Melt

by Selene Castrovilla

  head.

  I throw myself

  down I

  plunge

  in

  on my knees I

  splash splash

  splash god it’s wet so

  wet it’s chilling it

  penetrates me I

  shiver

  shiver I

  shudder

  it wakes me up it brings me

  back to life.

  I feel my wall

  crumple

  then.

  The wall I built for

  control for

  protection to

  shield myself the

  only way

  I knew how. It sinks

  it

  melts

  like a sand fortress swept into the tide.

  All

  those years

  building and

  all

  it took was a

  puddle

  to bring it down.

  I say,

  I

  love

  you

  too

  Doll.

  There’s sirens outside lots of sirens.

  Pop’s steel Glock it’s so cold

  in my hand

  even through my wrap

  it’s

  numbing.

  My palm it’s

  dripping

  in

  sweat.

  It’s

  heavy

  Pop’s gun’s

  so heavy

  my fingers they’re damp they’re sliding

  my

  grip

  it’s slipping away.

  I look in her eyes they’re

  wet like my puddle they’re

  shimmering they’re

  reflecting

  colors like a

  rainbow they’re

  shining her light into

  me.

  This Glock

  I don’t wanna hold it no more

  it’s too heavy.

  I click the safety back on.

  I

  let

  go.

  It

  clatters

  onto the

  green linoleum

  floor.

  The End

  Thanks for reading!

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoyed Melt. If you’d like to know more about how this book was inspired, please read the question and answer section following this letter. Further insights into my writing process may be found on my website, and on my Facebook author page.

  This book came out of me fast. You might say the words poured through me – like I was their conduit into the world. Frustration came when my publisher went out of business, just as Melt was going to press. As a result, it has taken me ten years to share Melt with you.

  Reading advance responses on Goodreads, in blogs and on social media has felt surreal. After all this time, the world is meeting Dorothy and Joey! And, it embraces them! Finally, they’re home.

  If you’re a fan of my previous books, I thank you for your loyal support. If you’re a new reader, welcome! I invite you to read the excerpts of my previous novels. Either way, I ask a favor of you. If you would review Melt on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and/or Goodreads, it would be extremely helpful to me. Reader support is everything to a book. You breathe life into it.

  I would also love your thoughts on Melt. Please write to me through my website, or Facebook. I’ve been through so much in recent years, but it’s all been part of the path. My journey down the Yellow Brick Road has been challenging to say the least, but I’m so grateful that in the end it brought me home to you.

  Yours,

  Selene

  Q & A with Selene Castrovilla

  Q: I love this book! What can I do to help?

  A: I invite you to spread the word in any way you feel comfortable. Amazon and Goodreads reviews are invaluable, and any social media mentions are also wonderful. Blogging, Twitter (I’m @Scastrovilla and my hashtag is #yalit), Facebook, Tumblr, Instagram … wherever you socialize, a mention would be golden. Thanks!

  Q: How can I contact you?

  A: My website is www.SeleneCastrovilla.com. On the site there is a way to write to me. I would love it if you do!

  Q: What inspired this story?

  A: I take boxing lessons, and got close with my trainer, Joe. He told me more than once, “My dad used to beat my mom.” That was sad, but a little too vague to be inspiring. Then one day he looked me in the eyes and said, “My dad used to come home every day and shove a gun down my mom’s throat.” That was a specific image that stuck in my head. He also told me about becoming a teen alcoholic, and how violent he was while drunk. He was tagged a “bad” kid – but no one ever bothered to find out what was going on inside. Finally, he told me about the one girl who believed in him, and loved him.

  One night he said to me, “You’re gonna write my story. I just know it.”

  I went home, and opened The Wonderful Wizard of Oz – which I’d instinctively purchased a few weeks prior. I didn’t know why – but I always listened to the guiding voice in my head. The page I turned to was the scene in which Dorothy and her friends return to the Emerald City. The Guardian of the Gate is shocked to see them, saying:

  “But I thought you had gone to visit the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “We did visit her,” said the Scarecrow.

  “And she let you go again?” asked the man, in wonder.

  “She could not help it, for she is melted,” explained the Scarecrow.

  She is melted. That line resounded with me. I wrote it three times on a piece of junk mail. Then I wrote, “Melt.” And I knew that was the title of my book. I started writing Joe’s story – it just came pouring out – with quotes from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz interspersed. The first section is called “No place like home,” and we witness the father abusing the mother in front of Joey and his brothers. In “Munchkinland,” the second part, Joey meets good-girl Dorothy in Dunkin’ Donuts. This unlikely couple heads down the metaphorical Yellow Brick Road looking for a way to beat the odds and be together. But what’s waiting for them ahead?

  Q: Is there a message you hope to communicate through your writing?

  A: I write about humanity. It’s not so much a message that I mean to convey, but more a look in the mirror. This goes for my books about American history as well. No matter when a story takes place, what’s in the heart never changes. I always ask the question, “What motivates people to act as they do?” Do I find the answer? I’ll leave that to you, the reader, to decide.

