Blame it on Paris

Okay, who else is absolutely exhausted by Paris Hilton and this weekend’s Get Out of Jail Free Card debacle? Hmm? Let’s see a raise of hands… I know, right?!

Goodness. I am weary, y’all. Weary, I tell you. I have no energy for original thought today. None. Nada. Zilch. My mind? Blown by the idiocy.

So that is all I have to say about that. Instead, because of my weariness, I shall simply post another snippet from my novel. Okay, it’s a bit more than a snippet. What does that make it, then?… A snappet?

Plus, I’m going to try out my new (to me) “Read the rest of this entry…” link feature. So, yay me!

With no further ado, I present to you… a snappet of my novel in progress:

It took me all of ten minutes spent sifting through my favorite DVD’s to decide I didn’t want to waste the rest of the evening watching a movie all by my lonesome. I grabbed my keys and headed out to my car.

I drove aimlessly for over an hour. The houses—striking and inviting individually— began to blend together, identities lost in the sameness dictated by homeowner association bylaws. No garage doors left open, no cars parked on the street, no lawns with grass more than two inches high. I wondered vaguely if I should be frightened by the Stepford Wifeyness of it all, but I had too much on my mind to be amused by my own dumb attempts at humor.

I honestly had no plans to head for the ocean. I certainly didn’t want to see Becca or Dean or any of that crew, but somehow I ended up at the edge of our local beach, staring out at the seemingly endless miles of rippling green and blue. I had unofficially designated this particular section of the beach as my own private sanctuary. It was usually deserted; the imposing rocks and gravelly sand didn’t exactly provide an inviting venue for surf and sun.

I parked in the furthest space from the lot entrance and set my emergency break. I took my keys out of the ignition and dropped them into my purse, slowly unrolled my window—just a crack—then reclined my seat and closed my eyes.

Even with the window cracked, there was a sultry oppressiveness in the air, but I basked in the warmth, feeling momentarily peaceful in my quiet globe of heat. It reminded me of when, at six years old, I would spend hours lazing in one of the elaborate blanket forts I used to erect in our living room. Oh, how my mother hated those forts. Where I saw a magical fortress of solitude–however stuffy–she saw three rumpled beds she had to remake.

Mom.

I struggled to banish the sudden ache I felt by concentrating on the rhythmic lapping of the waves surging to shore, dashing against rocks and rolling over sand, before pulling away again. For a few moments, nothing but the steady surge of waves and the gentle thump of my heartbeat interrupted the stillness of the haze-hushed afternoon.

It couldn’t last, of course. I felt uneasy. I couldn’t pinpoint the source of the problem, but something seemed off. I mean, unless I had merely imagined the voice—which, the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that was the case—there was a distinct possibility that my mother was alive. Shouldn’t I be elated? Shout for joy? Put on some happy tunes and dance the night away? Happy freaking birthday, right?

Yet, when I thought about the sudden chill I had felt earlier when I heard the movement in the kitchen, my apprehension increased. Paranoia, I told myself. Of course I freaked out. Strange noises? Big, empty house? It’s a given. Chill yourself.

But still, a ripple of anxiety nagged at me.

Did my mother leave the necklace? If so, why? Where did she go? Why didn’t she stay and talk to me? Why, why, why, why—

I must have dozed off. The next thing I remember, a sharp rap on the passenger-side window nearly put me through the roof.

“Mom?” I croaked, my eyes fluttering open. I quickly turned toward the window… and froze. Sapphire eyes on a pale, curious face peered in at me through the window.

Everything—breath, sound, time, everything—stood still for just a second. I honestly think my heart stopped beating for a moment… then it beat a hearty ba-bump, setting everything in motion again.

It wasn’t fair. Power locks hadn’t even been invented in the sixties. Me and my stupid Mustang obsession. Why couldn’t I have a nice Audi like everybody else?

The boy was staring down at me, his eyes wide, full of… something. Was it confusion? Wonder? As I scrunched back in my seat, as far away from him as possible, I quickly brainstormed several different ways to defend myself. Is he mental? I wondered as I studied his face, my fingers slowly inching towards my purse (I always carry pepper spray and a tazer—a gal’s got to be prepared). Looking back, that may have been a bit unfair. I mean, he didn’t actually look deranged or anything. I blame his eyebrows. Dark, thick, and slanted upwards at the ends, they gave him an unusual, satyric look. Dangerous.

