by Schow, Ryan
“Margaret,” I say, practically beside myself, “Sertraline is Zoloft.”
“Oh, yeah. Anyway, he’s thinking he can hit the right balance, so I’m pretty excited about this guy.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Judy from the club is…friends with this doctor’s friend, who’s also a doctor out of the city—”
“Judy’s having an affair?” I ask.
Waving her hand dismissively, not taking her eyes off the road, she says, “The point is, we have a new source. In this day and age, your health and your good looks are a direct measure of who you know, and now we know this guy, so who the hell cares who’s been in Judy’s vagina’s anyway?”
All I ever do anymore is shrug my shoulders. It’s easier than talking. Especially when you have nothing to say.
“So how was Dr. Oaken?”
“She’s the best we’ve seen so far, but you went and f*cked that up, so what does it really matter?”
The monster jumps and fires me a look. “Don’t use that word in the car!”
“Would you rather I wait until we’re home to use it?”
I feel a new kind of haze coming on. Something to cover up the rough texture that is my life. It’s not drug-induced. Not yet. Maybe it’s just me coping. The thing about not caring about anyone or anything is, if you’re really committed to it, it can safeguard your feelings. And it might just save your life.
Me dropping f-bombs on Margaret, it’s me showing her I don’t care. It’s me putting up my guard.
The truth is, she hates that word. She uses it a lot, but she hates it coming out of my mouth. I guess I don’t blame her. It’s such an ugly word. Then again, I’m an ugly child facing some ugly truths about myself, so why shouldn’t my speech mirror my struggles?
“No matter where you are,” the monster says, “you don’t say that word. At all.” When I refuse to acknowledge her, she says, “So what did you learn about yourself today?”
“That a lot of my social anxiety comes from Jacob Brantley, this boy from school.”
“That’s great,” she says, chipper like she really means it. She’s only being like this because it means she’s not the biggest problem in my life, even though she knows she is.
“I’m thinking of asking dad to have him killed.”
The way I say it is deadpan. With the straightest face ever. She laughs until she realizes I’m being serious. Jacob was my first crush, the first boy I ever really gushed over, and now the only way I can live is if he doesn’t. Or maybe the emotion will pass.
Yeah, it’ll probably pass.
“Your father would never do such a thing,” she says. “And therapy is not meant to foster homicidal feelings, so maybe Dr. Oaken wasn’t the best you’ve seen.”
“What was that envelop all about, Margaret?”
“What envelope?”
“The one you tried to give Tiffany. The one with all the money in it.”
“Nothing. Mind your own business. And stop thinking your dad can fix everything. If you want someone dead, save that for your prayers tonight. Here in the real world, you can’t just have people killed to solve your problems.”
“So dad won’t do it?”
“Jesus, Vannie, are you even hearing yourself?”
“I am. That’s why I have a Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Netty’s dad. He’s probably going to prison anyway.”
“He’s not going to kill this boy for you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Is this just about the boy at school? This Jacob kid?”
“It’s about school altogether.”
Margaret laughs it off, never realizing how bothered I really am about my life. She’s always telling me it’s a “phase” I’m going through. One I’ll grow out of soon. And when she blows me off with words like “selfish” and “teenage angst,” I swear I feel my heart doing sit-ups.
“The good thing about school,” she says, “is eventually it’s over.”
“So is your life if you want to look at it like that.”
“Well if it’s any consolation,” she says, missing the point completely, “the only people who like high school are the popular kids, and everyone knows they all grow up to be assholes anyway.”
I look at her funny. She looks back to me and I say, “You’ve got problems, Margaret.”
“Yeah?” she says. “Well so do you.” We drive most of the way home in silence, then she says, “What should we do for dinner?”
What I want to say is “Ben & Jerry’s Triple Caramel Chunk ice cream with mini chocolate chip cookies,” but what I say instead is something too healthy and far too boring for me to repeat. And Margaret? She’s suddenly excited that I’m making “smart eating choices.” It all fits in with her hoping I’ll grow up to be someone else one day. Someone better than this.
Someone better than me.
Angel With Forgotten Wings
1
The girl pulled up to the house in Palo Alto, slowing at the driveway. It was dark outside. Night. Beyond midnight, actually—into the morning. Everyone was asleep.
She walked up to the front door, put her hand on it, disengaged the lock with her mind, with her “hard earned gift.” A gift given to her with blood, sweat, tears and death. Inside the house, it was quiet. Everything still. Even the air was a cozy seventy-two degrees.
Upstairs, she found her: Savannah.
She walked to the bed, sat beside her. Looked at her. Tears boiled in her eyes—warm, wet, the weight of them sitting heavy on her soul. These tears were big like you’d think of the universe as big. Larger than crocodile tears. She brushed them away, fought to slow her clamoring heart.
Her eyes adjusted to the light. Her ears heard everything. The slightly stuffed nose. The way the child’s breath went in and out of her mouth and nose together, not in unison. She even smelled the freshly showered scent of the child and it shoved weakness through her bones.
