Young Writers Society

PROLOGUE:

My name is Luna Soto, and this is my story. I’m presuming that you picked up this book and started to read because you decided that my innermost thoughts and dim-witted blunders interested you. And that’s okay, I guess. I’m somewhat creeped out (who are you, and why do you want to snoop around my memories?), but mostly flattered. Seriously, I am. I happen to think of myself as somewhat ordinary, but I’m aware that some of the events in my life have been quite extraordinary. And the fact that the prospect of these events has driven you to read about them tells me that you are a kindred spirit. What I mean to say is that if you seek stories of dream worlds, magic, romance, and adventure, then we have much in common. You see, I didn’t consciously search for these things, as you do, but they found me just the same.

Now, before I begin my tale, there are five things you should know about me.

1) As I said before, my name is Luna Soto. Yes, it’s a Spanish name. And no, I’m not Spanish. Unfortunately for me, my somewhat eccentric parents have bonded through a love for Spanish culture, so even though they are both of Irish descent, they saw fit to name me Luna. They changed their last names to Soto before I was born. Yeah, I know…strange, right? I’ve always hated the first day of school for this reason. Every year the teachers call my name during roll call and gawk at me with their mouths gaping in surprise when I raise my hand. I can see them study my face, no doubt wondering how a girl with albino-pale skin, a dusting of freckles, and wild red hair came by the name of Luna. I don’t volunteer the information, and they are too polite to ask.

2) I do not like fish. I do not plan to eat fish now or ever. I blame my Uncle Aidan for this. You see, he thought it would be a real hoot to take me fishing when I was about six years old. He showed me how to cast my line into the water, and we sat and waited for a bite. Well, I got a bite, all right. A big one. Some monstrous fish clamped down on that hook and dragged me into the water. I let go of the pole, shrieking with fear, and sunk into the depths of that murky hole of a pond. Uncle Aidan pulled me back onto dry land, but I’ve never been the same. Fish are gross, slimy, wet, and wriggly. Ughhh. Forgive me if I shudder.

3) I have a pet seal. His name is Mervin and he lives in a fountain in my backyard. Whenever my mother makes fish for dinner, or as she calls it, la cena, I bring it to Mervin so he can make it disappear. Mervin likes fish, but I forgive him because he is a seal, and is therefore used to wet, slimy things.

4) Dirty Dancing is the best movie ever made. Let’s face it…no one even cares about dialogue or plot as long as Patrick Swayze is onscreen. My mom doesn’t understand this, but look who she married.

5) She married my dad, in case you didn’t catch on. He is tall and thin as a scarecrow. He went grey at twenty, and was bald by the time he reached thirty. He has so many freckles you can barely see his face. I love him, but I think we can all agree he wasn’t the world’s greatest catch. At least in comparison to Patrick Swayze.

So there you have it…me in a nutshell. And alright, I don’t really have a pet seal named Mervin, or even a pet seal by any other name, but a girl can dream. The fountain in my backyard actually does exist, but it lacks any form of flowing water. Instead, its stony basin is filled to the brim with a twisted maze of sinuous vines. Some vines sprout large, exotic flowers in a variety of startling shapes and colors. I keep my distance from the fountain, because it seems to me that the flowers emit a sickeningly sweet cloud of some sort of toxin. My parents would laugh, but they don’t know about the existence of the fountain, and I don’t tell them. They never venture beyond the trimmed grasses at the edge of the patio, never bother to deal with the mess of shrubbery that bars the normalcy of our house from the wild, overgrown edge of our property. I, too, rarely venture there, but not because of the inconvenience. I can never seem to shake off the feeling that the rambling undergrowth belongs to someone else, and that to go there would be trespassing.

But I digress.

You want to hear my story, you say? You want to lose yourself in my thoughts, dreams, and memories? You want to know how it all went down? Well, okay then. Let’s get started.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER ONE:

The day was hot, no, beyond hot. It was as if the sun had gotten sick of life on planet Earth and decided to scorch away anything that moved. Or so I told myself, scowling, as I leaned against the front door of my high school. I was wearing chunky lace-up boots despite the unbearable heat, along with dangerously short denim cut-offs and a white tank. My hair was loose as always, crazy tendrils swirling around my face. I sighed, lifting it off my sticky neck, and considered the merits of chopping it off all together. I had to remind myself that this course of action would result in a coppery afro, or something equally unattractive. I sighed again.

I was waiting for my mom to pick me up and bring me home, lamenting the fact that my dusty blue pickup truck was currently in the shop. I cursed silently at the branch that had smashed through my windshield one night during a particularly malevolent storm. Then I cursed at the storm, and laughed at myself. What was I doing, cursing at natural occurrences? What I should have been doing was wondering why my mom wasn’t here yet. I glanced at my watch and realized she was thirty minutes late. This wasn’t unusual, but today I really needed to get home on time. I had a huge paper due the next day, and no clue what it was even about. I wasn’t too worried about getting a good grade, but I did want to have a general idea of what to write before I spent a few hours procrastinating. I dug in my pocket for my cell phone, but it wasn’t there. I had a faint memory of leaving it at the kitchen table, and let out a third mournful sigh before pulling a book from my bag and beginning to read.

