Chapter 1 - All Excerpts
Who in their right mind would choose to ‘live’ in a graveyard of a town in Rhode Island over one of the sunniest places in the world, Flagstaff, Arizona?
Well, I did.
Lila must think I’m crazy. She definitely did.
My mother (that’s Lila) had always been a traveller, a hare-brained traveller who had once left half of her possessions in the States on an immigration to India for the winter. What happened to that half, you may imagine? Only the unknown force that made Lila my mother knows. Don’t get me wrong, Lila’s the best, but we were less mother and son and more the adventurous traveller and her wary follower.
Why would I choose to travel then, since another option was given to me? Well, I’ll get to that.
My life story was simple. I wasn’t a miracle, but I wasn’t a mistake either. I just happened, and I happened at the wrong time. My father’s name is – or was, I don’t really know – David Garamond and that was pretty much all I knew about him. Lila was efficient in cleaning up mistakes from her past. But she wasn’t the secretive type either; she didn’t mind talking about her past, and would tell me stories about her time with David. She would talk like they were fairy tales, which many real-life love stories are before they burn out into ashes of leftover feelings where the fire of love and hope used to be.
Lila Teigen and David Garamond were high school sweethearts, and were still going on strong well into college. They were a stable couple, which was saying something, considering how young they were. Young love tended to go wrong. But nothing went wrong for them, at least not then.
After completing college, David asked for her hand in marriage, even though he never got the blessing. Both Lila’s and David’s families were against it, and they promised to turn their backs on the pair if they did get married. But that didn’t matter; they were deeply in love, intent on forever happiness, and expecting a child, which was why David had proposed in the first place. Nothing had gone wrong around this part either. David was the guy fantasy talked about, the hero of the story. Lila had really thought that that would be her happily ever after.
But real life doesn’t have a happily ever after. It never did.
And we have now arrived at the part where things went wrong.
David was nowhere to be found on the day before the marriage. He’d gone out on a stormy night, saying he had some last-minute things to take care of and just... vanished.
And that was where the story ended. Lila would tell me nothing about what happened after that, about any of her struggles with being a single mother, if she ever found David again, or even why she took up the habit of travelling around when it was obviously much easier and cheaper to settle down in one place.
No. Fast-forward 16 years as a nomad named Kenneth Teigen on this planet, and I am currently scowling at the million dollar question of where our next voyage will take us while still recovering from the shock of having to answer said question. ‘Most difficult decision of my life’ hadn’t exactly been on my birthday wish list.
And it wasn’t as though we could go just anywhere, either, which actually made things a little easier. Lila’s job as a digital marketing strategist paid well and steadily enough, but I couldn’t exactly suggest we hop on the next plane to Greenland, now could I? Not that I ever would.
No, Lila had narrowed down my choices to two places that contrasted each other so much and were so far apart that I was fairly certain Lila had just dropped the question on my head as an elaborate prank.
"Flagstaff, Arizona, or Knightville, Rhode Island?" Lila had asked me when my school year in DC was over.
"What?" I looked up from my book, The Picture of Dorian Grey.
Lila unceremoniously flopped down onto the red bean-bag chair and regarded me seriously, which would have been comical, had she not said the things she was about to say. "What would you pick," she began again, slower, "Knightville in Rhode Island, or Flagstaff in Arizona?"
I replied, surprised, "And you're asking me this because...?"
"Because this decision is officially yours," Lila said, a smile tugging on her lips as though she were giving me some good news. "You are going to decide where we stay for the next year." There was a glint in her eyes that could only be described as defiance as she pronounced her last statement.
"No," I immediately told her.
The glint died away. "Why not?" she asked, like a child asking her parent why she couldn't get candy even though she'd done her homework.
"Because I have no idea what to choose," I said bluntly.
"But I gave you only two options," she protested. "It can't be that hard!"
"Hard?" I asked incredulously. "You're asking me to choose where we're going to live for the whole of next year!"
"Between just 2 places!"
"Doesn't make it much easier, Lila!"
She looked bewildered, and a little hurt too, for which I felt a poorly disguised twinge of guilt.