  Q: Who are your biggest literary influences?

  A: I love so many writers, but my big three are William Shakespeare, William Faulkner and J.D. Salinger. Brilliant thoughts expressed in brilliant words.

  Q: Do you write from an outline or are you a “pantser”?

  A: Neither, but closer to “pantser” – except I know the whole thing. My stories leap out from somewhere in my brain, like they’ve been lying in ambush. They’re complete, and demanding to be transcribed. The only explanation I can come up with is that they’ve been fermenting in my subconscious. This is quite a gift and I’m grateful, but it does make it hard to function in my “real” life when a story is so relentless about being told. My kids definitely don’t enjoy it when my muse hits!

  I would like to try a more civilized “outline” approach some day. I hear it works well. But whenever I’m considering it – and hesitating, because I’m not sure how to begin such a calm endeavor – a new story bursts forth, and away I go rushing again. Hey, there are worse things in life ;)

  Q: Why YA as opposed to some other genre?

  A: I write in other genres, but there’s something about YA which particularly draws me. Adolescence is the most crucial time: it shapes us, and we carry the things that happen during those years for the rest of our lives. I have so many unresolved issues from when I was a teen, and as a result it’s my “default�
� setting. People ask how I can write in a teen voice so authentically, and I say, “Because I’m still a teen.” No matter what my actual age is, a part of me hovers at seventeen.

  “Miss Castrovilla –Oh my gosh! I cry every single time I read your book The Girl Next Door. I really wanted to thank you for such a masterpiece! I’ve checked it out from my library so many times, once in a while just to skim it and feel the raw emotion of Jesse and Sam’s love. It’s … gorgeous. When I finish high school, I’m going to pursue a degree and career in journalism, and write at home –like you. Thank you also for helping to shape my writing.” –Samantha H.

  Who could ask for anything more?

  I’m so grateful for this writing life – and the connection I forge with my readers. I know I’m being the change I wish to see in the world – as Gandhi counseled. For me, that change is love. We need to make love our top priority. Love of others, love of our earth, love of ourselves. Imagine a world fueled by love.

  Q: What is your favorite color?

  A: Purple! I ensconce myself in it as much as possible.

  Q: What are your favorite movies?

  A: Good Will Hunting, The Hangover, The Long Kiss Goodnight,

  Serendipity, My Big Fat Greek Wedding and Dead Again.

  Q: What are your favorite TV shows?

  A: My favorite TV shows have all completed their runs (I don’t watch enough TV to commit to new shows these days.) They are: In Plain Sight, Burn Notice, Arrested Development, Seinfeld and Friends. When I was a kid I loved old reruns of The Mod Squad, It Takes a Thief and Starsky and Hutch.. My favorite prime time shows were the Tuesday night lineup of Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley and Three’s Company. I also enjoyed The Love Boat and Fantasy Island on Saturday nights.

  Q: What do you want on your tombstone?

  A: She cared. (Although I want to be cremated, so maybe it can be engraved on a statue. Wouldn’t that be the coolest?)

  Q: What’s the greatest compliment a reader can give you?

  A: To tell me that they cared about my characters.

  Excerpt from

  Saved By The Music

  by

  Selene Castrovilla

  “It is required, you do awake your faith.”

  —William Shakespeare

  1

  Stranded

  The taxi’s spinning wheels spit pebbles and dirt as it left me behind at the marina’s gate. The dusty haze was a perfect fit for my state of mind.

  I wobbled across the driveway and into the marina, trying to balance with my heavy suitcase. Sweat beaded under my bangs.

  It was unbearably bright, like the sun was aiming right at me. But looking around, I decided that the marina needed all the brightening it could get. Damaged boats lined the gravel-filled boatyard, all of them in dry dock, up on stilts like big crutches—a nautical hospital. Their exposed insides were like my wrecked life. But at least someone cared enough to fix them.

  The sounds of saws, drills, and hammers punctured the air as I passed the workers using them. I tried tuning out the men’s jeering whistles.

  One yelled out, “Nice ass.”

  Another called, “Hey, Slim.”

  Some people really get off on taunting strangers. I crunched though gravel, kicking up pieces as I moved toward the water. Sailboats, cruisers, and yachts were all tied with rope to the docks.

  So where was my Aunt Agatha’s barge? What did a barge even look like?

  Aunt Agatha had told me about the barges that kings rode on centuries before, but she’d never actually described their appearance. There didn’t seem to be anything worthy of royalty bobbing about in this marina, at least not anything I saw.

  “Over here, Willow!” a scratchy voice called out.

  There was Aunt Agatha, waving from the deck of a huge and hideous metal monstrosity. This blows, I thought, doubting there’d be any cable TV.

  My aunt hurried off the vile green vessel, prancing along a wooden plank across the water to reach me.

  “What is that ugly thing?” I asked.

  “That barge is our future concert hall!”

  She could not be serious.

  “It looks like it belongs in the army.”

  “Darling, it just needs some work.”

