The Bright Effect
A Novel by
Autumn Doughton and Erica Cope
The Bright Effect
Copyright © 2015 Autumn Doughton and Erica Cope
Cover Design by Okay Creations
All rights reserved. This book may not be used or reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form without permission from the authors except where permitted by law. All characters and storylines are the property of the authors and your respect and cooperation are greatly appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.
For all the fangirls out there
(You know exactly who you are)
May you always line up for midnight book releases and geek out on Disney songs and scream bloody murder for your favorite band and swoon with your friends over the forever-awesome Mr. Darcy.
And, girls, when someone tries to tell you that you’re a joke, go ahead and laugh in their freaking face. Trust us—it’s not you; it’s them. Because showing the world just how big your love and enthusiasm can be isn’t a silly thing.
It’s everything.
This book is also for Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki because, well, we wrote it and we can dedicate it to whomever we feel like. And you’re never too old to fangirl, are you?
~Autumn and Erica
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Epilogue
Part One
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
~Mary Oliver
CHAPTER ONE
Bash
It feels like it never stops. Like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it’s never going to be enough. Not ever.
The pulse in my neck pumps hard and fast as I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and let my eyes slide to the clock on the dashboard.
Six seventeen.
Shit.
I should have been at the school seventeen minutes ago, but what could I do when Ron, my milky-eyed boss, insisted I stay late to unload the latest shipment of door hinges? Tell him to go screw himself? Sure, it would have been incredible to see the look on his face but not worth it. I’ve learned the hard way that a job is a job. Even if it’s only part time at a local hardware store working for a half-drunk hick.
Fighting back the familiar frustration, I jerk my car to the curb in front of a two-story white stucco building. Just before killing the ignition, I check the time one last time.
Six nineteen.
“Damn,” I mutter as I pocket the keys. I don’t bother to lock the doors because no way someone is going to try to steal my beatdown Bronco. The truck is older than me—driven brand new off the lot by my grandparents and guzzling gas and rusting out ever since. One of these days I figure I’ll have the money to rebuild it, but until then I’m safe from potential car thieves. You have to know to pump on the clutch to start the thing and beyond that, third gear is sticky as hell.
Outside is as cripplingly hot as it is humid, a normal Lowcountry day. I take the weathered stone steps two at a time and cross under a faded red and blue sign that declares this the home of the Jefferson Elementary Jaguars.
Mrs. Hopkins, the woman who runs the after school program must hear my work boots thudding against the linoleum because she sticks her head out the cafeteria door when I jog around the corner.
“Good evening, Mr. Holbrook,” she says, the skin around her mouth puckering.
“Sorry,” I breathe, slowing down. “Work ran late.
“I see that.”
“I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Young man, I know your situation is a unique one,” she drawls in a heavy South Carolina accent. “And I do believe that everyone at this school has tried to be understanding and accommodating.”
“And I appreciate that,” I interject, trying to make my way past her.
“But,” she continues with a drawn-out sigh that sets my skin prickling, “you must agree that the school year has taken off like a herd of turtles. Why, it’s only September and you’ve already been late for pick-up at least a half a dozen times.”
“And I’m sorry about that, but like I said, work ran late.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “We all have our burdens. If you can’t make it here on time consistently, you’re going to have to find another arrangement for Carter.”
As far as another after school arrangement is concerned, there are no options. At least none that I can afford.
“I’ll be here on time,” I say.
It’s clear that Mrs. Hopkins doesn’t believe this, but after an uncomfortable pause, she nods her head and pushes the door wider to let me by.
The cafeteria reeks of crayons and rubbery hot dogs just like it did when I went to school here. By this time of day the place is mostly deserted and it doesn’t take me long to spot Carter. He’s sitting with a teacher at one of the long lunch tables. From here I can only see the back of the teacher’s head and I wonder if this woman is the reading tutor he mentioned last week. And then I start to wonder if maybe I should know who this tutor is.
A parent knows that kind of thing, don’t they? Just like a parent picks up his kid on time and carries around hand sanitizer and helps with homework and has the laundry done and knows what’s for dinner.
My aunt and uncle are right. I’m in so over my head it’s not even funny.
The sound of Carter’s small voice shakes loose the thoughts spinning around my head. “A volcano can t-t-t—”
“Trigger,” the tutor offers.
“Trigger floo—”
“That’s a tricky one because of the double o. You’re going to pronounce it like the ‘uh’ sound in the word umbrella.”
