[Part I - The Middle] - Chapter 1 – “The question isn't who is going to let me;

First chapter in the first part of a three part novel

This sucks! It’s the middle of May and I should be at Saks buying shoes to make my graduation gown less boring, not handcuffed on a plane headed for god-forsaken Grand Junction, Colorado. Freaking sucks!

I drop my head against the seat in front of me. Pep rallies and proms are over for me. Thanks to my ridiculous parents and a stupid judge, I get to finish high school at The Center.

Big smile.

Not.

Life couldn’t suck more. It’s not even a real prison. No “Orange is the New Black.” No street cred. Nope, just one of the few disadvantages of being rich, I guess. The Center is, according to my mother, a “reform school.” Of course internet blogs try to freak people out, make it sound like some kind of concentration camp.

Students tasered.

Inmates deprogrammed in a dungeon.

I don’t buy all the hype. Seriously, Colorado is in America. My family is not only wealthy, we’re politically connected. A school for bad, rich kids will be monitored. Constantly monitored. No one can get away with torture.

The plane bounces on its decline, stirring up the airline peanuts I ate on the previous flight. Man, I feel sick. The chemical funk of recirculated air hurt my head. I tap my blue stilettos in the nonexistent legroom. I might have to go to jail, but I want to do it in style, and public puking isn’t cool. The small, wannabe plane twists at random angles as it encounters turbulence.

Ping.

The fasten-your-seatbelt sign illuminates.

The officer sitting next to me doesn’t move, so neither do I. He thinks he’s in control because of his gun. My stomach can tell him it’s really in charge.

Bounce.

Oh, no.

Thump.

Don’t puke, Courtney. Do not puke.

With my wrists cuffed, I press my hand on my gut to fight back the nausea. I’ve been in a lot of messes before but nothing quite as big as this. My parents accuse me of trampling over anything to be seen or heard. School counselors say I have an overwhelming need to be validated. They’re all nuts if they think I wanted this.

The small plane rocks and bounces toward the runway. Outside the small window, a layer of snow dusts the mountain range below. Not good. Most of my life was spent near the ocean in San Diego where it never snows. But living near DC for the last year, I learned that fast wheels don’t work on icy surfaces. I brace myself for a crash.

Metal cuts into my wrists as I squeeze my hands together. I’m not the kind of person who regrets much, but man do I hate every minute I spent in Virginia. I hate that my father made us move. I hate Daniel. I hate Nicole. I hate my cousin Bailey. I might have messed up. But I didn’t mess up alone.

With a bump, the back wheels of the plane grab tarmac.

I hold my breath and wait for us to spin out of control and smash into the side of a mountain. Good-bye life.

The front wheels drop.

I clench my jaw and tighten my shoulders. I don’t know the best position for a plane crash. Who watches stupid safety demonstrations?  

The brakes skid.

The wheels roll.

No spinning. I brave a look from the window. Surprise, surprise, no ice on the runway. Snow still tops the mountains, but the airport is dry.

“You okay?” The officer asks.

“Yeah,” I say a little bit snarky.

He chuckles. “Just checking, thought I heard you say something like ‘good-bye life.’”

I clench my teeth and watch the brown landscape as the airplane bounces across the tarmac. I hate it when words fall from my brain through my lips without me being fully aware of it. “Whatever.” I feel more disappointed than embarrassed. Who cares what some dumb cop thinks of me? Besides, I think I kind of wanted to have my life end in a ball of flames on the evening news. A thousand times better than vomiting in a bag. Plus, my mother and father would be forced to regret their decision to send me here.

Mother claimed, “You’ll come out a better person.”

Father said, “It’s for the best.”

I don’t believe them. If my little sister was in trouble, they’d have saved her this humiliation. But they love her more. They really do. It happens.

The evidence was presented to me at a very young age. The sun had shown bright through the park trees. With my fingers in a wide begging motion, I reached for my father to pick me up and swing me. His face disappeared as he stepped into the shade and shook his head. He claimed it was not safe. That was my first experience of rejection’s heaviness. I tried to believe him. But his lie became evident the minute Kat was born. My sister and biggest rival.

He swung her around as a baby.

He swings her around now and she’s ten.

Swinging equals love.

No swinging.

No love.

No big. Turns out swinging only makes me vomit. Even watching a merry-go-round makes me dizzy. I push the spinning memories from my mind and take a couple deep breaths to quell the returning nausea.

When the plane comes to a full stop, I lean my forehead against the seat in front of me. The flight attendant announces we can unbuckle our seat belts, but since the officer next to me doesn’t move, neither do I.

It’s good not to move. Stay still. Not vomit.

I could sit here and wonder what I should have done differently, but the list would be too long. Besides, I haven’t done anything everyone isn’t already doing. I don’t see them here.