I was well into Pride and Prejudice when the door that I was leaning against flew open, flinging me onto the ground about five feet away.

“Oww!” I howled, dazed, searching wildly for the person who had dared to open the door. My eyes found a pair of heavy black boots (not unlike mine, actually) on the ground beside my head, and my gaze snapped up to a fine-boned male face bearing an amused smile.

“You okay?”

I glared, waiting for some sort of sheepish apology, or maybe just a hand in getting up. It didn’t come. I jumped to my feet and stepped right up to that idiot, invading his personal space, trying to make him uncomfortable enough to back off. My plan didn’t really work. He just stood there, nonplussed, and I was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was over a head taller than me. That definitely took away from my attempt to appear imposing.

“Well, well,” he commented dryly, “that was a rather graceful fall.”

I fumed. “It wasn’t a fall, you dope, you pushed me!”

“Now how could I push you if I was on the other side of the door?” was the response, but I could tell that his attention was elsewhere, that something besides his words occupied his brain. And then I realized he was studying me, in all my anger, inspecting my wide green eyes and freckles and impossible red hair. The pig! He had the audacity to scrutinize me while I was still smarting from his little stunt with the door! The observation only fueled my anger.

“Look, if you think you can just knock me over and-”

He cut me off. “What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your name. I’m new here. I don’t know anyone. I think the proper etiquette when engaged in a conversation with a stranger is to ask their name.”

I would have kept yelling, but I was thrown for a loop. I have a massive temper, as you may have guessed, and I was not used to people crossing me or ignoring the extent of my rage. Which is probably why I was a little lacking in the friends department, come to think of it. So that’s why, when he asked my name, I simply said, “Luna Soto, and don’t you forget it.”

He grinned. “Got some spunk, eh?”

I crossed my arms and sent him my best death glare.

He stooped to pick up my tattered copy of Pride and Prejudice from where it lay forgotten on the pavement, and I could feel most of my anger melt away. Sure, he was a smug, arrogant ass, but I appreciated the fact that he had done the impossible and managed to sidestep my injured wrath. Hey, it didn’t happen so often. I had to give the guy props.

As he handed me the book, I caught sight of his face and almost gasped in surprise. Before, I had been too angry to pay much attention to his appearance, but now I was amazed that I had managed to ignore it earlier. He was, in a word, gorgeous. Wavy locks fell to his shoulders, their impossibly dark shade so black it was almost blue. His eyes actually were blue, a deep, drowned, midnight blue, and dancing with mischief and mystery. His lips were full, yet manly, his cheeks high, and his chin strong. When I finally remembered to breathe, I closed my fingers around the book and stumbled back a few steps.

You’ll understand. He made Patrick Swayze look like a gawky wannabe bad boy, a poser. Next to him, my boy Swayze was seriously plain. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or ecstatic.

“So what’s your name, then?” I asked, masking my awe of him with a tone of cool contempt.

Silence.

“Oh, come on,” I groaned, “We’re not gonna play that game, are we, where I have to guess your name? ‘Cause I’ve read the story, and I know it’s Rumplestilskin.”

I meant it as a joke, I guess, albeit an exasperated one, but he countered me with a more serious answer.

“Names aren’t to be fooled with, you know. A name holds a lot of power. You’ve unwittingly given me power over you, Miss Soto, and I’m not so sure I want to give you that same luxury.” His tone was teasing, yet I could tell he meant some of what he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but at that very second I was interrupted by the blast of a car horn as my mother cried, “Come on, Niña, get in the car!”

Slender fingers slipped my book bag over my shoulders as I turned to go, and I could feel oddly cool breath against my ear. "You can call me Amir,” he whispered, voice silky, and that was that. I could feel his glittering eyes on me as I got into the car, and the sensation lingered long after we drove away.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in my room, under the pretense of writing my paper. In actuality, I was having trouble concentrating. My odd encounter had left me hopelessly full of questions, and completely mystified. Who was this Amir? And what was he doing here? He looked about my age, but there was an odd, timeless quality to his face that caused him to appear overly smooth and remote. I tried to picture him in school, sitting at one of those scratched wooden desks, and failed. Suddenly I chuckled. God, it was gonna be such a laugh watching the rest of the school react to his presence. The girls would be all over him, and the guys would be sure to see him as a threat. A scene played out in my head, with the girls fawning and prancing around in their cutest outfits, and the boys wrestling and making coarse jokes in an effort to appear more macho. I swallowed an intense feeling of disgust for the rest of the teenagers I had met in my life, suddenly regretting my vivid imagination. And what of Amir? Was his little show of cool aloofness just for me, the freak? Would he turn into the obnoxious specimen known as the teenage boy when surrounded by other, more social, people?

I fell asleep wondering, and my last conscious thought was the memory of his cool fingers sliding across my shoulders, placing my backpack there.