“Okay.” Carter is nodding his head. “A volcano can trigger fl-floods, mudslides, r-rockfalls and...and… t-t-tuna—what’s that word?”
“Tsunamis.”
“And tsunamis.”
I’m stunned. This is the first time I’ve heard him read anything that wasn’t written by Dr. Seuss. Carter is a smart kid but since school started he’s been struggling to keep up with the other first graders in his class. I’ve already met with his teacher twice and the last time she even broached the possibility of moving him to a remedial class.
“Great job, Carter. Can you try the next s
entence?” she asks gently. Her hair is pulled back into a long, dark braid that falls a few inches past her shoulders. She has one leg bent up under the other and I notice that beneath the simple black dress she’s got on, she’s wearing leggings colored with swirling stars and planets. Huh.
“Sure,” Carter says and finds his place on the page. “There are more th-than 500 a-ac—”
“Active.”
“Active volcanos in the world.”
When he finishes the sentence, I put my fingers up to my mouth and blow out a shrill whistle. “Awesome job, my man!”
He lifts his head and throws up a maniac gap-toothed smile. “Bash! I’m reading my science worksheet!”
“I see that. And, hey, sorry I’m late,” I say. This is the moment the teacher turns around and I realize that it’s not a teacher helping him. It’s Amelia Bright.
I freeze.
It’s not that I’ve got a problem with Amelia or that I even really know her beyond her face and reputation at school for being rich and a brain. Just seeing her here, ten feet away from me, is unexpected.
Surprise is written all over her face as well. “Sebastian?”
No one has called me that in years. Sometime during fourth grade Sebastian disappeared and Bash took his place. I have to remind myself that the fourth grade was probably the last time Amelia and I spoke.
“What are you doing here, Amelia?” It comes out gruffer than I intend.
She blinks several times. “I volunteer at the elementary school twice a week to tutor kids who need a little extra help with reading. And, um, what about you?”
“I’m here for Carter.”
“Oh.” I can practically see her doing the math. I’m eighteen and Carter is just about to turn seven so that would make him my…
“He’s my brother,” I say in answer to her unasked question.
“Oh right.” She swallows hard. “Mrs. Hopkins told me his guardian was running late.”
“That would be me.” I raise my hand.
Confusion flashes in her light brown eyes. “But you said you were his brother.”
The last thing I feel like doing after this for-shit day is explaining the situation to Amelia Bright. There’s no way that someone like her could ever understand what Carter and I have been through. We might live in the same town and go to the same school, but Amelia and her sister, Daphne, and all of their uppity, porcelain doll friends live on a different planet than we do.
This girl doesn’t have the first clue about hard work or real life. She doesn’t know how quickly everything you cherish can burn and crumble to nothing but ash.
I cross my arms over my chest and pointedly turn my attention to my brother. “Come on and get your stuff, bud.”
But Carter is more generous than I am. As he’s slinging his black backpack across his shoulders and reaching for his lunchbox, he tells Amelia, “I live with Bash. He takes care of me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” I ask her. “It’s not that complicated.”
Amelia studies me with a strange look on her face. “You raise your brother?”
For someone who is supposed to be smart, she’s being a little a slow on the uptake.
“Yeah.”
“But how?”
I shake my head, evading the question, and reach for Carter’s hand. “You ready to get out of here?”
Amelia doesn’t get that I’m ignoring her or maybe she doesn’t care. She stands from the chair and pushes, “How do you raise your brother and go to school?”
Now I’m on the verge of being pissed off. I want to ask her why she thinks this is any of her business, but I remember the way Carter was reading about volcanoes a minute ago and I keep the acidic words trapped in my mouth.
“What about your grades?” she continues, her voice ticking upward. “And what about college next year?”
Jesus, why won’t she let this drop?
“I’m already so overwhelmed with everything that they’re expecting of us senior year,” she’s telling me like I care. “I can’t imagine.”
That’s it. That last comment is what does it for me.
“Of course you can’t imagine it. You’re Miss Perfect, existing in a perfect world where people live in five-bedroom mansions and drive around Green Cove in cars paid for by Daddy. You probably spend your nights on a featherbed dreaming about unicorns and lollipops. I know this is hard for you to believe, but some of us dream about how we’re going to scrounge up enough money to pay the electric bill.”
