Life was complicated enough for Sivia before Keeley came into her life.
Her parent's divorce did not wipe out their traditional family values. Dad is still way too self-centered, Mom is still resentful, Russ is still shoving food in his mouth and Sivia doesn’t need any more drama. But when the new student, obnoxious and legless Keeley, becomes her project partner, her life becomes even more complicated.
Family friction, peer pressure and her overly controlling father are threats her budding relationship—but prejudices she never knew she had and doesn't want to acknowledge are the biggest hurdle of all.
Though the subject matter is serious, there is also humor in the story.
The driver, who looked about my age, leaned out the window. His dark hair stuck out like bristles on a brush. A large silver medallion on a thick chain swayed across his glowing pink sweatshirt, which had the sleeves cut off.
He beckoned to me with a hand clad in a black bicycle glove. "Sorry about that. Want a lift?"
"No, thank you." I coated each word with frost. First the jerk tries to drown me, then he tries to pick me up. Did he really think that was the way to seduce me? Or kidnap me? Or whatever.
"You sure?" he asked with a lopsided grin that almost bordered on being a smirk.
"Positive." I pulled the hood of my poncho tighter and headed off for school. I hadn't even stepped on school grounds yet, and already my day was disintegrating.
When I got to school, I swallowed a quick gulp of surprise. There in the parking lot was the black van. And the jerk parked in the "Disabled Parking" spot! He couldn't walk an extra twenty feet to the front door? I hoped he'd get towed. It'd serve him right.
Once inside, I dripped all the way to my locker. My shoes squished with each step. I fumbled with my lock. Even though it was my wrist that was taped up, sometimes this injury could be a pain in the butt. Finally, I got the door open and hung up my poncho.
"Hi, Sivia." Ilana Brower's locker was next to mine. We've been friends since we were jump-rope champions together in second grade. She stared at my feet. "What happened? Did you step in a puddle?"
"Some clueless jerk with scruffy dark hair splashed me. I saw his van out front, and if I see him, I'll make a grab for his shoes. Mine are never going to dry out."
"My gym shoes are here somewhere." Ilana fished around in the bottom of the book bag that was almost half her size. Her long bangs, which framed her most recent up-to-the-minute style of her brown-with-new-blonde-streaks hair, obscured her vision. "You could wear them."
"Nice offer," I said, "except my gunboats would never squeeze into them."
"Your feet aren't big, um, considering your height." Ilana was being kind.
At five-eight, I was only an inch taller than Ilana, but my feet were two sizes larger. Besides, I liked classic clothes—boring, Ilana called them—whereas she leaned toward funky-spunky original. But then, I preferred to melt into the background, while Ilana enjoyed being more visible.
Just then I spotted Marcy Stratton and the usual swarm of guys buzzing down the hall. Todd Bowman, drop-dead handsome drone-of-the-day, had his fingers laced through Marcy's. She stopped at her locker, and most of the worker bees except Todd dispersed. But Brad Coty, with whom I'd happily share my nectar, was still there, hanging around the fringes.
"Hi, Marcy." I approached her cautiously. To make life easier, I tried to stay on her good side. I mean, if my wrist didn't get me out of playing softball, I'd be stuck on the team with her. Besides, occasionally one or two of the guys who hovered around her were not only hot enough to be on fire, but actually showed active signs of intelligence too.
Marcy turned slowly and gave me a look that said, I can handle you. "Hello, um, Sivia, is it?" She curled her lip into a twisted smile that drove fear into the heart of most girls, but seemed to make guys want to start a little war over her. "How's your hand? Will you be pitching this year?"
"Um. Well. It might be healed in time for softball."
"That's good." Marcy almost sounded relieved.
"Th-thanks," I said, surprised at both her comment and her tone.
"I mean, it's good since no one has come along to replace you—so far." Marcy selected her books and, as if she were a princess presenting her handkerchief to a knight about to go into battle, handed them to Todd. With a toss of her silky chestnut hair she and Todd took off down the hall.
Brad, however, headed for his locker, which was right across the hall from mine. I looked for Ilana, but she had disappeared. She liked to get to French class early.
I took a deep breath and worked up the nerve to approach Brad. He was six-two, so I had to crane my neck to look up at him. "Hi." Brilliant opening remark!
"Hi, Sivia." Brad's blue eyes crinkled as he bestowed one of his devastating smiles on me. "What's up?"
What's up? So casual, so relaxed, so not like me. "Up?" I chewed my lip, trying to think. Up? Up? What was up? Basketball! Yeah, that was it. Basketball. "Um, I just wanted to wish you good luck in the game tomorrow night."
"Thanks." Brad put his hand on my shoulder. The vibrations zapped straight to my heart, among other body parts. "You going? We need all the support we can get if we're going to beat Springfield."
"Of course. Sure. I'll be there! I wouldn't miss it for anything," I babbled. Why did I have to suddenly be conversationally challenged?
"Great." Brad winked at me. "See you there."
I nodded and gulped, so uber-excited I couldn't speak. Where were my always-get-an-A-in-Language-Arts skills when I needed them? I watched Brad stroll off to class. Class! I had thirty seconds to get to the absolute other end of school.