Seeing me soften, perhaps, Lila went full-on puppy-dog mode, and while I had seen it coming and should've been able to resist it, I couldn't.
So, cursing the next several generations of Lila's bloodline (which wasn't smart, since I was one of them), I conceded to her wishes with a grumble.
Now, I don’t know why I chose Knightville. It wasn’t as though it was a good travel destination or a hot tourist spot; it was cold, constantly raining and foggy, and the only colors it ever saw were white, black and different shades of grey.
I just felt, I don't know, compelled to choose Knightville, like there was something the remote town whose name I had never heard of before had that much less remote Flagstaff didn't.
I wasn't fond of it.
Nevertheless, the choice was befitting. Apparently my great-aunt Charlotte (late) had once lived in an old, slightly rickety house at the edge of town. Apartments were non-existent in small communities such as this, and it wouldn’t cost Lila a penny (except for maintenance).
Plus, the house was kind of homely.
It was a one-storey dwelling, painted a pale blue, with a brown, slanted roof. The inside was all cream-yellow walls and creaky wooden floors and the smell of good old 1950s vintage.
I didn’t dislike it, so that must have meant something.
Dinner that night consisted of Chinese take-out and ice cream for desert. I hadn’t spoken much till now, sitting in mindless silence, thinking about nothing, and staring at a small, perfectly circular hole (or was it just ink?) in the wooden floor.
“This flavour of ice cream is amazing”, commented Lila. I’d been, after all, silent for an unknown period of time, and a brooding silence of any sort from my end rang alarm-bells in Lila’s mind.
The truth was, I’d had this strange feeling ever since Lila’s car careened into Knightville. I felt... out of my own body, like I was breathing something entirely other than oxygen, that I was eating foreign food, having this foreign food with another person, that I was in another world, with alien roots that ran in alien soil. Like I was someone else. It was a creepy feeling, and it made my skin crawl.
But none of this was real. It was probably my brain’s way of punishing me because I’d intentionally forced myself to survive in a place that I didn’t like when I had total opportunity to live somewhere else.
“It’s pistachio flavoured”, I said, coming back to reality, “one of the worst ice cream flavours invented in the history of bad ice cream flavours”. I scrunched my nose with distaste.
“It is not”, insisted Lila, “you just don’t like it ‘cause it’s weird. I happen to like weird. Quite a few people do. Weird is good. Weird is different.”
But I would not indulge myself in the weirder aspects of life. While Lila was fawning over her God-awful ice cream, I was silently enjoying classic chocolate.
***********
School was due in a week, a week which was spent placing our furniture in the house, a difficult thing for a family of two to accomplish. Still, this was not our first rodeo – we’d done this exactly 14 times now – but regardless, we never got any better at arranging furniture in an apartment, let alone a house. Or faster.
“Well, the bed’s done”, Lila huffed, a hanky tied to her head, rivulets of sweat rolling down the sides of her face.
“Yeah, your bed,” I said, wiping my forehead, mentally accepting my fate. “I’ll have to sleep on the couch, won’t I?”
“For now,” she said sheepishly, off my glare.
I got up from my seat at the floor and declared, “I am officially done with today. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta get out of this house and pray to all the heavens above that it is raining.”
So saying, I saluted in her direction and stalked resolutely down the stairs.
Fortunately, my prayers (which were not yet made) were answered. I stepped out the front doorstep to find rain falling in gentle sheets, letting it progressively wet my clothes as the cool droplets shifted through my hot, sweaty hair. I combed the strands back with my fingers and faced the clouds above, feeling the cold water sting my face like surprises.
I was not, in general a fan of the rain, but I'll admit, it could be beneficial at times.
It was then I noticed a house, a small way across the road, and a girl walking out of it, a black umbrella plopped on her shoulder.
From what I could tell, she had long, straight black hair and wore dark clothing that spanned her entire body. She was walking briskly, like she was on a clock, and kept looking around, her eyes darting everywhere at once before stopping, and lingering on me.