  I couldn’t believe my bad karma. Instead of staying in the run-down house where I lived with my mother—that is, whenever my mom actually came home—I’d be spending the summer on a steel nightmare. At least, in the house, I had my own room with all my stuff, instead of whatever I could squeeze into my suitcase.

  Snatching my giant bag, Aunt Agatha galloped back up the narrow gangplank that stretched from the dock to the barge.

  “What are you waiting for, dear heart?” she called. “An invitation?”

  I studied the gray, decaying wood of the gangplank, which was still shaking from her running on it.

  I can’t get on that, I thought. My aunt is nuts!

  Beaming at me with her sunbaked, craggy face, Aunt Agatha looked like a happy walnut. What could she possibly be smiling about? She wore a baggy, paint-splotched sweatshirt and frayed jeans.

  Why couldn’t she just be normal?

  “Hurry up,” she urged. “Time’s ticking!”

  I eyed the plank again. “You want me to cross the water on that thing? No way!”

  “It’s the only way, love.”

  I didn’t want to tell Aunt Agatha I was scared.

  “Put your mind in the soles of your feet,” she said, dancing on the plank.

  What did that mean?

  Her voice was bursting with enthusiasm, which annoyed the hell out of me. “Don’t look down.”

  I looked down. Yuk! Could any fish survive in that murk? A piece of a tire and a crushed milk carton floated by. I shivered. I was next.

  “Concentrate, darling. You can do it!”

  My gaze returned to the scrawny piece of lumber. What if it snapped? I couldn’t swim.

  I bit my lip and shuffled mentally through my options: #1: Run. #2: Call the authorities. #3: Keep quiet and walk the plank.

  If I ran away from the barge, it would be smack into the hellish slum I’d just ridden through, which waited outside the tall barbed wire fence of the boatyard.

  I didn’t see any pay phones around the god-forsaken marina, and I was about the only one in tenth grade without a cell phone. That meant I’d have to get on the barge, plank or not. I needed to meet Aunt Agatha’s demands –for now.

  She held out her hand as far as she could reach. “Come on, love,” she coaxed.

  I tried to put my mind in my soles, like she said. I placed one foot on the wood. It quivered. I tried not to.

  I knelt and began crawling across the creaking, sagging plank. It smelled moldy and felt rough. I held my breath. The plank bounced. My eyes focused on my aunt’s insanely happy face, and I forced my body to go on.

  “Okay, love!”

  Aunt Agatha’s outstretched hand waited, just inches away. I lurched forward. The plank shook again as our hands locked. I’d made it.

  “Welcome home, darling,” she bubbled, giving me a hug.

  Home? This place would never be home.

  “And remember, things are only obstacles if you perceive them as such,” Aunt Agatha added.

  Everything was an obstacle. Especially her and her sorry barge.

  Excerpt from

  The Girl Next Door

  by

  Selene Castrovilla

  “Life begins perpetually …

  Life, forever dying to be born afresh,

  forever young and eager,

  will presently stand upon this earth as upon a footstool,

  and stretch out its realm amidst the stars.”

  —H.G. Wells

  Chapter One

  Jesse’s dying.

  The doctors are 96 percent sure of it.

  They even have a time-line: seven months. They give him seven months, tops. I try to hold on to hope, but 4 percent is a weak reed to cling to
while you’re thrashing to keep your head above water.

  I caught Jesse crying one morning when he thought I was sleeping. Gwen, his mom, lets me stay over because he’s afraid to be alone. He doesn’t want to die alone.

  I sleep in his old bed; it’s on a low iron frame with wheels. Jesse sleeps in his new hospital bed; it’s high from the ground, with thick silver bars on the sides and fake wood paneling on the headboard. It’s ugly and depressing, but sometimes he’s in a lot of pain, and he can move his bed into different positions to get more comfortable.

  That morning, I woke to the whirring sound of his bed moving. Then came the slight scrape of metal as he slid the plastic bucket off the edge of his bedside table and heaved. He throws up a lot from all the chemo crap they put him through.

  After, he gargled with the water Maria, the housekeeper, leaves next to the bucket every night.

  All of a sudden he made this kind of wounded noise and I thought he was gonna heave again, but that wasn’t it—he was sobbing.

  You can’t blame him. One minute he’s the star baseball player in high school, class president and the first junior to be editor of the school newspaper. All down the rows of slamming lockers at Midland Prep you could always hear the name Jesse Parker. Girls wanted to date him. Guys wanted to hang with him to get the excess girls.

  The next minute, he’s being radiated like Hiroshima, even though the doctors said he was probably gonna die anyway.

  They’re torturing my best friend.

  I cracked my eyes open. The sunshine poured in through his window, right on the wall of shelves with all his trophies and awards facing us. On a beautiful Saturday morning, Jesse should have been buttoning his blue and yellow pinstriped uniform, putting on his cap with the navy “M” over his curly black hair, lacing his cleats, grabbing his bat and heading into the park. Instead, the uniform and cap hung at the back of his closet, the cleats were tossed who knew where, the bat was leaning in the far corner, and Jess lay in bed, some days barely able to walk.