The Black Blossom

[The Black Series: The Black Blossom. Book 1]

Alexandria Taylor is a selective recluse. But she passionately loathes one person in particular: Michael Wood. Paired with him for a class assignment, Alex soon learns Michael is hiding a fascinating--but dangerous--secret: he's from the past.

When a series of events leads them on an adventure into the 5th century, Michael and Alex will begin the domino-toppling effect of what's called "The Black Series." In the end, will they make it out alive?

The first THREE chapters:

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1. One Professor; Two Classes.

My name is Alexandria Taylor. I was named eight-and-a-half weeks after I was born, which would have been twenty-two years ago, if one wanted to get technical. But I find my beginning complicated enough as it is, even though I’m not the only one to have gone through it.

My name isn’t anything special; I wasn’t named after my great-grandmother who served in the American Red Cross when it was first beginning. And I don’t have my mother’s first name or middle name. I don’t even have her last name; I was adopted. But my adoption didn’t involve paperwork and months of anxious contact between natural and potential parents. According to my adoptive mother, she found me one cold, rainy morning beneath the front porch covering of 1339 Sunny Vein Lane. I was abandoned; and I have no idea why.

Ever since I was four years old, I’ve been involved in some sort of swimming activity; whether it was taking lessons or getting the best times and scores in every one of my events. As an incoming freshman in high school, teachers and students already knew my name. And when I was officially on the team, college scouts came to swim meets with their eyes focused on me. I didn’t like all of the attention and excitement, though. I ignored it and refused to think that I was special. Who could admire someone who had been abandoned as a baby and lost her adoptive father when she was only eight-years-old?

In my junior year of high school, history became the only burning passion (other than swimming) in my life. It was as if I had been possessed; everything I came in contact with (whether concrete or intangible) somehow related to history. That was when I met Roger Ward.

It was during one of my history classes in senior year that the class was having a discussion over the advantages and disadvantages of history and studying it; it was then that my eventual best friend called over the class’s low roar, “History is empty without the tools to discover it.”

All of us, including me, turned to stare at him. He was sitting in the back of the classroom, slouching in his desk with his legs stretched out in front of him. He met my eye, looking away immediately. The rest of the class paused for a few seconds, and then went back to their discussion. But I seemed to be the only one who couldn’t concentrate for the remaining thirty minutes; I was too captivated by what the stranger had said. He was a hundred percent right.

After class had ended and everyone was cheering for the end of another week, I caught up with the tall, geeky kid that had spoken such truth. “Hey,” I said, “what was that during class?”

He turned to me, slamming his locker shut and pushing past me. “What was what?”

“History is empty without the tools to discover it?” I quoted. “You’re right, you know.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. I’m always right.”

I looked at him, pushing past the people in the hallway. “Oh really? How much does a polar bear weigh?” The boy stopped suddenly, coming to the front lobby where few others stood. After a split second, he smiled.

“Enough to break the ice,” He paused, “I’m Roger Ward, science and chemistry addict.” I looked him over, cautious.

“I’m Alex Taylor,”

“I know; but I thought it was Alexandria.”

I shrugged, moving for the door. “The only people who call me that are the ones who don’t know me. Or…the ones who think they know me, if that makes sense.” Roger laughed, following me out the door.

“I understand. You’re like a legend to people around here. Students and teachers are always talking about you, or your name will come up in conversation; I hear it all the time. The funny thing is, I never actually see you. Anywhere.”

“You know, so many people talk about me, but they don’t know me. And to solve your mystery, I spend most of my time either in the pool or in the library. I don’t have friends because I neither want nor have time for them. Besides, everyone in this forsaken school is a sadly mistaken fan, not a prospective friend.” We were nearing the sidewalk now, where trees lined the inside edge and dropped burning leaves onto the cement below our feet. Roger thought for a second, gazing at a car that had stopped at the end of the block.

“You know,” he said, adjusting his backpack, “I’ve never been a fan of Alex Taylor’s.” With that, he hurried off to climb into the waiting car. I stopped, absentmindedly staring after him. For the first time in seventeen years of living, I had made my first friend.

Roger and I were still friends after graduation, even when we went to separate colleges. I moved out of my mom’s house, leaving to stay in a small city that appeared to be stuck in an eternally foggy London alley; though I wasn’t even close to London and the city looked nothing like an alley. There’s no real way to describe it, other than that every dawn and dusk would blanket the ground in a thick fog and cloudy, dull sky. Street lamps with light bulbs that looked like flames lined every street. Most buildings were red, brown, grey, or a combination of the three; and most had smoking chimneys on their rooftops. And the weather ranged from barely-passes-for-warm to freezing cold; needless to say, coffee shops were seen frequently on each block.