Carefully, she leaned forward and brushed Savannah’s hair away from her face. Her fingers, the backs of them, they drifted over a hot cheek, touched the soft skin of her arm, her wrist. Savannah stirred, as if sensing something, but nothing enough to pull her from the dream she was having.
A quick peek inside her mind showed the girl Savannah’s dream. It was about Netty. They were laughing together at school, talking about boys they’d never get, lives they’d never have.
Savannah’s eyes creaked open.
“It’s okay,” the girl whispered. “You’re safe.”
“Audi girl,” Savannah managed to say, her eyes sticky with sleep, the pulse in her neck throbbing hard against the skin, her body paralyzed with fear.
“You don’t need to be scared. I’m more than a friend. And I’m not here to hurt you, or take you. I’m only here to tell you something.”
The tears were prickling the backs of her eyes now—full, fearful, threatening to flood.
“Wh-what do you want to t-tell me?”
She reached out, took Savannah’s hand and said, “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. Your life. You.”
“You don’t know that,” Savannah said, low, fragments of her fear attempting to dissolve.
Curiosity was getting the best of her.
“You will one day grow up to be beautiful, and talented,” she continued. “Boys will like you, girls will want to be your friend, and you’re going to fall in love with a boy whose heart will literally break a hundred times for you.”
“Are you sure you have the right house?” Savannah asked, totally serious. “Because I’m not that girl. I won’t ever be that girl.”
She laughed, a melodious laugh Savannah found curious.
“It’s different, seeing this side of you, hearing your sense of humor, how even though you use it as a coping mechanism, you’re really funny.”
“How do you know about me?”
“I do because I do.”
“That makes no sense.�
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“The world makes no sense, Savannah, and that will be your journey, to navigate the unknown for longer than you think while caught in some unbelievable circumstances. But you will bless the world with your grace and beauty, even if it doesn’t always seem like it.”
“Are you an angel?”
“In a way.”
“Where are your wings?”
“I left them in the car,” the girl joked.
“Do you really know me?” Savannah asked, almost like she couldn’t believe it.
“Better than you think,” the girl replied. “Come give me a hug.”
She couldn’t take it anymore. This child, she was so starved for love, for acceptance. If she could open up her heart and pour all her love into Savannah, she would, but there was a demon she’d trapped inside her, a wicked soul so foul and hateful, she refused to wake him now, here. This demon…it couldn’t know about this child—where she lived or who she was.
“You’re not going to hurt me?” Savannah asked.
“I promise.”
Savannah moved forward, hesitant, but only after a few whispered words of reassurance were placed delicately inside the child’s head. Savannah’s body against hers, this was an emotion like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Her heart was exploding with love, so much so it felt broken as she thought about what lie ahead for her. So broken, in fact, that she started to cry. It took an act of God to keep her from sobbing.
When Savannah let go, the girl wiped her eyes and said, “Lay down, sweetheart, this is just a dream.”
“It is?”
“Lay down, close your eyes. Know you are loved, watched over, protected.”
She laid down, closed her eyes, fought the pull of sleep upon her. She wanted to open her eyes, to check and see if this lovely stranger in her room was real or just a figment of her imagination, but the girl used her mind to sync up with Savannah’s mind enough to keep her eyelids closed.
After awhile, Savannah’s breathing deepened, grew louder, fell into a rhythm.
Leaning forward, she kissed the child gently, lightly on the lips and said, “You’re going to kick this world right in the nuts, girl. You just don’t know it yet.”
2
The girl with the black dress, the sexy shoes, the perfectly f*cked up life—the only life she could ever imagine having—she crossed the street and reached for the Audi’s door when the flashing lights caught her eye.
The cops found the stolen Audi.
Great.
She opened the door and got in as two police cruisers screeched to a stop with the lights flashing red and blue. They were blocking her escape. Not that it mattered. One of the cops, he got out of the car, gun drawn and crouched behind a door in a shooter’s stance.
“Get out of the car with your hands on your head! NOW!”
The other cop in the other unit shined his spotlight on her. She shielded her eyes, then popped something into her mouth. Something marble shaped.
The cops, they were yelling at her to get out of the car, but the girl’s eyes glazed over, almost like she was comatose for a second, then they cleared. The faintest of smiles tipped the corners of her mouth skyward. Then, just like that, there was a violent explosion inside the car that blew out the windshield, the side windows and the Audi’s driver’s side door.
Both cops hit the deck.
When they got up, seeing no fire and having no explanation for the explosion, they eased up to the ruined Audi, stressed out, afraid, and found it empty.
“No way,” one cop said to the other. They traded concerned looks.
The girl…she was just gone.
The story continues…
YOUR VOICE MATTERS!