I froze, and felt my heart stop beating for a second. I didn't think about how beautiful she looked, not at that moment at least. I didn't think about how strange it was that she herself froze and stopped to stare at me. I didn't think about how she then abruptly turned around and practically ran down the street, away from her house and my line of sight.
I could only think about her eyes, which were not one, but two colors, for two irises. One was the black of tar and midnight and the other was the blue of clear skies and forget-me-nots. There was no other way to put it; her eyes were beautiful.
Heterochromia was not an unknown concept to me, and for all its uniqueness, it could also look rather plain on some people. But something about the girl's eyes struck me in the strangest way. And it was that strangeness that froze me; I wasn't easily bedazzled.
It felt wrong and right both at the same time, like a sharp needle poking at your skin, but not hard enough for it to bleed.
Her eyes may have been beautiful, but they were hard, reflective, blank, and cold and sharp as shards of ice, like her soul was hidden in walls and walls of titanium, that the blue and black of her eyes were the only walls we saw.
Eyes that I would lay awake at night thinking about.
***********
The few mornings after that were as grey and lifeless as the last one. I wondered as I woke, not for the first time, how the people here could wake up to this almost every morning and still have the energy to start their day and do whatever a regular life demands of them. For even after a good night’s sleep I felt tired, the kind of tired that I wasn’t sure would be easily remedied by a cup of coffee. Maybe half a dozen could work.
I shook my head. I was being pathetic.
I forced myself out of bed and got ready for school.
In the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. Fair skin was part of my genetics, and so was my gangly height of six feet, which did no favours to my breadth. My facial features were too-sharp and my body was lean (the gym and I have a difficult relationship). My hair was an ordinary brown with a coppery tint to it that refused to stay neat, and my eyes, deep-set, were leaf-green.
There was nothing much remarkable about me. I sighed and spit the minty toothpaste out.
Lila, on the other hand, was pretty. She had hair redder than mine, a Madonna-like face with high, sloping cheekbones, and green eyes that were always lively.
When I was done criticizing myself in the bathroom, I took a shower and wore an ordinary faded red sweatshirt and loose jeans.
I went downstairs.
Lila was, naturally, awake, and bustling about the kitchen, performing multiple tasks at once, as was her way, such as juggling her steaming hot cup of coffee in one hand, while trying to explain to her new-found friend, Catherine, who seemed to keep surprisingly military hours, all the reasons why she could go down to the book-store with her after she came back home at eight ‘o’ clock in the evening over the phone, that was, by the way, sandwiched between her ear and her corresponding shoulder. At the same time, she was trying to pack our food (she’d always insisted on home-made for first days at school). It might all end in disaster. No, it probably would end in disaster. It’s Lila we’re talking about, after all.
“Lila, don’t keep your coffee cup so close to the edge of the counter!” I grumbled as she accidentally pushed it off in order to turn to me as I came down the stairs.
The cup made crash-landing, but it was plastic, so it didn’t break. Burning-hot black coffee infiltrated the floor of the kitchen and splashed against the previously pristine white cupboards, curved layers of coffee-brown partially covering them. On the ground, the liquid pooled like water.
Lila, on the other hand, had jumped back five miles, dropped her phone onto a fuzzy carpet, and was looking at me reproachfully.
With a mental curse I said, “oh, god.” And, shaking my head, I came the rest of the way down the stairs, walked past Lila, and opened a cabinet with cleaning towels in it.
I picked a white one with bright red stripes, and handed it to Lila, who gratefully took it.
I picked one out for myself, an orange one with black boats patterned on, and sighed, “come on, Lila.” And after selecting other cleaning weapons of our choice, we dived into the mess.
So obviously, it was with easy conversation and synchronised working that we went our separate ways.
Lila would lock herself up in her office with her laptop and an assortment of files, documents and fidget-toys, whereas I would shimmy on my bike and make my way to Knightville High School.
***********
At the gates of Knightville High School, I stopped.
I looked at my bike, which was parked (squeezed) between two cars, then I gazed back at my new school once more.
The building was greyer and duller than any other building I’d ever seen. It wasn’t too tall, four storeys high, maybe, with Knightville High written in huge red letters at the entrance.