I happened to live in a five-story apartment complex that had both an outdoor and an indoor pool. And the outside of the building was painted a grey color that resembled stainless steel. If I was walking, on a cold day, it took about fifteen minutes for me to get to my college campus. Even though cable cars ran up and down the streets, I didn’t trust them enough to put my attendance in their care.

My mom lived about half an hour away, and I visited her often during my first two years of college. But when third year rolled around, I stopped due to the demanding study and swim schedules. Then, I usually would see her once a month or so. However, phone calls, though short, were still frequent.

Roger’s motto never really applied to my life until the summer after my junior year. And, no matter how dull and absurd it may be, there is where my story begins…

Sometimes, I felt as though my entire college experience has been one big case of déjà vu. “Nice ‘fly, Alex,” Bailey called as I pulled myself out of the pool. She was still hovering in the water, looking up at me with a smile. Bailey was also a renter in my apartment complex, as well as an occasional swimming partner. I didn’t know her that well, and I never desired to. Not that she was a bad person or boring to talk with, I just…didn’t bother. I thought I worked and lived better if I was on my own; I didn’t like being tied to people.

As she pulled herself out of the water, I answered, smiling weakly. “Thanks Bailey. You didn’t do so badly yourself,” Bailey gave me the same sort of compliment every single time we swam together; to be honest, I was getting a little tired of receiving them.

“You think so? I feel I’ve gotten better. I mean, I’m not, and never was, on a team or anything. I just do it for health purposes, but I don’t try to be as good as you or anything.”

I shrugged. “If you work at something, you get better eventually.”

“So, do you think I should practice more?”

I hesitated, surprised by her question. Why was she asking me for advice? It wasn’t like I knew her as a friend. “I…I guess. If you want to, that is. I’m…I’m really not in a position to give you the best counsel on that, you know?”

“Well, how often do you practice?”

“…About five times a week, sometimes more.”

“And how long have you been practicing?” Bailey pushed.

“Let’s see…for about eighteen years.”

“Holy__. I’m going to be old enough to be a grandma by then! There’s got to be a better way… Ooh! I could practice for longer each day.” She clapped her hands in excitement, rushing to the lounge chair beside the door and grabbing her towel. After she was gone, I took a few seconds to rest, my head too crowded for swimming. It was then that I noticed the old newspaper. Someone was lying on a chair, reading while the paper hid their face. I noticed the person’s hands move to fold the paper up; I didn’t wait to see the person’s face before I dove back into the water, feeling the cool water wash away the world around me.

Nothing matters when I’m in the water, nothing but the other side of the pool. My thoughts melt into the cool liquid, dissolving as they touch the rippling fluid. I can’t hear anything but my own movements as my arms and legs swish their way across the pool. Even the people on either side of me; they disappear into the blue haze that makes up the most exciting, secret world ever created. And if I could, I would laugh as I swim past them; they don’t even realize they’re sharing a part of my private escape with me.

Later that day, I printed off the list of books that I would need when school started in three days. Every summer, a week or so before school started, Royal Pane University e-mailed every student a list of books that are required for each of the classes; it was the student’s job to locate their classes on the list and find out which books they needed. Needless to say, it was a time-consuming task that everyone hated.

Going into the small living room, I picked up my phone and called Roger; he picked up on the first ring. “Andry? Hey, how’s it going?”

“Depressing, actually. School starts for me in a few days, and you know what that means: book lists. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me to get them today.”

“Are you kidding? It’s been at least two weeks since we’ve hung out. And breaking the tradition is another excuse to go. I’ll meet you in there, take the cable car.”

As I stepped off the cable car half an hour later, I saw Roger waiting for me, his head protruding above the rest of the crowd’s. It had always been easy to spot Roger not only because of his height, but also because his black hair was tied into dreadlocks and had beads hanging off the ends; Roger was proud of his heritage.

“I said twenty minutes,” Roger said, towering over me. “You’re here in thirty…impressive timing. Are you going for a world record?” He hugged me, bending down slightly.

“Shut up, Roger. I can’t help it if there are a hundred people who want to make stops before me. Besides, I’m usually later than this, consider yourself lucky. Come on, let’s get this torture over with, then we can go get some dinner.”

Roger followed me from the cable car stop, down the sidewalk and into the building that was RPU’s main office; inside was one floor dedicated to school paraphernalia and books, another was dedicated to office things such as student I.D.s and getting parking passes. The third and final floor was for registering for classes and meeting with the school advisors.

“You know how you said earlier that I was lucky?” Roger said as I paid for my books.