Did you enjoy this prequel/novella? If so, you can make a GINORMOUS difference…
Stunning covers, crafty blurbs and engaging sample chapters only go so far when seeking the attention of new readers. As an author, I don’t have Harry Potter’s ad budget, or the God-sized reach of New York’s Big 5 publishing houses. In truth, without an amazing story and devoted fans like you to graciously spread the word, all the money in the world won’t launch an author’s career. That’s why your opinion is so vital to the success of us independent writers!
If you enjoyed this story, I’d truly be honored if you could spend a moment or two leaving a review (it can be as long or as short as you want) on Vannie’s Amazon page. The way Amazon’s review system works is five stars is good, four stars slightly less than good and everything else is degrees of not enjoyable. ☹ Obviously I’ve always strived for five stars, but then again, storytelling is my passion, so what can I say? ☺ Before downloading the FREE, full length copy of Swann in the pages to follow, please take a minute or two and click or tap the link to leave your review. Thank you so much in advance, and I’ll see you in the next book!
CLICK HERE TO REVIEW VANNIE
*KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF SWANN AND THE SWANN SERIES WITH LINKS TO YOUR FREE COPY OF BOOK 1: SWANN.
Important Note to Reader
Before you jump into a quick preview of SWANN, the first book in the Swann series, I want to take a moment to thank you for picking up this novella and not only reading it in full but taking the time to read this as well.
I started reading in my early years of high school and have never stopped. If anything, I read more than ever. Nearly a hundred books a year. Nowadays, I have so many ideas for so many different stories rolling around in my head that I never suffer writers’ block. The risk you run as a writer reading so much from different genres, however, is you stop thinking about writing a fantasy book, or a romance, or whatever, and you just write stories, going where they take you. This of course, brings about the problem of classification. Do I write science fiction, contemporary fantasy or young adult? Or do I write romance, literary fiction or comedy?
The answer is yes. To all of it.
But isn’t that life? I mean, I’ve lived my life as a literary novel, a romance, a young adult novel and once or twice a conspiracy novel. I’ve had horror stories unfold before me and there have been times when my life read like a thriller. Other than that…add drama, debauchery and a bit of the supernatural and there you have it: a well rounded life that in many ways works itself into my writing more than one would think.
As a storyteller, when you listen to the characters you come to know so well—when the story begins to unfold inside you almost without conscious thought, as it does with me—you realize the characters are in charge of the story and you, the writer, are simply there to dictate.
That sounds a little metaphysical or kooky, or whatever, but this is a common occurrence among veteran writers, and quite frankly, pretty freaking cool. That’s also where genre crossing novels come from.
What I can say about the Swann series is the deeper you get into the books, the more the lines between young adult fiction and genre fiction begin to blur. Each “themed” book builds on the last and what unfolds is a larger story line that follows Savannah Van Duyn from her shy, emotionally difficult and contrasting life into a life of teenage romance, sheer mayhem and unequivocal badassery (filled with plenty of “holy sh*t, did that just happen?!” moments).
For those of you looking for a “clean” novel, I allow my characters free reign to be who they are without (for the most part) censorship. I do intervene, on occasion, since I understand young readers are reading, but for a book to stand out among the millions of other stories available, I wholeheartedly believe a writer must take risks and be authentic to the story, as well as to the audience of readers.
What I’m trying to say is, badass girls seldom mind their manners.
Now, without further ado, prepare to move from the ordinary to the extraordinary, and buckle up, because it’s going to be a fun, bumpy, irreverent romp of a ride through the Swann series universe, starting with book one, my gift to you…SWANN.
Swann
If your parents loved you enough to erase you, who would you become?
You are not your body. You’re not your hair, your eyes or your nose. You’re not your diseases, your anxieties, or your psychosis. Welcome to Astor Academy where, with the right genetic coding and a stomach for the impossible, you can change not only your body but the very course of your life…
Thrust into the sexy, ultra-elite social scene, sixteen year old Savannah Van Duyn starts Astor Academy armed with only her sarcasm, a survivalist’s wit and her father’s promise that the school’s geneticist can fix her many problems at the DNA level. The foremost expert in genetic engineering, however, is teeming with so much dark secrecy it has Savannah’s skin crawling. What begins as a bold promise of genetic therapy becomes a life-threatening search for morality in an immoral cure, and an obsession to right the wrongs heaped upon her and those students who have died before her.
SWANN is the first book in this genre-defining series of YA novels. Prepare yourself for an unabashed, unapologetic look into today’s young adult world, namely: coping with a body fit for shame, crazy mothers on meds, the notion that there’s a pill for every problem, bullying and cyberbullying, the ebb and flow of first love and all things humorous, sick and twisted. In the spirit of balance, however, SWANN explores the allure of friendship, the resolve of the desperate soul to find light inside the darkness, and one girl’s path to redemption in the face of insurmountable odds. And so begins the story of the ugly duckling becoming the swan…
Swann
Ryan Schow
“We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.”
—CHUCK PALAHNIUK, FIGHT CLUB
In the Beginning, God Created Sloth
1