I gulped. Who was I kidding? I was nervous as hell, which was totally idiotic; I’d done this a million times now.
Maybe it was just the fear of being in the spotlight, the downright spooky atmosphere of Knightville, or I was probably just way in over my head, and I suddenly had the totally irrational desire to get on my bike and ride back to DC.
Or, I told myself sternly, I’m overthinking the entire thing, and I should stop dawdling at the front of the school gates and just get it over with already.
So, thinking this, I took a deep breath, and went in.
***********
I’d hoped for a few minutes, at the very least, of peace.
Instead, I was immediately ambushed at the entrance of the main hall of my new school by a girl just a few inches shorter than me, with a bright expression that I would soon come to know was her being cheerful.
At first I’d thought her hair was on fire, and she had galloped to me expecting a waterfall to sprout out of my backpack. A fraction of a second later, though, I realised that that was just the color of the girl’s hair, burning orange, not red, orange, like fire.
Her hair was bright orange. She had hazel eyes with flecks of green and gold in them, sweet pink lips that looked naturally dyed, and freckles that covered the apex of her nose and cheekbones like dust. She wore a white tank top that should be illegal to wear, a brown leather jacket to cover it up, fashionably tattered and faded jeans, and a bright smile that could give the sun and the stars a run for their money.
“Hi,” she said, in a naturally crisp and friendly voice, “I’m Jolene Frost, head of Knightville High’s welcoming committee. Welcome to Knightville High!”
I jumped. “Hello,” I managed to stammer, “I’m Kenneth Teigen.”
Jolene’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly at ‘Teigen.’
“What?” I asked.
“What ‘what’?” Jolene looked a little bemused.
“Never mind,” I muttered.
She regarded me for a long moment, not like I was acting strangely, but more as though she’d just discovered something about me that told her there was more to discover.
Then she peered over my shoulder as though she’d just spotted someone, and called, “Rowan, Rowan!” I turned around, but I couldn’t be sure who she was calling. A beat passed. No one came, and no one looked at her weirdly for shouting that name, possibly because she was popular and wouldn’t have cared about it anyway. With an exasperated sigh, she flipped out her phone and dialled a number. She held up a finger that told me I should wait a minute and heard the phone ring twice before the person on the other end picked up.
Jolene did not pause to say ‘hello’ to make sure the person on the other end was there, instead immediately speaking into her phone, “Rowan Frost, if you do not emerge from whatever hidey-hole you’ve found for yourself, I will whisper your middle name to the new kid.” She said the last two words as though it would be a treacherous fate for Rowan, who I now realised was Jolene’s brother.
A reply came from the other end. Jolene retorted, “oh, I will, and I will do it seductively for good measure.” She seemed to have either not noticed my slight discomfort at that, or she was ignoring it entirely.
“Relax, I’m here,” came a child-like voice. A boy an inch or so shorter than me approached us, detaching his phone from his ear as he did.
Jolene smiled a winning smile, and leaned in to loudly whisper, “It’s Duncan, by the way.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell,” reproached Rowan while looking affronted, before abruptly grinning slyly, “Mildred.”
Jolene shrugged, clearly not the reaction Rowan had been hoping for. “I have no insecurities about my middle names. No one will ever call me Mildred, unless, of course, they have a death wish.”
“You just said you had no insecurities.”
“Mildred is a disgusting enough name to hate without being insecure about having it.”
“So is Duncan.”
“No, it’s only you who hates it because it’s old-fashioned.”
“I don’t understand why that isn’t a good enough reason on its own.”
While they went on with their incessant banter, I studied Rowan a little more closely. He had ash-blond hair that was more ash than anything really, and big grey eyes that at first seemed to be comparable to the grey of Knightville’s sky, but soon, it would look more like silver, gleaming and refracting in the light.
He had a long, thin face that had a fine sort of bone structure to it, all angles in some places, all softness in others. His body looked wiry and his shoulders were slim, similar to a girl’s. It was then I drew to the conclusion that ‘handsome’ was not a word that could be used to describe him – he looked more... pretty, yes, that’s the word. He was rather pretty.