The officer stands and leaves me shackled while we exit. The flight attendant stuffs my coat in the gap between my arm and my side. Her hands shake as if I’m a bank robber or a murderer.

“Can’t you take these off?” I lift my wrists while continuing to glare at the stupid flight attendant.

“Nope,” the cop says without a smile and stays close enough to grab me if I run. His trigger hand clenches, ready for the challenge. He can relax. I’m not a runner. That’s not my style.

Neither is throwing up, so I snatch a gulp of air, hold it in my lungs until it fights for release. With my shoulders thrown back, I exhale and strut through the small terminal. The heels of my blue Louboutins click on the tile floor. The officer next to me pulls my bright pink carry-on bag behind him. I smile at the odd looks he gets. A little humiliation back at him.

People stare at me too. A mother yanks her small child away after I wave at him with my two hands clasped in shiny bracelets. The reaction widens my smile. I’m tempted to whisper to them, want to know who I killed and the bank I robbed?

“Excuse me?” The officer asks.

“Nothing.” Ugh, lousy slips. My mouth totally hates me. I keep my eyes forward and bite my bottom lip. No more teasing the nice Colorado people.

When the sliding glass doors open, the crisp air dispels more of my “green gills” as Nanny Bella would say. I fill both my lungs with spring air. We walk across the parking lot and I’m surprised to find the bright sun warms my cheeks, different from the bitter bite of wind they have in Virginia.

In fact, I’m surprised at the suns’ warmth, considering it’s spring. The comfortable temperature mocks the mountain snow. I take another deep breath. The smell of burnt wood lingers in my lungs. It helps. On carnival rides, I yell at the top of my lungs to keep the nausea down. Not wanting to scream now, I pull in air through an open-mouth-screaming pose.

One thing for sure, when this trip is over, I’ll be the best person ever. I never want to be this humiliated again. My pathetic search for love got me into this mess. But I’m done with men. No one needs that nonsense. 

Of course that’s easy to say, harder to do when my new guard appears.

Holy hot.

He leans against the ugliest, green school bus on the planet. Which only makes him hotter. His blue-gray eyes smize with mystery. His hair hangs in long waves like the actor Ashton Kutcher. Lord knows I have a weakness for older men.

Butterflies or bats awaken in my already sick stomach.

“Jackson, this is Courtney Manchester.” The stern officer passes my pink bag to the guard. Unlike the cop next to me, the Adonis who takes my carry-on wears a uniform that fits tight against his athletic frame.

I offer a weak smile.

“Hi.” He dazzles one right back at me.

My desire to not vomit escalates. I suddenly regret not throwing up in the terminal. I want nothing left in my stomach to embarrass me in front of this guy. I suck in another deep breath and step onto the bus. The gorgeous guard follows.

The seats aren’t empty. In the center of the back row, a tattooed jock glares at me, his leg chained to the floor. Four seats in front of him, a short Latino guy stares out the window, a Bose headset wrapped around his neck. Nearer the front, a young black girl wipes her red, swollen eyes.

I smile at her in spite of myself. I don’t believe in people. They only betray you, but I feel sorry for this sad girl. If I can do anything in the next few minutes to make her life a bit brighter, then maybe I’ll shift some of that karma stuff people talk about.

“I’m Courtney.” I nod at her.

“Dee Dee.” She lifts her shoulders in a shy shrug.

I slide into the seat across from her. The vinyl is hot on my bottom. Jackson leans over and removes my “jewelry”. His breath warm on my neck. A moment that could have been über romantic if it wasn’t for his toxic cologne. The musky smell would have been great on any other stomach day, but today I hold my breath waiting for him to shackle me to the floor like the kid in back.

Instead he pockets the cuffs and leaves me to breathe unrestrained. The gate at the front of the bus clicks closed. The guard is gone. I shake my head and scoot closer to the window hoping for oxygen.

“Look, Mario, a blonde princess,” the jock in the back heckles in a thick southern accent. “They didn’t tie her leg down either. Guess they trust these chicks more than us.”

“Shut up, Fisher.”

“Make me shut up.”

The conversation happens behind me. I’m too nauseous to turn around. But I can respond and do. With my right hand still gripping the seat in front of me, I flash the middle finger of my left hand to everyone behind me.  

“You’ll pay for that,” Fisher growls. “Soon as I get a shank, I’m gonna gut you.”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Not because he scares me, I can handle a creep like him. No, if I open my mouth, I’ll lose my lunch. The nausea pushes hard against my ribs. No amount of deep breathing works. The walls of the bus narrow. The air thickens.

Hot.

Heavy.

I stare at the seat in front of me and beg the green vinyl to make the pressure stop. But it doesn’t work. Instead, I open my mouth as wide as possible and scream.

Author's Note

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