My sleep was restless. I dreamt of the fountain in my backyard, the vines twisting and curling like living serpents. I was standing there, barefoot, before the fountain, and my face was wild with fear. The serpent-vines slithered towards me, reaching, poisonous blooms snapping. I tried to scream, but I was frozen. Just as the vines were about to reach me, Amir stepped forward, white skin glowing in the moonlight. “The Lord of Dreams hath come to bade you good night.” His voice was smooth as syrup and deep, and his bare chest gleamed. I watched in fascination as the vines shriveled and disappeared. He came to take my hand then, and raised it to his lips. “I welcome you, Lady Night.”

I awoke with a pounding headache, my sheets soaked with sweat. My mother took one look at me as I stumbled down the stairs, bleary-eyed and wincing at the pain in my head, and sent me back to bed. “Go on, Niña, you’re sick. I’ll just call the store and tell them I need to work the late shift today. Then I’ll bring you some tea, okay?”

I mumbled my thanks and gratefully dragged myself back to my room, collapsing onto the mess of blankets. I shied away from remembering my dream, mostly because it troubled me and my skull ached too much to think. Still, images tugged at the edges of my thoughts, images of those snake-like vines coming for me, images of Amir, strong and proud, facing them down. I didn’t know what to think.

“Odd,” I croaked, before succumbing to the heaviness of my eyelids. I slept again, like a rock, and didn’t dream, waking in the late afternoon with my headache faded to a gentle throb. I threw on some clothes and went down to the kitchen then, suddenly ravenous, finding a note on the counter as I rummaged around for food. Good morning, Luna, it said, Have gone to work. Will be home by 6:00. There’s leftover paella in the fridge if you get hungry. Love, Mom.

Grinning at my mother’s innate ability to anticipate my needs, I found a small bowl of paella on the third shelf of the refrigerator and dug in, wolfing it down within seconds. I placed my dirty dishes in the sink.

What to do now? My head ached too much to edit that essay I had distractedly slapped together the night before, too much to continue my sixth reading of Pride and Prejudice . I felt vastly uncreative as I failed to think of any other options to serve as my afternoon amusement. Finally, exasperated, I pulled on my boots and resolved to wander around the neighborhood.

As I slipped outside, a warm breeze floated across my face, bringing with it the sweet scent of the pansies that lined the brick path leading to the sidewalk. It was hot, but not as hot as it had been the day before, thank God. I walked slowly down the street, feeling slightly woozy, but mostly glad to get out of the house. To me, home seemed stifling during the rare times I got sick.

My old elementary school was located a few blocks away, and I set my course in that general direction. Occasional cars whooshed by, bright in the sunlight. One of the cars honked at me, and a long arm reached out of the window to wave. By the time I had the presence of mind to wave back, the car was gone.

My thoughts drifted lazily around Amir, but it was easy to disregard my troubled fascination with him when the friendliness of the day had me in its warm embrace. It was also easy to disregard my headache, which was a major plus. After about ten minutes of strolling, I reached the playground behind the elementary school and perched on the rubber seat of a swing.

I have a thing for swings, you know. They’re like the rocking chairs for a new generation, the same rocking motion without the grandmotherly connotations. God forbid I was to sit in a rocking chair, I would be mercilessly ridiculed, but when I sit on a swing, people tilt their heads and say “Aww, how cute.”

Well, I’ll take what I can get.

So I was sitting there, swaying gently and enjoying the heat of the sun on my face, when out of nowhere, something thumped me on the back. I yelped. The pain was somewhere between a hug from my Uncle Aidan when he’s had a few too many and what I imagine a building feels when struck with a wrecking ball. Not that I was concentrating very fiercely on the agony that was my back, since the blow had also sent me soaring through the air for the second time in two days. Needless to say, I wasn’t pleased.

My short flight ended with a face plant into playground sand. When the dust cleared, I lay sprawled on the ground, sputtering with rage and absolutely convinced (As if I needed convincing) that people really needed to stop knocking me over.

A low, honeyed chuckle resonated from the air above me. I looked up.

“You again?” I screeched, scrambling to my feet.

Amir, in all his arrogant glory, just stood there and laughed.

“Are you determined to make me hate you?” I scowled.

“Not determined, but I do seem to have a penchant for it.”

“And what’s your excuse this time?”

“I was merely trying to push your swing back and forth. I’m told it’s quite the rage among four-year-olds.”

I snorted, then clapped a grimy hand over my mouth to hide my grin until I could regain control of my facial features. “You thought that you needed to push me that hard in order to make the swing move? Puh-lease.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t know my own strength.”

Strangely enough, I believed him, even though his tone was one of airy amusement. Maybe it was his eyes, deep and sparkling like cerulean glass, or the fact that I thought I had glimpsed a hint of surprise in them when I found myself flung into a heap of sand. Either way, I was stunned to find my rage subsiding once again. I suspected it had something to do with his amazingly good looks.

“I should try not to argue with pretty people,” I muttered under my breath. I heard laughter, knew that I had been overheard, and spent a few moments concentrating on being annoyed at his excellent hearing. When this failed to rile me up, I resigned myself to my inability to stay mad at this should-be infuriating boy.