“Yeah, why?” I said. The cashier dumped the heavy bag in front of me; I hauled it off the counter, turning to face Roger as we eased away from the check out line.

“Well, I think…you’re the lucky one.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Last night…I was working on this new toy, and I had to go online to do some quick research and--.”

“Get on with it,”

“I found something that might be able to help us find your real mom.” My heart skipped a beat and the air caught behind my tongue. I nearly dropped the bag of books before Roger took it from me, carrying it easily.

“Are you serious? What is it? How’d you find it?”

“It was on one of those underground websites that give you step-by-step instructions for building dangerous things of entertainment. Well, that was where I got the idea, anyway. But the actual website was a place where you can pay to have your DNA and information put into a database that scans another database of potential matches. The company is run by a team of certified scientists who all have gotten Nobel Prizes and awards for their field of work and research. I did some snooping around last night and this morning, and they seem like a pretty damned legitimate site.” By now, we were walking down the sidewalk again, through the light crowd of people.

“Okay,” I said, “and what’s involved with using this company?”

“Money, obviously.”

“Well, duh. How much are we talking here?”

Roger shrugged, handing me the bag as we approached the cable car. “About fifteen-hundred.”

“Fifteen-hundred? That’s like an arm and a leg plus interest! I don’t have that kind of money to, potentially, be throwing away.” Again, Roger shrugged; I stepped onto the cable car.

“Well then, I suggest you find a way to get the money.”

Moo-Shoe is my eight-year-old mixed cat. According to the vet, he’s part Turkish Van, part Siamese, and part Maine Coon; but I’m sure he’s part Serval, too. Turkish Vans have an affinity for swimming, Maine Coons have unusually skilled paws (which they use to play or even eat with), and Siamese enjoy expelling various vocalizations (which they, apparently, use to communicate with their owners). But Servals are proficient at ambush and stalking, which Moo- Shoe demonstrated as I closed the door to my apartment half an hour later.

“Moo-Shoe!” I cried as he crashed into my stomach. He used his back legs to push off of me, darting around the corner and into the living room. Beneath the couch, I heard the familiar ‘you’ve-missed-my-dinner-again’ sound:

Meowgrrr.

This low, throaty sound was used only in instances of intense dislike for me or anyone else. I ignored it, heading into my bathroom to refill his water dish and give him some food. “Are you hungry, big boy?” I called, and a second later Moo-Shoe leapt onto the counter, rubbing against me as he went for the nuggets. “I thought so,” I said with a pause. “I’m sorry I keep forgetting, buddy. It’s not my fault that summer is almost over and I’ve got all this stuff to do. But don’t worry; my schedule won’t be like last year. I’ve got it worked out so I won’t have an ounce of stress or irritation. Nope, nothing pestering me or hanging over me but whether you’ve been fed or not.

“It must be nice,” I said a while later as Moo-Shoe sat on my lap, “to just sit home all the time. All you’ve got to ponder over is if you’re going to lick yourself now or after your afternoon sunbathing. I’d like that… Not the licking part, but the simplicity of it all. You’ve got no idea how much animals have it made.”

Monday morning seemed to arrive in an ostentatious manner, making summer come to a screeching halt. I didn’t want to take the effort to turn my alarm clock off, but somehow I convinced myself that the sooner I do, the sooner the day can be started; and the sooner the day’s started, the sooner it can be over. So I pulled myself out of bed, ate breakfast, stumbled into the shower, and dressed. My hair was a different story, but it wasn’t like I cared about first-day impressions.

I had some lady’s awful, independent, brown hair. It refused to stay frizz-free and was coarse, unpleasant to feel, and had never heard of the word straight. Besides being horrible, everyone expected good first-day impressions; I threw it up in a messy ponytail and left my bathroom. Stealing a longing glance at the end of my dresser, where my swimsuit lay, I grabbed my bag from beside my bedroom entrance and closed the door. Moo-Shoe was lounging on the couch, his eyes closed peacefully.

“Bye Moo-Shoe, I’ll be back soon. Don’t order pizza; and if you rent a movie, watch it.” He only gave me an annoyed stare as I closed the front door, locking it.

The majority of RPU students drove, some walked, and some rode the cable cars. I was, and always had been, a walker. Of course, it wasn’t fun to carry fifteen pounds of bulky textbooks in the morning chill, but the cable cars weren’t reliable if you wanted to get to school on time.

As I reached campus, I only have a little further to go in order to reach the History and English building. Students that passed me greeted me, but I ignored them. College wasn’t any different than high school, other than the fact that it was bigger. I was still known, especially among the sports teams, and I still hated it. I wasn’t any more special than anyone else.