“Shouldn’t we be showing the new kid around instead of wasting time arguing?” said Rowan a little grumpily, after Jolene had thrown a cutting remark at him.
“Perhaps,” Jolene allowed, “but maybe we could just skip the tour.” She turned to me, “don’t worry, the school layout is really simple. You’ll get it as we go along.”
The Frost siblings then took me along the halls, to my locker, through various classrooms and labs, the library, the canteen, the infirmary, other staffrooms, all while accompanying it with more banter, assurances that I could ask questions if I had any, and other interesting details, like a long crack that spread across the floor in front of the chemistry lab that had always been there. It was thin, but not so much that it wasn’t noticeable – in fact, I’d noticed it before Jolene had told me about it – and pitch black, as though it had been drawn on the ground with a marker of the darkest black, and shaped like real-life lightning, starting and ending abruptly. It was strangely unsettling to look at.
“Following so far?” Jolene asked, when I spent too long looking at the scar on the floor. “Any questions?”
I looked up, and spotted someone, walking briskly down the hallway. “Actually,” I said, nodding my head in that direction, “yes. Who is she?”
***********
It was that girl, the girl I’d seen a few days ago, with the black-and-blue eyes. My neighbour, I thought. Strange to see her here.
It wasn’t as though I was particularly surprised to have spotted her; Knightville High was the only high school in this town.
I just hadn’t expected to see her again so soon.
Even as I asked her the question, I could see Jolene’s expression change ever so slightly when she found who I was referring to, into something that was hard to coin. It was the kind of expression someone would put on to hide what they were truly feeling.
“Scarlett Raynott, I think that’s her name,” Jolene said, her voice a little away from her person. She turned to me.” Why do you want to know?”
“I saw her a couple days ago,” I said, still looking at Scarlett as she disappeared around the corner. “She lives in the house opposite to mine, at the edge of town.”
“You actually live in that rickety old house?” Jolene asked incredulously, though with the thin air of someone trying to change the subject.
“It’s not that old,” I said, frowning a little.
“It’s not the fact that it’s old,” perked up Rowan faintly, who, up until then, had been silently daydreaming, “which it isn’t, really, compared to other houses, it’s just the way it looks old. And not very pleasant. We all call it Bleak House – not a very creative name, sure, but it stuck.”
“And now people actually live in Bleak House,” Jolene mused.
“I think that’s an overstatement,” I said. “It’s not that bleak.”
“Some people died in there, didn’t they?” Rowan asked Jolene.
“What?” My head snapped up.
“Fourteen people, I think, back in ‘95,” Jolene said.
“Fourteen people?” I echoed, horrified.
“All murdered, weren’t they?” Rowan went on, unfazed.
“Police never found out who it was,” Jolene confirmed, shaking her head mournfully.
“Wow, you guys talk about murder with such ease,” I said.
Jolene grinned. “I would be more worried about living in a haunted house, really.”
“My house is not haunted,” I said, trying for a withering look but grinning instead.
“They say that there are fourteen small dots on the floor, the places where those fourteen people had stood when they were killed,” mused Rowan. “They were drawn on by the murderer.”
I shuddered minutely. “They never found him or her?”
“No, and that’s what’s really troubling.” Rowan stopped short, as though that last part was something he hadn’t meant to say.
Jolene, on the other hand, was now staring at the space where Scarlett had last been, before vanishing from view, and I felt I had to ask, “do you know her?”
Jolene’s eyes flashed in understanding. She smiled softly, like she held a secret, close enough to her that no one else could see it, hard as they tried, and answered, “nobody knows her.”
And it was precisely then that the bell rang.
***********
Nobody knows her.
Dear God, why had I said that? Not that it wasn’t true, in a sense. Saying that Scarlett Raynott didn’t trust easily was the understatement of a lifetime. Scarlett had been my best friend and loyal companion ever since we were kids, and even still, I constantly felt as though I didn’t really know all of her secrets; most of them, maybe, but not all.
I pushed that thought away. We, Rowan and I, had bigger things to think about.
