”

Being a somewhat shy sophomore, Sandy felt her cheeks flush. “N-no, I-I just haven’t s-stopped here yet.” Great, now he thinks I stutter!

“Good thing we don’t run into each other often.” He slammed his locker shut and stood. His towering height made Sandy feel puny. “You can barely reach your locker with me down there.”

Determined not to sound like a simpleton, Sandy said, “Oh, we could just switch lockers if our schedules had us here at the same time.”

He nodded. “Good thinking.”

Someone called Kyle’s name from across the sea of kids.

“See ya around.” He stepped into the tide and the current parted for him as if he were Moses.

Okay, I’m completely convinced changing my predictable schedule was the best idea I’ve ever had.

Sandy floated into her next class on a cloud of happiness.

At lunch that afternoon, Sandy decided to stick with the normal routine. If she made too big a change it might disrupt the entire lunchroom hierarchy. But lunch took an unexpected turn after all. It was as if she’d thrown a pebble into her daily pond and the ripple effects were starting to rock her boat.

She stuffed in with her fourteen friends around a table designed to seat ten. Three different conversations buzzed at the same time. Suddenly all the talking died away and everybody stared over Sandy’s shoulder. She turned to find Ashley Bruin behind her, red as a beet, examining her retro saddle shoes.

“Hi, Ashley.” Sandy felt as uncomfortable as Ashley looked.

“Um, Sandy, I thought maybe you and your friends might vote for me for sophomore representative on the student council.”

The kids stared blankly at Ashley. As the awkwardness grew, Sandy knew someone had to say something. Trying to sound enthusiastic, she said, “Tell us why we should vote for you.”

Ashley outlined her goals for student council all the way through to their senior year when she hoped to organize a student work program in the city’s government offices as well as internships in Washington DC the year after they graduated.

“Wow, Ashley. You’re so focused! I really admire that,” Sandy said.

“You do?” Ashley and a few of the other kids asked at the same time.

“Yeah! You obviously know what you want and have figured out what you’ll need in order to accomplish your goal. I think our class would benefit from strong leadership like that. You’ve got my vote.”

The group nodded and murmured their agreement. Benny said, “Hey Ashley, I’m interested in politics. Do you have any suggestions of what I could do now to get involved?” Ashley walked around the table and the kids budged over to make room for her.

Sandy was smiling over the unexpected alliance when Kyle passed the table and flashed his winning smile. “Hey, locker buddy!”

“Hi, Kyle.” She was careful not to stutter, but unable to stop her traitorous cheeks from coloring again. Miranda gave her a pointed look, so Sandy whispered. “He doesn’t even know my name.”

Just then Kyle turned and walked back. “Hey, Sandy, are you going to the Masq dance?”

“Uh-huh.” Shock reduced her vocabulary to grunts. Is this a cruel prank, am I being set up to be the butt of a senior joke?

“Are you wearing a costume?” Kyle asked.

“Uh-uh.” Terrific, now he thinks I’m a caveman.

“Great, I’ll see you there. Save me a dance, okay?” He lit the room with a grin and turned back to his friends.

Sandy stared after him while her friends gawked at her. All she could think was that she must have lobbed a boulder into her pond to create ripples this big.

She coasted on autopilot for the next two classes, unable to concentrate on anything besides images of Kyle standing over her at the locker or talking to her at lunch. She joined the human race again when she walked into her history class. History was her favorite class because not only was it the last class of the day, but they also had the coolest teacher.

Mr. Burris was a free-flowing, hippie type of guy. He never seemed to have a prepared class lesson, yet they always learned something interesting. Sandy became so immersed in the action of his lessons that she was often startled when the bell rang her back into the modern world. Mr. Burris also allowed them to sit wherever they wanted, so Sandy decided to end the day disrupting one last routine.

Vance groaned when he walked into the classroom. “Not the front row, Sandy. We hate the front row, remember?”

“Not today we don’t. You can sit in back if you want.”

He sighed heavily and plopped his books on the desk next to her.

A very shy girl, Tina, sat on Sandy’s other side.

Mr. Burris raised an eyebrow at Sandy and Vance when he sauntered through the door as the bell rang. He walked over to Tina and held out his hand. “Miss Tumbler, please join me at the front of the room.”

Sandy felt fear emanate from Tina as Mr. Burris escorted her to a chair at the front of the class. He hung a skull and crossbones symbol around her neck. Then he wrapped swastika armbands around Sandy and Vance’s arms.

“Thanks a lot, Sandy,” Vance hissed.

“Today’s lesson is the Holocaust.” Mr. Burris instructed everyone to shun Tina and treat her as an inferior. They slowly identified the “Jews” among them and either Vance or Sandy hung a black sash over their shoulder to represent their execution. Near the end of the lesson it looked as if an angry artist had slashed black paint across a disappointing canvas. Finally after ostracizing Tina throughout the entire class period, Mr. Burris instructed Sandy to hang two sashes on her.