History was my first of two classes that day. The professor was also the professor for my English class. I had never had him before, and couldn’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and apprehension. What if I didn’t like him, would I be able to stand three hours of him twice a week?

The nerves vanished as I pushed through the doors, entering the large, stadium-like classroom. There were a few people already there, some sitting patiently and others acting like the freshman they should have been. Two or three guys were blocking my way to the stairs, pushing and joking with each other. I stood impatiently for a second or two, and then sighed heavily. The football players looked at me, exchanging looks.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Excuse you for what?” One said dimly. I felt my irritation rise.

“The stairs? You’re blocking them.”

“Well…I don’t see your name on them.” The other said. I gave a fake smile, glaring lightly at them.

“Maybe your egos are covering it up,” I answered swiftly, pausing. “Move,”

“Chill, princess,”

I laughed darkly, as calm as ever. “That’s what you’ll soon have to be called if you don’t get out of my way. I’m tired of the immature losers not taking into consideration that the stairs aren’t for pushing your friends down.” I leaned closer, letting my tone drop to an icy level. “Unlike you, they’ve actually got a purpose for being in this classroom.”

Slowly, as their faces drooped slightly, they moved out of my way. As I passed, I caught a few of the on-lookers’ eyes; they looked away immediately. Satisfied, I took a seat and prepared myself for when class would start. Though, little did I know, almost nothing would be able to help me.

Professor Henry Walter was a middle-aged man of average height. He wore round glasses and a brown, tweed suit. He had salt-and-pepper, uncombed hair, with a beard and moustache that bushed out under his wide nose. Overall, he resembled a history-lover; they had distinct looks. Though his voice wasn’t anything like I expected. It was husky, as if he had just woken up minutes ago and.

“Welcome to Advanced Ancient and Mythical History; I am Professor Walter, please address me as so. Before we get started, let’s take a while to get to know one another. But before we even do that, I hope I can have your attention, as I’d like to tell you about my class rules, grading methods, and expectations of all of you.” The professor, a little nervous, moved to stand in front of his desk, pacing around.

“Now, I’m not as strict as other professors on campus. I allow gum and the occasional snack, as long as it’s not disruptive and doesn’t have the possibility of making a mess. Bottled water, keep a lid on it, is also allowed. I don’t believe in students hydrating themselves during class; I’d rather not have raisins for a class by the end of the period.” There were a few laughs.

“Work, although I’m not here to hang over you and I will not do so, is expected to be turned in on time if you want to pass the class. If you all were freshman, I would go more into detail on this topic, but seniors should already be well aware of the benefits of turning in A-worthy work… Now…Ah, yes, I grade fairly easily. Every three or four weeks, I give a comprehensive test; I find that it makes it easier for students to keep their minds sharp.

“Keep in mind, though, that every six weeks there is a bigger test that counts for more of a grade. Those are campus-wide, whereas my three-to-four week tests are only for my classroom…” In front of me, a girl raised her hand.

“Yes?” Professor Walter asked, noticing her.

“Do you offer projects that can act as extra credit?”

“Nope. The only thing I offer is the three or four major assignments I will give you during the semester. Of course, those are mandatory and quite large, but if you work hard and do a good job both visually and materially, you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a decent grade.”

“What kind of assignments will you give us?” One of the football players asked loudly. I turned to look behind me, giving him a bitter, defiant stare when he made a juvenile expression toward me.

The professor laughed lightly. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. What’s the point of giving an educational challenge to your students if you also give them an opportunity to get a nice head start on it?”

“Or a chance to make someone else do it for them,” The other football player uttered to his friend. I turned around completely this time, my eyebrow raised.

“Why are you even in this class?” I hissed. “If you’re going to speak tastelessly nonstop--.”

“Hey, hypocrite,” Someone called quietly from the side of the room. I turned to find the owner of the voice, and my eyes landed on a kid wearing a blue, button up shirt. He had sandy brown hair and stubble.

“What?”

A split second passed, as if he was basking in his own ego. “Shhh,” A few bits of laughter broke out around him. I turned, infuriated, focusing on the professor, who hadn’t broken his speech. My insides felt like they were on fire, and my blood was close to the boiling point. For the remaining hour and forty-five minutes, I sat on the edge of my seat with my hands gripping the long tabletop in front of me. I was vexed, and the clock on Professor Walter’s…desk…slowed…

…

By the time class was dismissed, I yanked my books from beside me and was the first one out the door. I was glad to be out of that class room. Behind me, I could hear the football players’ voices booming down the wide hallway, not taking a bit of the school day seriously. I pushed my way through the crowd, thankful for the short distance between my History class and English class.

