1st 5 Pages April Workshop- Contois

Name: Hannah Contois

Genre: YA Magical Realism

Title: Wishing on Stars and Other Intangible Objects

The laws of the universe are simple and finite: smart girls go stupid over bad boys; the more jocks you have in a room together, the fewer the total umber of working brain cells; the only smell worse than a high school, is a dead body. 

The halls at Stillwater High reek with a toxic maelstrom of body odor and fear, barely masked by an overabundance of cologne and dry shampoo. I don’t particularly add anything sweet smelling to the mix, what with cloud of formaldehyde following me everywhere I go. No one seems to notice though, or at least make any comments about my stench, but that may have more to do with the aftermath of The Incident than not wanting to be rude.

Walking into the cafeteria, I find a table and collapse into a free chair, pleading: “Just kill me now and put me out of my misery.” I slip my messenger bag off and tuck it under the table along with my violin and blink pleadingly at my best friend. “I promise to haunt you for the rest of your life.”

White teeth snap through a carrot stick as she stares back drolly. “Whatever it is, it can’t be…” She pauses, sniffs, and gags. “What on god’s green Earth is that smell?” Her voice goes nasally as she pinches her nostrils against my obtrusive scent.

I cringe. “Wilbur.”

“Wilbur?” She blurts, probably as shocked by me speaking a man’s name as she is from my smell. It’s been a long time since I dare even breathe a name belonging to the male persuasion. “Who is Wilbur and why are you hanging out with him when he smells like death?”

“Wilbur is the fetal pig I just had to dissect.” I gag, remembering the pull of the scalpel against his chemical soaked skin and swear to any god listening that I will worship them forever if they could make me forget.

Nose still pinched together, Mari gives me the up-down. “Please tell me that you have a free block to go home and shower before our class together.”

I glare at her. “No, and I wouldn’t go even if I did. Helena the Heinous is probably still home. “My eyes find the clock. Noon. “Still home. The bars are still closed.”

Mari snorts, offering me a carrot as a peace treaty. I politely decline. “Appetite is MIA since poor Wilbur.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

When I remain silent, Mari pats the back of my hand. “Cheer up, Buttercup. You weren’t the one who actually killed Wilbur and no one will notice that you smell like you belong in the morgue. It’s not weird.”

I replace my forehead on the tabletop, muttering a denial against it, my breath fogging the sticky surface and dampening my nose. “I feel like a murderer, Mari. I don’t even eat meat. How could they think it’s be a good learning experience for me to cut up a poor piglet? My heart is broken.”

She snorts. “Who needs one of those? It takes up space meant for donuts.”

I roll my head to look up at her. “Never have I so badly wanted to punch you.”

I’m not rich in the way of friends, especially since The Incident where I dumped the king of Stillwater High's social hierarchy which marooned me on the Island of Misfit Teenagers. Where I am just a resident though, Mari is Queen, in all her 5 foot, sassy emo glory. She may be caustic and rude to the majority of society, but she has stuck with me through the thick and the very, very thin. She also doesn’t take my threat very seriously, waving it away like it is nothing more than a gnat bussing around her nose.

“Oh, please. There have been plenty of times before this, I’m sure.” She flicks the end of her long black braid over her shoulder, the beany she has pinned tipping precariously. Caramel brown eyes twinkle with amusement. She cocks an eyebrow and pauses mid-chew pinning me with a look that says she can see right into my soul. “Something else is going on.” Her eyes walk across my face heavy enough that I can almost feel the residual footprints. “What’s wrong?”

My throat clenches and my nose burns. How well she knows me… “I haven’t written any new music in months and Mr. Michaels emailed me a reminder about my auditions last night.”

To some, this would be no big deal. To me, it’s a gargantuan deal. Music is both my gift and curse. Both my ticket out of this hellhole and the reason why I would be stuck her forever. I grind my inner tips into my eyes to stave off tears of frustration. “Mari, what if I never finish this piece?” I hate whining but I can’t seem to free myself from the swirling toilet bowl of self-doubt that has been trying to drown me every time I sit down to write and nothing comes out. “What if I’m stuck here forever, working at the laundromat until I marry a fat guy out of desperation, pop out a couple of angry children, and then die alone surrounded by forty-two cats when my husband leaves me for the hot pool-boy?”

Mari shakes her head, lips quirking and a laugh shining in her eyes. “You know that won’t happen.”

“But how can you be so sure?”

A hand smacks the back of my head. For being so small, she sure does pack a wallop. “Because this is high school, dummy. This isn’t the end-all-be-all to your life. You shine too brightly for this town and have too much ambition. You won’t get stuck here because you won’t allow yourself to get stuck here. You’re just like the dude who pushed the rock up that hill.”

“Sisyphus is his name and you know it too because of Ms. Ora. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Whatever.”

“You also know that he was doomed to an eternity of that, right?”

“But see, you aren’t. Besides, if we both turn forty and are still single we’ll just get a civil union and call it good.” I laugh. “Now, where’s my gold star?”

The bell overhead rings and I retrieve my bag and Darcy from under the table. “I’ll be sure to steal some from Mr. Michals for you.”

Mari snorts, dropping her own messenger bag over her head. “Like that tight-ass would have gold stars. No, he wouldn’t know a gold star if someone stuck one to his forehead.” Mari tucks her remaining carrots into a plastic bag and tucks it away. “On the opposite side of the spectrum - are you ready for Ms. Ora’s class?”

We both have Ms. Ora for one of our elective classes - Classical Mythology. She’s a lot on the eccentric side and most assuredly has at least three different personalities. I’m a little shocked that the district hired her but beggars can’t be choosers and our district is definitely on the beggar side. “Only if someone restocked her tissue supply.”

All last class, Ms. Ora had carried around a tube of toilet paper and randomly broken down into sobbing fits, her emotional upheaval due to a recent break she was - or wasn’t - dealing with. My ears had rung for hours after class, my chest a black hole of despair and pain from the song of her sadness that her tears had constructed in my heart.