The award-winning Rowan Slone Series follows teenager Rowan as she struggles to leave her traumatic past behind and move toward a future she’s always dreamed of. To achieve her goals, though, she must overcome self-inflicted guilt over her baby brother’s death, parent-driven blame, and her conniving sister’s constant manipulations to ruin her life.
Things are not all bad, though, as Rowan falls in love, succeeds in getting a college scholarship, and maintains a close-knit relationship with long-time friend, Jess. She even has points of happiness that make her feel things might turn out okay after all.
But the past is never far behind as painful memories continue to haunt her, threatening to destroy her carefully built life.
Can Rowan find the courage to fight for her future or is she doomed to dwell in the past?
My Name Is Rowan
Copyright © 2015 Tracy Hewitt Meyer
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Cerulean Publishing
Print edition ISBN numbers:
ISBN-13: 978-0-692-50163-4
ISBN-10: 0692501630
I owe my gratitude and so much more to Blue Harvest Creative. Always Rowan’s champion, always my champion, they have provided endless support. Thank you so much.
To my family. Words do not describe my love and gratitude.
To my readers. May peace, love and hope always be within your reach. Thank you for reading Rowan’s story.
INTRODUCTION
A LIFE, REDEFINED
A LIFE, FORWARD
A LIFE, FREED
Dear reader,
When I started the Rowan Slone Series, I had three goals in mind. First of all, I wanted to write a captivating story about a teenage girl in Appalachia. Secondly, I wanted to dive deep into this teen’s traumatic existence and explore her methods of coping. Finally, and most importantly, I wanted to see what role hope played in her being able to pick herself up and work her way—however painstakingly slow—toward the future she wanted.
Some might say I threw too many obstacles in Rowan’s path, hurtling trauma after trauma at her until she was in so much pain she almost couldn’t bear it.
I disagree.
The point of Rowan’s story is to challenge, incite thought, and ignite emotion. If I didn’t take Rowan, and the reader, into a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking state of being, then how could Rowan or the reader understand the astounding impact hope can have on someone’s life?
Hope is the main theme of Rowan’s story and it is an emotion I wanted the reader to take away when he or she read the last epilogue in the last book of the series. No matter how bad life gets—and Rowan’s life got really bad—there is always hope. Never give up because somewhere deep inside, you believe that things will get better; that the life that lies ahead will be something more than it is now.
If just one reader can close the final chapter of Rowan’s story and feel a renewed sense of hope then I, as the author of her story, feel I did my job.
Thank you for reading her story,
Tracy Hewitt Meyer
July 30, 2015
“ROWAN SLONE.” Mr. Chambers, my biology teacher, stood at the front of the classroom, peering at me over wire-rimmed bifocals. “You are paired with Mike Anderson. And please try to sit up straight.” With cheeks aflame, I pushed my butt back in the seat and straightened my spine.
“Does anyone have any questions?” he asked.
No one answered, already shoving books into backpacks. At the first clang of the bell, students bolted out of seats and out of the room, their brain space already occupied with the next class. But I stayed behind. I hadn’t meant to nearly fall asleep in class. I just wasn’t sleeping well these days or these past several years. Feeling like my skinny arms weighed two hundred pounds, I pushed my own books into my bag. I would apologize to Mr. Chambers. With one year until graduation, now was not the time to get on a teacher’s bad side.
Then I heard my name.
“Hey, Rowan. I guess we’re partners, eh?”
Standing in front of me was Mike Anderson, my new biology partner, high school senior, and member of the varsity soccer team. And the one guy whose image always popped into my head when I thought about the perfect male specimen.
“Um, yeah.” I cleared my throat and picked up the book I’d just dropped on my foot. “I guess we are.”
“When should we start? The report is due at the end of the month, and I’m a terrible writer.”
Mike’s pine-colored eyes peered down at me as I fumbled for an answer. Something about him took my thoughts, jumbled them into a solid mass, and threw them out of my head. I really did need more sleep.
“Rowan? Are you okay?”
My chuckle rang shriller than I liked. “I can start anytime. I work after school, but…um…I have a library pass and we can work on it here at school until nine. On weeknights.”
His dark brows rose. “A library pass? What’s that?”
My lips pulled upward. Was that a smile on my face? Whatever it was, the uncomfortable feelings from a moment ago withered, if not away, then further back in my mind. Talking to him wasn’t so difficult.
“A library pass. You can apply for one in the office. It’s for students who want to study in the evenings.” And stay out of their houses for as long as possible.
“Huh. Sounds cool.” His tone didn’t support the statement.
I shoved another book in my bag, wishing this conversation was over. Or that it would go on forever. Or that I could come across a little bit more interesting than being a library nerd.
“So, how about tomorrow?”
I didn’t bother to check my calendar. “Sure. I can meet tomorrow. Can you be here around seven? I work until six.”
“Yep. I’ll meet you out front.” He laughed. “I don’t think they’d allow me into the school after hours if I tried to get in by myself since I’ve never actually been in the library.”