No one else was there when I arrived, and I took a front row seat, pulling my books and pen out of my bag. It was a few minutes before anyone else came in, but when they did, it seemed that the entire class flooded in all at once. At the end of the long line was Professor Walter, closing the door behind him.

“Well, good morning class,” He said as everyone took his or her seat. “My name is Professor Walter, please address me as so. Welcome to Advanced English and Literature…” The ruffled man essentially repeated himself, saying the same basic thing as he had in my history class. Although he never mentioned anything about a hefty assignment, and for that I was relieved.

An hour and ten minutes through the period, we got into an interesting discussion about the previous four thousand years’ worth of authors.

“…And that’s why Emily Dickenson is brilliant,” a girl finished as she adjusted her fishnet sleeves. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone raise their hand.

“Can this discussion include why we don’t think an author was particularly great?” I recognized the voice, and looked around to see the one person I would have given anything to not see here; the kid with light brown hair.

“I…I don’t see why not. What do you have to say, Mr…?”

“Wood, Michael Wood.” The stubble-stricken kid paused. “I’d like to denounce the lady that wrote those awful wizard books.” My attention sprung to his statement, and I swiveled to gaze back at him.

“J.K. Rowling?” I asked loudly, shocked.

“Yeah, that’s her. The lady from London, right? Jeez, she’s awful…” He continued. I felt my blood begin to boil; I wanted to punch something.

“Who the hell died and made you the only book critic?” I demanded, ignoring the sudden turning of several heads. “Did you honestly just insult perhaps one of the greatest writers of the 20th and 21st centuries?”

I laughed lightly, unbelieving. “I’ve never heard anyone say one thing negative about her. Do you know how much work it must have been to create such a seamlessly flowing story? Or how hard it was for her to make up and invent all of those creative pieces of the story? Not to mention the amazing talent she has for writing, she has also inspired countless people with her personal story. And the success she’s had overall…it’s like seeing a blue moon. J.K. Rowling donates a lot to charities, which is essentially using her talents for good, not evil. So, to completely crush your slur, don’t quit your day job--.”

“Okay, class dismissed. I’ll see you all on Wednesday. In the meantime, have a good day off.” Students streamed out of the room, even Professor Walter. Michael was the only one left, besides me. And as I approached the door, he called out to me.

“Hey,” He said. I stopped short, turning to face him.

“What?” I said shortly.

“I’m Michael Wood,” He said. I took a second, pretending to think.

“And I don’t care,” I said dully. “Oh,” I added, “and I’m leaving.” I turned again for the door, pushing through it. A few seconds later, I still hadn’t heard it close. Damn, I thought, hearing footsteps jogging behind me.

“You’re Alexandria Taylor, right?”

“Wrong again. Jeannine Oakley,”

“Jeannine?”

“So you have hearing problem, then?”

“What? No, I was just—.”

“I think you do, because I’m dead sure that I told you that I don’t care.” I sensed him stop suddenly, giving up on me.

Fall came early where I lived, and spring and summer were both cool and short-lived. That’s the part I liked most about the city. When class was over, I enjoyed a walk through the fresh, cool air. But sometimes it made me wonder: if I was a swimmer, and spent the majority of my time in an environment that had no air, was I a hypocrite or just tasteful?

This was a question that killed me like the plague. I thought about it at the most inopportune times, too. It was usually during times that I was enjoying myself; the smiles and chatter would pause for a few seconds, and the question would appear suddenly, shooting down my day.

While I was lying in bed that night, with Moo-Shoe curled up next to me, it emerged in the silence. I dwelled on it for a while, wavering between the two options, weighing each side against the other. But then, suddenly, it disappeared and my mind began to replay what had happened earlier that morning. And to my tired eyes’ dismay, the video paused itself on the one called Michael Wood.

2. An Answer.

The week went by slowly, and I couldn’t have possibly wanted the weekend to come any faster. Professor Walter’s lectures were different, though interesting; having double classes twice a week wasn’t difficult. (And my other classes were fun and interesting). Homework hadn’t yet been blown out of proportion by grudge-holding professors. In fact, the only thing that made my days worse were the people; and that in itself seemed to magnify the problem by about a million.

It’s a yearly ritual for both the captain and the coach of the swim team to ask me (not at the same time, mind you) if I would be joining them this year. And twice a year, I would sigh, smile, and make up a convincing excuse for my absence. It just so happened that the swim team captain had graduated last year, and no new captain had been chosen (why, I neither knew nor cared).