A thrill of genuine fear ran through me as our eyes locked, each of us trying to gauge what the other was going to do. I tensed, ready to spring into action if he so much as moved a muscle. The heaviness that had been pressing on me, on my heart, since the reappearance of my mom’s necklace, had lifted, replaced with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Kicking ass and taking names, that I could do. Honestly, Mr. Reed certainly couldn’t get mad at me for defending myself, now could he?

I watched as the boy’s eyes, deep and troubled under those strange brows, darted around the parking lot. What, was he making sure the coast was clear? When I almost giggled at my unintentional pun, I realized that perhaps I needed to take this whole situation a bit more seriously.

And then I recognized him. He was the boy from the hall—and Becca’s car. The dark-haired mystery boy. Well, that’s just great, I thought. I wasn’t ready for them yet. Honestly, all I needed was Becca and Janie sauntering up to my car with Dean and Kyler trailing behind, gunning for another round of Kick Juliet While She’s Down. That would really make my birthday complete. I wondered if Dean would join in this time, or if he’d just pretend to be Switzerland again.

Instinctively, however, I knew we were alone.

“Hey, I know you,” I rasped out, my breathy voice surprising me. As I cleared my throat, I thought, “I know you”? Really, Juliet? Lame. Incredibly lame. What was wrong with me today? Trying to regain my composure, I added, “And stop staring at me like that.”

He continued to stare at me. Didn’t even blink. I’m not going to lie, he was freaking me out. Especially with those eyebrows arching up at me, all gothic and whatnot. Seriously. He could give Heathcliff a run for his money. (Ms. L would no doubt be impressed with this literary reference. She’d probably be rethinking that whole “You never pay attention, Juliet Moss” comment right about now.)

I realized I was holding tight to the steering wheel, using every ounce of strength I possessed to calm my heart, which was beating so fiercely I worried it would break right through my ribcage. I was on an adrenaline overdose, but something kept me from crying out. Not that it mattered if I did, seeing as nobody was around to hear me. Nice going, moron. Park away from the crowd. Might as well just hang a sign on the bumper saying, “Welcome, weirdos! Attack me!”

Then, before I could move or scream, he wrenched the passenger-side door open and slipped inside, dropping into the seat next to me with a sigh, apparently satisfied he and I were safe from any prying eyes.

As I watched him pull the door shut and turn toward me, on some level I knew I should have been afraid, screaming, scrambling to get out off the car before he pulled a knife or a gun and carjacked me, then killed me and stuffed my battered, bleeding body in the trunk of my car, where I would be discovered a week later in the deserted lot behind a Seven Eleven after the stench of my rotting corpse alerted passing motorists to my tragically deceased whereabouts. Instead, I stared at him with wide, startled eyes. In my defense, I just couldn’t help myself. He was so… pretty. Dangerously pretty.

Yes. Me? Shallow. Deal with it.

Seriously, he could have been a serial killer, but I’ll be damned if I could tear my eyes away from his. I held my breath as his deep blue eyes bored into mine, intense and questioning… Good lord almighty, I thought, he is totally going to kill me dead and I wonder if my hair is as tangly and hideous as I think it is and, wow, how gorgeous are those thick, black eyelashes against his pale skin?

“Did I say you could sit there?” I managed to say. It came out much less intimidating than I intended, so I glared at him for emphasis.

Then he smiled. Hand to God, he smiled, flashed a set of beautiful white teeth my way.

It was like all the air came back into my lungs at once—whoosh!—and I gasped.

Of course, I knew all about boys and their pearly-white flashy smiles, so I wasn’t about to be taken in by this weirdo, no matter how attractively his coal black hair swept across his forehead or how appealingly his eyebrows framed his eyes or how well his plain white t-shirt seemed to fit across his chest. I mean, he just up and jumped right into my car. All beautiful and whatnot. And smelling of the ocean. That was weird, right?

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice deep and melodic. “I’m Finn.”