“Why two?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Miss Tumbler represents the mothers with children who were executed after having spent years in hard labor camps.”

Sandy trudged toward Tina, regretting her choice to disrupt her seating pattern. Tina’s eyes brimmed with fear. Sandy hesitated. “This sucks, Mr. Burris.”

“Fight, Tina!” Melanie called from the back of the room. “Don’t just let her kill you.”

The class was quiet except for a couple of muffled sniffles. Sandy raised the sashes over Tina’s head and then whirled toward Mr. Burris.

“Why did they do this? Why did they follow these horrible orders?” She threw the sashes on the floor. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Mr. Burris smiled. The bell rang. The students breathed a collective sigh of relief. Tina stood and ripped the skull and crossbones from around her neck. Sandy spontaneously threw her arms around her. “Fight for yourself, Tina. Only you can truly stand up for yourself.”

Sandy rushed from the room swiping at a few surprising tears. At her locker she grabbed her homework and hurried outside, eager to shake off the emotional lesson. The bus was already crowded. Sandy dropped into the first empty seat.

“Hey, Sandy!”

She turned to see who belonged to the unfamiliar voice. The boy she’d coerced into sitting next to her that morning was perched on the edge of his usual seat.

“Aren’t you gonna sit with me?”

“Uhhh, sure I guess,” she said.

The boy stepped into the aisle so Sandy could slide next to the window, then he sat down. This time he didn’t hang out into the aisle as far.

“How did you know my name?” Sandy asked.

“I saw you talking to my sister at lunch today, so I asked her.”

“Who’s your sister?”

“Ashley. My name’s Andy.” Ruddy apple cheeks highlighted his blue eyes. His long, shaggy brown hair was in no particular style. Nothing about him was in or out of style, he was just him.

“Why doesn’t Ashley take the bus too?”

“She works in the library before school and has chess club after school. She told me what you did for her today. I wanted to say, thanks.”

“You mean voting for her? She totally earned that.”

“No. Talking to her. Kids outside her group of friends, they just don’t talk to her. She ran up to me after first period to tell me. I should’ve guessed then that it was the same girl who disrupted my own morning.”

Sandy grinned.

“It was my idea for her to ask for your vote. When I saw her sitting at your table during lunch, I almost fell over. You made her day.”

“It was nothing, really.”

After Andy’s stop, Sandy sat alone, staring out the window. What a great day she’d had. Maybe she should never be predictable again.

***

Three months later the ripple effects of that day were more evident. Ashley won the spot of sophomore representative on the student council. She and Benny were dating. Being a ‘Holocaust survivor’ gave Tina the confidence to make new friends. Sandy had the privilege of being her first. Vance was suddenly an outspoken advocate for student rights.

Sandy danced with Kyle more than once at the dance though they didn’t start dating. Her parents would never let her date a senior. But she was spending a lot of time with Andy. He’s only a junior and doesn’t drive, so he passed the parent test. Sandy doesn’t head any committees; that isn’t her thing. But she is involved in a few. She actively recruits members and lobbies for support on issues.

And she consciously disrupts her routine on a regular basis.

***

Kai Strand writes fiction for kids and teens. Her debut novel, The Weaver, was an EPIC eBook Awards finalist. Her young adult title, King of Bad, soared to the publisher's #1 spot in its second month and stayed on the Top 5 Bestsellers list for eight months. She is a (very lucky) wife and the mother of four amazing kids. The most common sound in her household is laughter. The second most common is, "Do your dishes!" She and her family hike, geocache, and canoe in beautiful Central Oregon, where they call home. Learn more about Kai and her books by visiting her website: www.kaistrand.com.

She loves to hear from readers, so feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments, send her an email, or visit her facebook page, KaiStrand, Author.

September Theme: Get Schooled

It's that time of year again, at least in most parts, where students are back to the daily grind of classes and homework. For those of us who teach, this means back to classrooms, paperwork, and grading :) While the date for when students start the new year has crept more and more into August, September 1st used to traditionally mark the start of the new term (as well as the day the Hogwarts Express left 9&3/4's). So, for this month, the awesome authors on LQR will be sharing stories about getting schooled.

As I watch the new crop of students this year, I can't help but think back to those days when my life revolved around school (okay, it's still does, but not as a student anymore). It's an interesting time to spend your day in a classroom with your peers, learning (or attempting to), as well as all the social aspects that go along with it and often teach more lessons than a teacher ever could hope to (hello first romances, friendships, and drama galore!). So, stay tuned this month, there's sure to be some amazing reading!