Jillian, the coach, cornered me Wednesday as I was leaving the campus after another double-session with Professor Walter. “Alex! There you are. I have been looking everywhere for you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone on this campus? No, you’d think it’d be easy, especially since you’re confined to two buildings this semester. But it’s taken me three days to pry your schedule from Ms. Barry’s puffy fingers. Ugh…” She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. “Ah, oh yes. I’ve come to ask you if you’ll be joining the team this year. You know, Garrett graduated. And with me having a baby six months ago…we just never got around to electing a captain. But, to be honest, I think it’s a blessing in disguise. You’re a beautiful swimmer, Alex, and you’d make a brilliant captain…So, what do you think? Do you want to be the next RPU Swim Team Captain?”

For one in my life…I had no excuse; I had no answer. I was at a dead-end. On one side, I didn’t want anything to do with the team. And on the other…Jillian was offering me the chance to bring the team to state finals, something the university hadn’t done in quite some time. Even though Garrett was an awesome swimmer, he wasn’t me. And even though he was known around the campus as one of the greatest swimmers that the college had had in the last one hundred years…I was just offered the easy chance to rip it out of his hands. Just like taking candy from a baby.

I could transform the team into champions. I could actually do something that meant a lot to me. All I had to do was say one simple word: yes.

“No,” I said. “I’m sorry,”

Jillian’s jaw quivered, ready to drop. “But it’s a fabulous opportunity--.”

“I just can’t. You’re going to have to find yourself another captain.”

“Well, if you’re sure. The spot will always be--.”

“I’m really busy this year; lot’s of hard classes.” I turned on my heel and left her standing in the middle of the courtyard. The next morning, whispers accompanied the stares I received as I walked to class. Everyone was already talking about how Alex Taylor, far better than Garrett Dealy, declined the position of swim team captain.

My apartment complex’s indoor pool was unusually busy when I pushed through the doors early Saturday morning. There were a few kids doggie paddling on the unlined side, while their parents or grandparents watched them. On the far end of the room, a large group of old teenagers sat lounging in the pool. And in the middle lane, Bailey’s head appeared at the end of the pool, a smile on her face.

“Hi, Alex. How’s it going?” She asked. I dropped my towel on a chair, pulled off my flip-flops, and jumped into the water.

“Good, I guess. You’re…here? Already?” I paused. “How long have you been here for?”

Bailey sighed. “Oh, at least an hour. I told you, I’m determined to get better.” She smiled. “Just like you. Say, what’s that about you not taking the spot for captain at the university?”

My cheeks reddened, and I dunked my head under the surface in order to cool them. “I just couldn’t. Other obligations…are standing in my way at the moment.” Bailey began to backstroke slowly across the pool; I followed suit.

“What could possibly be standing in the way that’s more important than taking that school to the finals? Did you know that my grandmother went to RPU and she spent all four years complaining how awful the swim team was?” She paused, changing directions. “What could possibly make you give making them an actual team up?”

I hesitated. “Nothing, Bailey.”

She thought for a second. “You know, if you’re too scared to join the team, but you still want to compete, there’s a really big event coming up in a few months. It’s being held at the Elegance hotel down town. The swim meet is one day only, there’s a huge cash prize of about two thousand, and--best of all--you train yourself.”

I pretended not to notice the prize-money part. “I don’t know…it sounds a little…scary.”

Bailey laughed suddenly. “If I wanted to see scared, I’d challenge you to twenty laps, butterfly.” I raised an eyebrow at the ceiling.

“Scared? Me? I just want to see you finish.” We both reached the end of the pool, stopping. “May the best swimmer win,” I braced my feet against the wall, my body turning to instinct.

“One,” Bailey said, “two…thr--.”

The room’s door burst open, and both of us turned to see what was going on. My feet lost their feeling, my heart pounded with fury. Through the door, holding an old, yellowed newspaper, came Michael Wood. Bailey lost me as I watched him drift over to the group of lounging girls, taking a seat.

“Hey, ladies,” I heard him say. He laughed an annoying laugh. “Do you like trivia?”

“Sure,” one of them said.

“Okay, do you know why there’s spaces between your fingers?”

Exchanging glances and giggles, they replied in unison, “Why?”

Wood held up his hand, “So my fingers could fit with yours,” The girls laughed again, turning to him now with more interest. I sighed impatiently, whirling back to Bailey.

“Chauvinist pig,” I muttered.

“Do you know him?”

I braced myself against the wall again, “Only his name, and that’s hell enough for me.”

“One…two…three.”

Even as I little girl, I always looked into the future and saw the dancing, blue light; I saw the hazy water. Whenever I needed a place to just disappear into, it always lay between the floating, colored lane dividers of the nearest pool. It was there that I could forget everything around me; after all, if I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. At least, that’s what happens in movies.