Like how Lila and Kenneth Teigen had taken one look at freaking Bleak House and thought, this seems homely, why don’t we move in? Like how they now lived as close to Scarlett and endless danger as they possibly can get. Like how Kenneth had actually seen Scarlett, and recognized her.
Like how the Teigens knew that Knightville existed at all.
If I were normal, I would turn to Rowan, talk about what to do next, maybe even seek assurance that everything would not, in fact, go to hell.
But I was not normal, and you knew you weren’t normal when there was something fundamentally wrong with you and there was no term in psychology or any other science in existence that could describe it.
There had been a time when Rowan could bring me comfort and reassurance, with his simple, meaningful words and the thoughtful arch to his brow. But now, it was all I could do to smile and be playful and take up the role sisters should, to keep the pretence, to maintain what we had as siblings. No, Rowan was no longer my sanctuary, the sanctuary he had been when I was young and normal; he was someone who injured me everyday without even realising it, someone around whom I could never be myself, someone who would turn away with disgust if he knew the truth about me.
The second the bell had rung, Kenneth had taken one look at his time-table, muttered a swift “sorry,” smiled apologetically as he did, and bolted. Rowan had looked thoughtfully at Kenneth’s back then, and I could not help but do the same. Kenneth was never meant to be so... human. He was never meant to have a kind undertone to his deep, forest-green eyes, he was never meant to have such a steady set to his face, the kind that would remain the same even if flames of the tallest heights danced on the water of oceans and turned the earth and everyone on it into ash.
I was never meant to like him in the ten minutes that I knew him.
And as he went, I could not help but notice that he had disappeared around the same corner, where the classrooms began and the main hall ended, as Scarlett had, just moments ago.
I turned to Rowan with a fake smile plastered on my face. “Well, that went well.”
“Spectacularly,” Rowan said seriously, “your acting skills were truly flawless.”
I smiled winningly. I knew he was being sarcastic, but I also knew that going along with his sarcasm threw him. “Why, thank you, kind brother mine,” I said, adding a gallon of sugar to my smile and trying to ignore the sting of the word, ‘brother’.
Sure enough, Rowan narrowed his eyes, and I grinned triumphantly.
But of course, he just had to ask the million-dollar question. “What should we do about Kenneth?”
“No idea whatsoever,” I said cheerfully, as though I wasn’t losing my mind either. On a more serious note, I added, “maybe, for now, we should just keep tabs on Kenneth, what his classes are, where he comes and goes, and try and keep him away from Scarlett in general.”
“So basically stalk him,” Rowan said.
“Got any better ideas?” I asked.
Rowan’s brow suddenly cleared, and I knew what he was about to suggest. “I could always-”
“No,” I said immediately. “You could never go on for that long. It would drain you.”
And I don’t want to see you like that, I almost said, but held my tongue. It might reveal too much.
Unable to look at him any longer, I turned my gaze back to where Scarlett had disappeared, turning my attention to the issue at hand, and the reasons why the situation was this pressing.
Because everyone in this town knew the name 'Teigen.'
And we knew that name because of two people, because of the two people, because of the people who managed to get away.
***********
I was probably the only person ever to get lost in Knightville High School.
It was the middle of the school day, and I’d just spent what Jolene would surely call a productive lunch chattering away about several topics, murder included (I guess the Frost siblings like talking about this stuff). It was also when I discovered that Rowan could paint like Picasso, and Jolene wasn’t a terrible hand at volleyball either.
I look at the Frost siblings – Irish twins, I was told they were – and cannot help but think that they seemed in no way siblings at all. Very good friends, maybe, but not siblings or any blood relation at all. Siblings tend to have an invisible bond to them, something that marked them as a unit, but there was no such tether to Rowan and Jolene.
Even their overall closeness was questionable; Jolene had not caught Rowan’s eye even once throughout our conversations, the way that siblings did when they shared secret opinions. And if Rowan had noticed, then it was something that had been going on a long time, since he hadn’t seemed bemused or bewildered by it in any way.
There was also the matter of how they didn’t look alike at all.
But I could not think about that now. If I did, I was going to be late for English.