Still laughing, he strode toward the door, bag slung over one shoulder, his jeans falling just right over his hips.
I let out a whoosh of breath and followed him.
I STUMBLED through the masses of kids and headed toward my locker, feeling a very distinct yet unfamiliar thumping in my chest. Mike Anderson and I had been in school together for years, though he was a senior and I was a junior. Actually, we should’ve both been seniors, but I had to repeat the fifth grade–the same year my baby brother, Aidan, died–the same year my world turned upside down.
I made it to my locker just as my best friend, Jess, came clomping toward me. I don’t know if she meant to stomp or if it was her heavy, military-styled boots that gave extra weight to each of her slender legs.
“Hey, Ro.” She pushed the tortoise-shell glasses up her nose. “Guess what?”
“What?” I turned the combination on my locker.
“Dad’s out of town this weekend. And guess who’s coming over?” Her voice went all sing-songy and I rolled my eyes.
“Let me guess.” I yanked out my next book and slammed the door. “Paul.”
She grabbed my arm and bent down to look me in the face. Jess was several inches taller than me
, as most people were. I was only five-foot-two, not to mention I was trapped inside the body of a prepubescent boy. Or at least I thought so. Jess was at least five-foot-six. And the heels on her boots gave her another two that she really didn’t need.
“I can’t wait. Ro, you have to meet him!”
“I have met him. He was my substitute teacher last year in art class.”
She narrowed her blue eyes, heavily rimmed in black liner. “Don’t start.” She waved her hand in the air and her face morphed back into an expression of bliss. “Ro, you really have to get to know him. He’s just so, well, cool! And he’s really not that much older than us!” Her blood-red lips pulled wide over her white teeth.
I sighed. “What do you see in someone that old?” We started toward English class.
“First of all, he’s not that much older than us. He’s only twenty-five. And second of all, he’s not teaching anymore, so there’s no problem.”
“Other than he’s twenty-five and you’re seventeen!”
She snorted and bumped me with her hip, sending me sprawling to the side. She caught me by my arm and continued, “Promise you’ll meet him again? Give him a chance?”
Jess had been my best friend since the ninth grade when we had physical education together. During a field day event, we were paired in the two-legged race. Being so much taller than me, especially with the added height of her very un-field-day style boots, she ended up practically carrying me across the finish line because my short legs couldn’t keep up. We’d been friends ever since.
“I’ll give him a chance.” I went to my seat.
“HAVE YOU thought about my offer?” Dan, my boss, slid along the counter toward me. He glanced around the small, empty office and leaned over my shoulder. “Are you going to go out with me or not?” His laugh grated on my nerves even though I think he meant it to be soft.
I moved down the red laminate counter, the edge cutting into my stomach, and started gathering papers: work orders, invoices, bills of sale; all the paperwork that came with a used car business. Dan was the owner, and I was the after-school employee. He was thirty. I was seventeen.
Dan drummed his fingernails, short and clean, on the top of an auto magazine with the picture of a Mustang emblazoned across the front. His eyes were on me as I stapled receipts to invoices and piled them in the metal basket.
“You haven’t sold many cars this month,” I said.
“I know.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I’ll make up for it this summer.” He leaned over. “Come on, Rowan. Let’s go out. It’ll be fun. You’re almost eighteen, right? Close enough.” The smell of his breath, a mixture of peppermint gum and the cigarette he allowed himself in the afternoon, wafted through the air.
This time I slid to the other side of the counter. “Don’t be a nag, Dan. You don’t talk to Mrs. Ames like this do you?” Mrs. Ames was the elderly woman who helped him during the day; my ancient counterpart, you could say.
He laughed again and picked up the magazine. “You’ll come to your senses soon enough.” He walked outside to greet a customer.
It was almost six o’clock. In just a few minutes the car lot would close and I could leave. I had to pick up my sister, Trina, from cheerleading practice, but then I could go home and brainstorm ideas for the biology report…and think about what I wanted to wear when I met Mike at the library tomorrow.
My thoughts were interrupted when Jess burst through the door, Dan following close behind.
“Hey, Ro.” She sauntered to the counter and leaned on her elbows. She glanced at Dan wearily then promptly ignored him.
“Hey, Jess. Done with work?”
“Yeah. Mr. Sumners told me I could leave. Something about needing me early tomorrow to sort new inventory.”
Jess worked at the used bookstore on Main Street.
“Can I have a ride home when you’re done? Dad has to work late. Again.” She popped her pink chewing gum and pulled a strand of cherry-red hair through her fingers.
“Yep. Dan, do you need me for anything else?”
“Nope.” He retreated to his personal office. “You’re good. Go on.” He shut the door.
“Come on.” I grabbed her wrist and pulled her out the door and into a warm, spring evening.