I never imaged that even my shared private-place could be ruined by one, infuriating person. Now, I had even more reason to hate him.

I easily won, and Bailey’s head broke the surface about fifteen seconds after mine. Both of us were breathing hard, and my heart was pounding in my chest. Bailey smiled. “You see no failure, there is no failure. I finished.”

“Good job,” I said, distracted by the sound of splashing water. Someone jumped in on the other side of the pool; the figure nearing us.

“Well, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon,” Bailey said, drifting away.

“You, too,” I answered, watching the figure. I didn’t see Bailey gather her things and leave; all I saw was Michael Wood’s head appear twenty feet away from where I was hovering in the water. At first, I thought he wouldn’t see me, as his back was turned to me. But just as I took a breath, he whirled around.

“Jeannine?”

I stopped mid-dive, furious. “What?” I snapped. For a second, he looked genuinely hurt, but the look vanished instantly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the parade, but right now I’m just watching TV.” I paused, “What else would I be doing here?” I hated stupid questions.

“I just thought you were practicing. I heard that you--.”

“are leaving,” I said for him, “right now.” I dropped beneath the surface, swimming across the bottom of the deep end. Maybe, just maybe, he was cowardly. I ascended the ladder, grabbing my towel and putting on my flip-flops. Halfway across the room, Michael appeared beside me.

“Why’d you turn it down?”

“Why are you still following me?”

“Is it some self-esteem issue?” He pushed. I stopped short, facing him.

“No, I just needed to…get away.” My tone was still sarcastic. Michael stared at me for a second.

“So you want--.”

“Get away,” I repeated. He stared again, silent. “Get,” I said, “away.” When he said nothing further, I turned and continued walking. Exiting the pool area, I was only a few yards from the door when I heard it slam behind me. Damn, damn. I thought.

“You’d make a terrible dog,” I said when the stubbly kid caught up with me.

“I’m just heading up to my apartment…you can come with, if you’d like.” He used the same tone as he had with the group of teenagers. I laughed darkly at it.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Patsy. The last thing I would ever want to do is see the inside of your squalid little shack.”

“No hard feelings. I’m sure yours can’t be any better with all of Moo-Shoe’s hair--.” In a flash I had him pinned against the hallway wall; behind me, several people stared as they passed.

“Listen, Wood, however you know that, I suggest you stop. Keep your nose in your own business or else there’ll be pain.” I released him, walking away as he slid to the floor.

Just like that, my Saturday seemed to go down the drain. The thought of knowing Michael Wood lived in the same building…I wanted to scream. How much worse could it possibly get? Not only did I have to share RPU’s campus with him, now I was sharing the same complex. Was I forever sentenced to breathe the same air, share the same pool, and use the same elevator? What had I done to deserve this?

I wasn’t one of those people that hated others for no reason. And when it came to Michael Wood, I definitely had a reason: he existed. He annoyed me, followed me around, practically stalked me, and made me look like a total moron during class. On top of that, Michael Wood thought he knew everything about anything.

But even my worries about Michael Wood slipped away as a new thought came to mind. Bailey had mentioned a swim meet that was going to take place at the Elegance hotel; and the cash prize was two thousand dollars. That was five hundred over what I needed in order to pay those scientists to find my natural mother. Taking first in the meet would be easy enough, I thought. Of course, I still needed to practice and train; but I already did that, I just had to do it more. I was glad that my schedule for school was going to be light this year. And even more so, I was glad that I hadn’t taken Jillian up on her offer; swim team captain, homework, ignoring Michael Wood, and trying to win two thousand dollars all at once wouldn’t be easy.

But I had to make this official; give myself some back-up motivation. I had to register. Logging onto my computer, with Moo-Shoe purring on my lap, I searched for swim meets coming up in the city: How to survive your first swim meet; Swim meets, 101; The Tri-Metropolis History; You and your water wings; Ok, I’m in the water…now what?; Help! I’m drowning in the shallow end! A step-by-step guide to swimming like a pro; You and your water wings: the breaststroke; Local Swim Meet Scheduled In The Foggy City; Grand Prize $2,000.

It figured that the very last one I looked at was the one I needed. I clicked on it, a neat, blue page appearing. Along the left-hand side was a column of navigating buttons; a few spaces down, I clicked on information and read the paragraph:

If you’re reading this, you’re probably wondering when we’re going to get to the point. Your answer? Right now. This year, the Foggy City is home to the Distinguished Divers and Superb Swimmers City Meet. Here swimmers and divers are asked to train on their own accord, show up on the day of the meet, and compete for the $2,000 prize. Before you can show up, though, you must register for one of those little numbers. Click here to register.

