1st 5 Pages October Workshop- Rowley

Name: Mary Rowley
Genre: Young Adult Mystery
Title: The Secrets That Divide Us

Chapter 1

It was rush hour in West Los Angeles, and belching car exhaust was conspiring with an end-of-summer heatwave to suffocate me. There wasn’t even a breeze to stir the towering palms on Santa Monica Boulevard as I pedaled my Schwinn home from the library. On the up side, I was zipping past the six lanes of crawling traffic. On the down side, sweat plastered my shirt to my chest and soaked my bra. I raced across the Boulevard as the light was about to change.

“Get out of the way, kid!” yelled a guy in a beat up El Camino. 

“Sure thing!” I called back with mock cheerfulness, resisting the urge to flip him the bird. “But I’m not a kid—I’m sixteen.” I flashed him a grin, but he scowled back, gunned his engine, and drove away in a cloud of black smoke. The heat making everyone cranky.

At our dishwater-toned stucco apartment building, I locked my bike to a pipe and trudged up the cement steps. As I reached our landing, I froze—something was wrong. The door to our apartment hung wide open. Our neighborhood hugged the 405 freeway and marked a borderland between the haves and the have-nots. It wasn’t Compton, but my dad was religious about keeping the door closed and locked. Arguing voices spilled out the entryway.

“You need to calm down,” demanded someone with a stern English accent.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” my dad shouted back. I edged closer to the entrance. 

My dad, face red and forehead vein pulsing, jammed his index finger into an old man’s chest. “You can’t show up here after sixteen years, demand I give you my daughter, and tell me to ‘calm down!’” 

Okay, what was that? Give him his daughter?

The two men faced off in our cramped living room. Everything about the snowy-haired stranger screamed money and power, from his tailored trousers and dress shirt to the fat gold ring on his left hand. His suit jacket was folded over his arm, and although he glistened with sweat, his hair still showed tiny precise lines from a recent combing. His appearance stood in sharp contrast to our dingy apartment and its chipped plaster walls. An urge ran through me to throw a sheet over the recliner we’d bought at Goodwill, hiding its ripped seat cushion.
The stranger’s eyes shifted from my father and settled on me. His lips curved into a smile. “This must be Elizabeth now.”

My father turned toward me for the first time. “Lizzie, you don’t need to be here for this conversation. You and Sonia should go get dinner.”

“What’s going on?” When I came through the door, my dad’s new wife, Sonia, was perched on the threadbare couch, her face pinched. She rested a protective hand on her pregnant belly, but she made no move to leave.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Lizzie. Seriously.” Dad’s hands gripped his hips. “You should go now.”

“Elizabeth, dear,” the old man said, “It is so good to see you again. You’ve grown into such a beautiful young lady. And you look so much like your mother and grandmother did at your age—except Philippa’s hair was longer.” He stepped toward me and reached out as if to stroke my hair. I shied away, even as my dad stepped forward, forcing the man to withdraw.

“Dad, who’s this?” I ran my fingers through my shaggy hair. I needed somebody to fill me in. I was a million miles out of the loop of the conversation.

“He’s nobody—” Dad said.

“I am your grandfather, Archer Cavendish,” the man said at the same time.

“Oh, really?” I said it like he’d just told me he was Santa Claus. “‘Cause my grandparents all died years ago.” I distinctly remembered a conversation with my dad when I was about five or six. He’d said we were on our own and needed to be a team. That had worked out pretty well—until Dad got Sonia pregnant and married her, like, two seconds later. Now things at home were hella awkward.

“If your father told you I was dead, he lied.” Archer turned back toward my dad, eyes narrowed and lips tight.

“Is that true, Dad? Is this my grandfather?” My dad stood ramrod straight with his fists balled tight next to his body. I’d never seen him this mad. My dad was generally a laid-back guy. Although he taught English literature, he’d grown out his dark hair like a surfer’s, and he often wore board shorts and flip-flops. But right then, he looked anything but laid-back.

“Yes—technically—Archer is your grandfather,” he said. “Your mom was his daughter. But Archer lost any right to claim you as family years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. What could someone possibly do to lose the right be called family?

“Your father is angry because of what happened with your sister after my sweet Philippa died.” 

“Wait. Hold up. What? Did you say I had a sister?” No way. There had to be a mistake. I didn’t have a sister—even though I’d always wanted one. Dad would never have kept that from me.

“No, dear, you have a twin sister called Anne,” Archer said. “She lives with me in a lovely country house south of London. Now she’s terribly ill and needs your help, which is why I’ve come.”
I looked at my dad for confirmation. He was angry—obviously. There was something else, too, though. Fear? Guilt? It freaked me out.

“Dad? What’s going on? Please tell me. Do I really have a twin?” 

He stayed silent. 

All the crazy new ideas started stacking up. I had a twin sister. My grandfather was alive. My dad had hidden those facts from me my whole life. But why?

“He was going to tell you,” Sonia piped up. “He planned to explain everything when you turned eighteen.” 
I glared at her. Somehow, despite the heat and her pregnancy, Sonia still looked beautiful. As stepmoms go, she treated me okay—but right then I hated her.

“Why would you keep this from me, Dad? And how could you tell everything to her?” 

“Honey, I can explain everything,” Dad said.

“Are you kidding me? You can’t explain this away. I can’t handle you right now!” Lava shot through my veins. I spun around and bolted for the doorway.

“Wait, Elizabeth.” Archer caught my shoulder with a firm hand. I turned and eyed him cautiously. “Your sister needs you, and I must tell you about her before I leave. I’ve collected a lot of information here.” He reached for a thick manila folder on our Formica dining room table, then handed it to me. I flipped through the pages while he talked.

“Last year your sister developed a disease called aplastic anemia. Her body attacked its own bone marrow and now doesn’t produce blood cells properly. She has no energy, her gums bleed, and she’s prone to severe infections.” He shook his head and cast his eyes downward. “We’ve tried everything. Without a bone marrow transplant she’ll die.” He paused to let the gravity of his statement sink in. I had a twin sister. She would die without me.

“Family members are the most effective bone-marrow donors, but I am not a match. Sibling matches between young people are best.”

“How do you know I’ll be a match? Are we identical twins or something?” The whole thing was giving me weird Parent Trap vibes.