It was April in Appalachia, and the world was blushing green. Flower buds spurted out of brown limbs and soon the area would be awash in bright colors–yellow, white, red, blue. I had always loved spring for its simple hopefulness. There was nothing that could brighten the lives of people in this old town, but I loved that nature tried every single year without fail.
“He creeps me out.” Jess glanced behind us where the car lot office sat–a small, perfectly square building that rose out of the ground like an enormous porta-potty.
“Nah. He’s not so bad. I guess.” I didn’t tell her that the closer I got to eighteen, the more he amped up his flirting.
“Yeah, right. He creeps me out.”
“Do you want me to take you home or somewhere else?” I unlocked my car, a tiny, used number my dad had bought from Dan last year.
“Home, please. I have to call Paul. He just started a new job.”
Jess kept talking, but her voice morphed into a dull drone while I thought about the biology report. It was due in four weeks. Tomorrow we’d have to pick a topic. And then we’d have to meet several times to get the report done.
This could mean meeting at least two to three times a week, especially if he wasn’t comfortable with writing. That would equal a lot of time before the paper was due. A lot of time together. Sitting side-by-side. Talking. Getting to know each other.
“Earth to Rowan…” Jess was staring at me.
“Huh?” I shook my head. “Were you saying something?” I eased onto the road.
“Uh, yeah. What were you thinking? You were a million miles away.” She leaned forward until her face filled my peripheral vision. “You’re not thinking about a guy, are you?”
I turned my face toward the side window. “No. Don’t be silly.”
“Is everything okay at home?”
I sighed heavily. “No. I mean, yes. Everything’s fine. I guess I’m just tired.” I yanked my sleeves over my hands and clutched the steering wheel to keep from rubbing my left arm, the place where I’d carved a dozen angry lines over the years. Just because I didn’t take a razor to my skin anymore didn’t mean the urge didn’t pop up every now and then.
Jess rambled on about Paul the entire way to her house, and I couldn’t remember a single thing she’d said as she hopped out of the car. I drove home feeling like I’d had a gallon of coffee, though I hadn’t had any caffeine all day. My mind was alert, but almost manic, unable to focus on any one thing. Instead I kept flipping between thoughts of biology class, Mike, Dan and his flirting, back to Mike, to biology…back to Mike.
I turned onto our dirt driveway and pulled to the side of our small, ranch-style house. My dog, Levi, came bounding toward me with tongue hanging out until his long leash stopped him.
“Hey, boy.” I dropped to my knees.
Levi was a large dog, about eighty pounds, with brown fur and big, brown eyes. He showed up on our property three years ago and Dad had said we could keep him. It was one of the most surprising things Dad had ever done for us. Perhaps the only nice thing he’d ever done.
“Did you have a good day, pal?” Levi flopped onto his back. “Did you find some squirrels to harass? Maybe some birds? Hmm?” His dark doggie lips pulled into a smile.
“I’ll be back in a minute, boy.” I gave him one last pat and moved toward the house, my footsteps becoming heavier and more resistant with each step. Our home looked like many other middle-class families’ homes in this rural area. It was brick, built around the 1960s. But it had its differences. The curtains were always pulled tight. The gutter was loose on one side. And the grass, what patches there were of it, was perpetually brown.
“Mom? I’m home.” I eased through the front door, car
eful not to let it slam. I spoke quietly in case she was in bed, which she most likely was. There were no lights on so I flipped a few switches. Silence was heavy and my stomach rumbled. I zipped up my hoodie as I moved toward the hall.
I paused by my bedroom and threw my bag on the bed. Mom hadn’t willingly left the house in seven years, ever since my brother died. Every now and then she ventured out to see a doctor about her failing health, which now included diabetes and obesity. Or once a year she attended some school function for me or my sister. But mostly she stayed home in bed.
“Mom?” I turned the knob to her bedroom door and pushed it open. She was lying on top of the bed, right in the middle where her ample body had made a permanent indentation. How Dad, who was a tall man, found the room to sleep beside her, I’d never know. An old quilt Gran had woven was thrown over her feet. She was snoring, her brown hair disheveled and sweaty. The television was muted. I eased the door closed and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich.
With stale bread in hand, I walked back outside. “Levi!” He nuzzled my hand as I sat down on the grass. “You want a bite, boy?” He licked my fingers. “Okay, but just this once.”
A truck pulled in. My dad was home.
I hunched over Levi, pulling my knees into my body, trying to blend in with him. I was far enough around the side of the house that Dad might not see me.
He got out of his black pickup truck and walked forward on solid, heavy feet. With short, dark hair and hazel eyes, I could see where a different man used to dwell there. During one of Mom’s more nostalgic moments, she’d laugh about how she fell in love with Elvis Presley. Now, though, Dad’s face, after years in the Army, and the past ten as a prison guard, had become wrinkled, sallow; his hair liberally streaked with gray.
He stopped mid-stride. “Is dinner ready?” His head turned like it was on a pivot, his body held rigidly toward the house.
My Name Is Rowan: The Complete Rowan Slone Trilogy Page 1