Amelia’s jaw drops open. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
But I’m not done. “Thank’s for helping Carter with his reading,” I say snidely. “He sounds great and I’m sure I owe that to you, but don’t think that makes it okay for you to look down your nose at us.”
“I-I don’t… I’m not looking down on you.”
Carter makes a sound of protest but I tighten my grip on his hand and pull him toward the door. We don’t need this bullshit.
Behind us, Amelia calls out another pathetic apology.
In a steely voice, I send a parting shot over my shoulder. “Just so you know—some things are a lot more important than grades and college.”
CHAPTER TWO
Amelia
Daddy likes to say that big decisions all come down to what your gut tells you when everything is on the line.
I prefer to base my life choices on facts, which is why I’m currently sitting in the middle of the bed with my computer balanced on my knees, toggling between school websites and tallying up pros and cons in a spiral notebook. So far, in terms of checkmarks in the pro column, Emory is in the lead and College of Charleston is second. But a quick assessment of my list tells me that Vanderbilt and Wake Forest aren’t far behind.
Eyes still on the screen, I reach into the half-eaten bag of Red Vines that’s resting against my thigh and fish out a piece of the sugary licorice.
“What are you doing?”
I’m so absorbed in the list that I don’t hear her right away.
“Amelia!”
My attention is yanked away from the screen and I see my sister at the edge of my bed, jiggling a little on her toes and flouncing her arms awkwardly like a bird about to take flight. It takes me a second to figure out that she’s drying her nail polish.
“Um, hello?” I say, gesturing to the door. No matter how often I ask her to knock, Daphne lives by the what’s yours is mine mentality. She thinks because we’re twins and share genetic code, she has 24-7 access to my room. And to me. “Maybe you’ve heard of this custom we have called knocking?”
“I asked what you’re doing,” she repeats, ignoring everything I’ve just said.
“Oh, the usual. Just trying to plan out the rest of my life. And I know that figuring out which college has a better teacher to student ratio isn’t quite as important as researching where to find the biggest yarn ball in America, but we all have to have aspirations.”
Daphne hops onto my bed, careful not to brush her nails against the pale floral comforter. She points to the bag of candy and snaps her teeth to let me know she wants a piece. “For your information, the biggest yarn ball isn’t even on my list.”
“A major oversight,” I scoff as I dig out another Red Vine and stick it into her waiting mouth.
Unlike me, my sister hasn’t shown a lot of interest in planning for school next year. She’d rather devote all of her brain power to mapping out the road trip she wants to take next summer to get our best friend, Audra, out to California for school.
“What does it say to you that I’m working on a list of colleges and you’re working on a list of the wackiest sites in the country?”
“That I’m a lot more fun than you?” she asks as she chews.
I do a yes-no head shake. “Or that you’re going to wind up spending your days in a bathrobe and slippers and living on my couch when we’re thirty.”
“Whatever. You can judg
e me all you want if you do me a big favor.”
I raise an eyebrow in suspicion. “What kind of favor?”
“An easy one.”
As if I haven’t heard that one before. “Like…?”
“Can I borrow your purple dress for tomorrow night?”
I let go of a gusty sigh. “Which one?”
Daphne lifts a hand. “Wait. You have more than one purple dress? Why do I not know this?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I like purple.”
She laughs. “I was thinking of the Tory Burch, but I’ll take whichever dress is the shortest.”
“Daphne!” I scold though I’m not really surprised. Modesty is not really Daphne’s thing.
“What?” she feigns innocence. “We were blessed with great legs, Amelia. Just because you’ve chosen to cover them up with leggings every day—”
“Not every day.”
“—and socks and God knows what else, doesn’t mean that I have to. And, anyway, when I tell you what’s happening tomorrow night, you’ll understand completely.”
I moan but take the bait. “What’s happening tomorrow night?”
“Are you sitting down?”
I make a point of looking around my bed. “What kind of question is that? I’ve been sitting down since you barged into my room.”
“Gah, Amelia! It’s just an expression,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You know Spencer?”
“Spencer McGovern?” A quiver of unease ripples through me as she nods enthusiastically.
“He finally asked me out!”
“And I’m guessing the smile on your face means that you said yes?”
“Are you being for real right now? Of course I said yes. I mean… hellooo?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been working on him since sophomore year. He’s muscly and beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.”
This is probably true. With his sculpted features, movie-star smile, and bronze sun-god hair, Spencer McGovern is certainly beautiful. He’s also abrasive, self-important, and incredibly rude.
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