I soon realised, rather stupidly, that I’d been close to the classroom all this time. Cursing my idiocy, I made my way to the open door of the classroom as though it led to heaven.
And that was when I bumped straight into a girl.
Our shoulders collided messily, I almost tripped over my clumsy feet, and my copy of King Lear fell spine-first onto the other person’s foot, making them flinch in surprise.
“I am so sorry,” I immediately said, and bent to retrieve my book.
The girl didn’t say anything – just did the same for one of her own things, a leather-bound sketchpad with the silhouette of a crow on it as the cover design.
And it was then, kneeling on the ground and apologizing faintly, that we finally looked at each other.
Scarlett Raynott was staring right at me, her blue-black eyes fixated on mine. Her skin was deathly pale, as though it’d been first drained of all blood and then white-washed for good measure, contrasting starkly with her dark hair. Her blue eye glittered like a gemstone, but her black eye remained stubborn of light, completely dark. Her expression was totally neutral.
And something was wrong.
Something was very wrong.
But before I could name or place what that something was, Scarlett was getting back on her feet, not even sparing me a look as I did the same, and she was stalking away, her shadow clinging to her feet.
It barely registered into my mind that this was the first time we’d actually met, because something more disturbing caught my attention; two identical narrow, white slits at the apex of Scarlett’s shadow, where her head was.
I squinted.
Were those eyes?
I just thought a compilation of all the excerpts of each chapter would be easier to follow, hence this.
Taglist: @jeahreading, @mayaheronthorn, @damn-this-transgirl-hella-gay
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Chapter 1 - Excerpt 1
Who in their right mind would choose to ‘live’ in a graveyard of a town in Rhode Island over one of the sunniest places in the world, Flagstaff, Arizona?
Well, I did.
Lila must think I'm crazy. She definitely did.
My mother (that’s Lila) had always been a traveler, a hare-brained traveler who had once left half of her possessions in the States on an immigration to India for the winter. What happened to that half, you may imagine? Only the unknown force that made Lila my mother knows. Don’t get me wrong, Lila’s the best, but we were less mother and son and more the adventurous traveler and her wary follower.
Why would I choose to travel then, since another option was given to me? Well, I’ll get to that.
My life story was simple. I wasn’t a miracle, but I wasn’t a mistake either. I just happened, and I happened at the wrong time. My father’s name is – or was, I don’t really know – David Garamond and that was pretty much all I knew about him. Lila was efficient in cleaning up mistakes from her past. But she wasn’t the secretive type either; she didn’t mind talking about her past, and would tell me stories about her time with David. She would talk like they were fairy tales, which many real-life love stories are before they burn out into ashes of leftover feelings where the fire of love and hope used to be.
Lila Teigen and David Garamond were high school sweethearts, and were still going on strong well into college. They were a stable couple, which was saying something, considering how young they were. Young love tended to go wrong. But nothing went wrong for them, at least not then.
After completing college, David asked for her hand in marriage, even though he never got the blessing. Both Lila’s and David’s families were against it, and they promised to turn their backs on the pair if they did get married. But that didn’t matter; they were deeply in love, intent on forever happiness, and expecting a child, which was why David had proposed in the first place. Nothing had gone wrong around this part either. David was the guy fantasy talked about, the hero of the story. Lila had really thought that that would be her happily ever after.
But real life doesn’t have a happily ever after. It never did.
And we have now arrived at the part where things went wrong.
David was nowhere to be found on the day before the marriage. He’d gone out on a stormy night, saying he had some last-minute things to take care of and just... vanished.
And that was where the story ended. Lila would tell me nothing about what happened after that, about any of her struggles with being a single mother, if she ever found David again, or even why she took up the habit of travelling around when it was obviously much easier and cheaper to settle down in one place.
No. Fast-forward 16 years as a nomad named Kenneth Teigen on this planet, and I am currently scowling at the million dollar question of where our next voyage will take us while still recovering from the shock of having to answer said question. ‘Most difficult decision of my life’ hadn’t exactly been on my birthday wishlist.