I clicked on the link, a page with white boxes appearing. One by one, I filled it out:

Full name: Alexandria Rachelle Taylor

Address: 3112 Clover Drive, Appt. 514

City (just kidding; isn’t the city obvious?):

State (see parenthesis above):

Country: USA

DOB: May 14, 1977

Age currently: 22

Gender: F

E-mail address: artaylor@rpu.edu

Do you attend a college or university currently?: yes

If so, which one?: Royal Pane University

The questions below are just so we can get to know you better, and also so we can put you in the correct category for the meet.

How many years’ experience of swimming do you have?: 18

Have you ever been to a swim meet?: yes

Were you ever on a team?: yes

For how long?: 9 years

What type(s) of team was it/(were they)?: grade school, high school, city.

Would you say that you’re a good swimmer?: yes

This next part is just for feedback about our organization.

Where did you hear about the competition?: a friend

How long have you known about it?: not long

Do you like the idea of our competition?: yes

Are you nervous?: no…

Do you wish we’d stop asking dumb questions?: yes

Are you going to win?: yes

Does saying that psyche you out?: no

Submit (there’s no going back…even if you argue)

A page loaded with dancing words and confetti raining down.

Congratulations! You’ve successfully registered for the Distinguished Divers and Superb Swimmers City Meet! Be sure to practice, practice, practice and arrive fresh and early on the day of the meet. Further details will be e-mailed to you about when the meet will take place, as those details still haven’t been worked out. See you there!

I logged off of my computer, picked Moo-Shoe up, and went to find the phone in my bedroom. “Hello?” Roger asked when he picked up.

“Roger, it’s Alex. I just wanted to let you know that I just registered for something that is going to get me the money I need.”

“Which would be…?”

“A city-wide swim meet! The grand prize is 2K. All I have to do is show up, swim in my events, and grab the money on my way out.”

“Well, it’s not that simple, but--.”

“All that’s important is that I can win. Easily, too, don’t you think?” I continued. There was a pause on the other end.

“You haven’t seen some of the people in this city, have you? It’s citywide, not just school wide. I’m not saying that you can’t win, I’m just warning you to take it seriously; don’t get in over your head.” Roger said. My eyes narrowed at the wall in front of me.

“It’s swimming, Roger, you’re supposed to get in over your head.”

“You’re talking literally,”

“And you’re talking figuratively,” I replied. “Honestly, when have you ever known me to get in over my head? I’m levelheaded and reasonable.”

“Meaning you have reasons for all of your wild behavior? Yeah, I agree with you there. Though I wouldn’t call your temper and…uniqueness levelheaded.”

“You know, I thought I would just call to let you know the good news. But if you’re going to be immature about it--.”

“Immature? I was just warning you. You were the one jumping down my throat…” Roger paused. “I’m happy for you, Alex. I know you’ll do great; just don’t get cocky.”

“Cocky is for all others who think they are better than everyone else.”

“Oh, I see,” Roger said, “you know you’re better, is that it?”

I shrugged. “I never said that…”

“Yeah right, as if you haven’t ever thought that.” Roger laughed. “I’ve got to go, my serum is about to boil over. Talk to you later,” I decided not to question him.

“You, too.” I replied, hanging up the phone.

When the week started two days later, the homework began to pile on. My political science and human behavior professors seemed to live by the phrase the more, the merrier. With that said, Wednesdays and Fridays soon became the days were I rolled out of bed already angry. And eventually, I realized that those were also the days I found it more pleasing to harass the leech called Michael Wood. Of course, it was his fault. I guessed that Tuesdays and Thursdays drained him of energy; those were the only days I didn’t have at least one class with him. Whether he found it entertaining to annoy me or if he just--I cringe at the thought--liked me, he never backed off; no matter how insulting and bully like I was.

He never had a set pattern for ambushing me on campus; that was the worst part. It came to the point where I checked corners before walking around them and cast paranoid glanced behind my shoulder. In a lot of ways, he was like leukemia; he got under my skin, suffocating me with his decimation. And no matter what I tried, I could never get rid of him. Occasionally, it would be like going into remission, where he would disappear for a few days at a time. But Michael Wood always returned, no matter what happened.

About three weeks after I submitted the form to the City Swim Meet organization, I got an e-mail that gave the time, date, and place of the meet. The date was set for nearly six months later, Saturday, March 17, 10:30 a.m. And, of course, it was located downtown at the Elegance hotel, nearly half an hour away. But the hour-long (possibly even longer) cable car ride would be totally worth it.