My shoes squish-squashed as I walked as quickly as possible without breaking into an actual run. Running was a cardinal sin at Willamette City High, and there was nothing Vice Principal Whipple liked better than to lurk in the shadows just before classes started and pounce on unsuspecting violators. His speed and quickness in collaring students earned him the well-deserved nickname, The Whip.
I race-walked into the Home Arts room just as the bell rang and took a seat at a table by the window. Except for not wanting detention, I really had no reason to hurry to this class. I signed up for Holiday Cooking only because I needed a Home Arts credit. I could've waited, but I decided to take it now in my sophomore year and get it over with.
"Ah, Miss Groner. Nice of you to join us," said Ms Baker, an aptly named Home Arts teacher if ever there was one. "But please store your books over on that counter." She glanced at the clock. "I'm expecting a new student and he's going to need to sit at the end of the table right where you deposited your books."
I grabbed my books and trudged over to the counter, wondering why this new student just had to sit at the end of my table.
"Ah, Mr. Parrish. You're late," I heard Mrs. Baker say. "But since it's your first day at Willamette City High I'll excuse you this one time. You may take your place over there."
"Oh, thank you Mrs. Baker." The voice was faintly sarcastic and remotely familiar.
As I sat down I recognized the messy dark hair, the lopsided smile, and eyes that took in the whole room. "You're the jerk—"
"Hello again." He stuck out a bike-gloved hand. "I'm Keeley Parrish. Sorry about splashing you." Briefly, he flashed a grin. "It was purely unintentional, I assure you."
I didn't want to stare. But I was afraid to look away. I was so surprised to see him that it'd taken a couple seconds for it to register that he was in a wheelchair.
Then I saw his legs. Or rather, I didn't see his legs. I mean, he didn't have any legs, except for these stubs that ended a few inches above where his knees would have been. That explained parking where he did. I felt myself shrinking. "S-s-s-o you're Keeley," I finally managed to whisper as I reached over to shake his outstretched hand. With a nervous glance at Ms Baker, who was thumbing through some file cards, I added, "I-I'm Sivia Groner."
"You're friendlier than I thought from our first encounter." One corner of his mouth twisted upward. "Why is that?"
I studied his face for a moment. He completely didn't strike me as someone who was looking for pity. "Because you're not as much of a total jerk as I thought you were."
Keeley threw back his head and let out a deep laugh.
Welcome Ann! Thanks for coming by. I'm looking forward to finding out a little about you. As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
For a long time I wanted to be a nurse, partly because my mother was a nurse and partly because I liked taking care of everyone's cuts, scrapes, stubbed toes and other assorted minor injuries of childhood. But when I was about 11, I also started thinking about writing. A couple of times I attempted to write a novel, but never finished. It wasn't until I was an adult and talking to a friend about how I'd always wanted to write that I got started at her (very insistent) urging.
What is your favorite season?
When I was growing up, I'd say summer, hand's down. The weather, the swimming and NO SCHOOL (which meant I could read what I wanted to, no homework and lots of daydreaming). Now I love each season as it comes.
Have you attended a high school reunion? What did you learn?
I've attended both mine and my husband's--we went to the same high school. Yes, we were high-school sweethearts. J I've learned that all the old groups and cliques fall away and everyone is happy to see everyone and catch up on their lives. Also, it doesn't take long for the years to peel back. It's great to visit with people you knew when you were growing up.
What is your favorite thing about being an author?
The freedom to express my thoughts in my own words and turn them into a story that (I hope) entertains teaches and/or inspires readers. I also enjoy being able to wear whatever I want, eat when I want and just working for myself in general.
What is the toughest part of being an author?
Sometimes it's facing that blank computer screen on a day when the words don't flow and sometimes it's as simple as not having a co-worker to share a coffee break.
What gets your creative juices flowing?
Daydreaming. My first YA novel (Practice Makes Perfect, published by Crosswords, a former YA imprint of Harlequin) was a result of daydreaming about what I would have liked my summers to have been when I was a teenager. After that, it's sitting at the computer and writing at least two sentences. Once I've done that, I'm on my way.
Do you pattern your characters after real people?
A. I might borrow gestures, speech habits, physical features and/or personality quirks from here and there and everywhere, but a character is never patterned after a real person.
If you could be anything other than a writer, what would your second choice be?
My second choice would be to own a racing stable and have a horse that would win the Triple Crown. That was my first childhood dream, and it's still a pretty good one—though not exactly practical. ;)
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| Ann in her backyard |
Ann grew up in
5 comments:
A charming interview with Ann Herrick and a neat little excerpt from one of her books! Always learn something new about fav authors at interviews. And I'd like to have a nice riding horse and a patch of pasture myself!
Thanks, Juliet! :)
I like your lifestyle as much as I like your books Ann:-) My granddaughter is not quite old enough for them yet, but when she is they'll be on her kindle in a trice.
Hi Ann,
Great interview. Hope you are still writing when my granddaughter is old enough to read your books.
Best wishes
Margaret
Hi Ann,
Although we've been "writing" friends for many years, I learned something new about you: you once wanted to be a nurse, as did I.
I enjoyed reading your interview and the presentation for your book. As you probably remember, I read it soon after it came out, and I enjoyed it very much!
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