And it wasn’t as though we could go just anywhere, either, which actually made things a little easier. Lila’s job as a digital marketing strategist paid well and steadily enough, but I couldn’t exactly suggest we hop on the next plane to Greenland, now could I? Not that I ever would.
No, Lila had narrowed down my choices to two places that contrasted each other so much and were so far apart that I was fairly certain Lila had just dropped the question on my head as an elaborate prank.
"Flagstaff, Arizona, or Knightville, Rhode Island?" Lila had asked me when my school year in DC was over.
"What?" I looked up from my book, The Picture of Dorian Grey.
Lila unceremoniously flopped down onto the red bean-bag chair and regarded me seriously, which would have been comical, had she not said the things she was about to say. "What would you pick," she began again, slower, "Knightville in Rhode Island, or Flagstaff in Arizona?"
I replied, surprised, "And you're asking me this because...?"
"Because this decision is officially yours," Lila said, a smile tugging on her lips as though she were giving me some good news. "You are going to decide where we stay for the next year." There was a glint in her eyes that could only be described as defiance as she pronounced her last statement.
"No," I immediately told her.
The glint died away. "Why not?" she asked, like a child asking her parent why she couldn't get candy even though she'd done her homework.
"Because I have no idea what to choose," I said bluntly.
"But I gave you only two options," she protested. "It can't be that hard!"
"Hard?" I asked incredulously. "You're asking me to choose where we're going to live for the whole of next year!"
"Between just 2 places!"
"Doesn't make it much easier, Lila!"
She looked bewildered, and a little hurt too, for which I felt a twinge of guilt.
Seeing me soften, perhaps, Lila went full-on puppy-dog mode, and while I had seen it coming and should've been able to resist it, I couldn't.
So, cursing the next several generations of Lila's bloodline (which wasn't smart, since I was one of them), I conceded to her wishes with a grumble.
Now, I don’t know why I chose Knightville. It wasn’t as though it was a good travel destination or a hot tourist spot; it was cold, constantly raining and foggy, and the only colours it ever saw were white, black and different shades of grey.
I just felt, I don't know, compelled to choose Knightville, like there was something the remote town whose name I had never heard of before had that much less remote Flagstaff didn't.
I wasn't fond of the feeling.
Nevertheless, the choice was befitting. Apparently my great-aunt Charlotte (late) had once lived in an old, slightly rickety house at the edge of town. Apartments were non-existent in small communities such as this, and it wouldn’t cost Lila a penny (except for maintenance).
Plus, the house was kind of homely.
It was a one-storey dwelling, painted a pale blue, with a brown, slanted roof. The inside was all cream-yellow walls and creaky wooden floors and the smell of good old 1950s vintage.
I didn’t dislike it, so that must have meant something.
Dinner that night consisted of Chinese take-out and ice cream for desert. I hadn’t spoken much till now, sitting in mindless silence, thinking about nothing, and staring at a small, perfectly circular hole (or was it just ink?) in the wooden floor.
“This flavour of ice cream is amazing”, commented Lila. I’d been, after all, silent for an unknown period of time, and a brooding silence of any sort from my end rang alarm-bells in Lila’s mind.
The truth was, I’d had this strange feeling ever since Lila’s car careened into Knightville. I felt... out of my own body, like I was breathing something entirely other than oxygen, that I was eating foreign food, having this foreign food with another person, that I was in another world, with alien roots that ran in alien soil. Like I was someone else. It was a creepy feeling, and it made my skin crawl.
But none of this was real. This was probably my brain’s way of punishing me because I’d intentionally forced myself to survive in a place that I didn’t like when I had total opportunity to live somewhere else.
“It’s pistachio flavoured”, I said, coming back to reality, “one of the worst ice cream flavours invented in the history of bad ice cream flavours”. I scrunched my nose with distaste.
“It is not”, insisted Lila, “you just don’t like it ‘cause it’s weird. I happen to like weird. Quite a few people do. Weird is good.”
But I would not indulge myself in the weirder aspects of life. While Lila was fawning over her god-awful ice cream, I was silently enjoying classic chocolate.
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