I revisited this today and felt like sharing. Here's a peak at the very first book I every tried to write. Enjoy!
Emma’s forearms numbed and itched as they dug into the carpet. She leaned forward to rest all of her weight on them and stretched into side splits tugging tight muscles until she was resting fully on the floor and gazing at her reflection in the full-length ballet mirror affixed to her bedroom wall. Poised, elegant, controlled she coached herself slowly straightening until her back and arms were arched in perfect form. Softly lit blue eyes muted the seriousness in her reflection and her eyebrows raised with an air of dignified grace to produce the look of a true Ballerina. Trying to repress a giggle at her mock seriousness she whispered “Adagé,” and concentrated to unfold and extend her legs while building strength and increasing extension…just as her Madame had instructed her for so many strenuous years.
Vivaldi signaled the forte of the final phrase of his Four Seasons. Simultaneously Emma leaped up from a tight fifth position with her legs together and toes pointed to land on one foot in a demi plié, with the other foot sur le cou-de-pied performing a perfect Sissonne. She had landed on top of her floor beam, a routine that she often practiced in high school combining both of her disciplines: ballet and gymnastics. Her warm cheeks glowed and she batted her thick eyelashes to the final notes of Vivaldi’s violins and then releasing all muscle control she did a simple cartwheel dismount. The only problem was that her foot caught the edge of her dresser and retracted with the contact propelling her forward. She collapsed on the floor just as Vivaldi signaled the final note. Her reflection in the mirror was only her pale blue eyes level with the floor. Vivaldi’s composition was complete and just the birds from the open window accompanied Emma’s self-directed laughter.
“I am just soooo funny,” came her muffled voice from the carpet where she lay face smooshed into the dense floor, “owww,” she groaned, “and so out of practice!”
She had impressed herself by managing to do the split discipline routine among other things. It had been two years since she had given up her passion for ballet; anorexia and torn ligaments were not sacrifices she was willing to make for a lifelong career. She now only worked out at the gymnasium a few days a week to remain in shape. However, she was still drawn to the pink point shoes that wrapped around her practice bar and from time to time on a Friday afternoon, worn from a week of serious study, she laced them up for a little reminder.
Lying on her stomach Emma tugged at the carpet and let the blood throb through her muscles making her feel completely relaxed. The exercise had invigorated her and remaining in her position on the floor she reached her hand up to the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her lime green ipod.
Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield was at the top of her play list left over from her summer at home in California. She clicked play and scrolled up the volume releasing her silky sun-blonde hair from the tight messy bun on her head and let the slightly straight, slightly curled tendrils bounce with the lyrics. She up-righted herself in front of the mirror and accompanied the spicy strains of summer pop only as girls can in the carefree expression of a favorite song.
The afternoon sun poured in from the window and played with her dancing shadow by illuminating the mirror and casting a warm glow across her cheeks. Her usual wisp of summer freckles was fading, but Emma always had a look of sun kissed innocence with her clear, bright skin, and pale light blue eyes.
With a final twirl she flopped down on her bed to contemplate the meaning of 3:30 on a Friday afternoon for a college student.
She nuzzled deeper into her fluffy white bed that had a king-sized down comforter cinched into a twin duvet. It created a sort of white cloud that she was too alert at the moment to sink into.
Eliminating a nap she pondered her remaining options.
The girls at the Cabin had invited her over, not that an invitation was ever really needed. Her friends Heather, Amanda, Ragan, and Amanda lived at The Cabin. The house had gerbera daisies, was scented with perfume, and pictures were in every single room or on every wall. It was definitely a girl’s cottage clubhouse, but more than that, the room that cultivated relationships was their den. The den was sunken and had a large step down. It was usually dark with a window seat and a huge fireplace. Beside the fire was a basket of blankets and pillows, and they had two huge college couches. The Cabin hosted regular movie nights with roasted marshmallows, blankets, friends, laughing, and sometimes sleepovers. This afternoon they were probably just going to cook dinner and talk girl talk: drama about school, drama surrounding dating, and drama within their sorority.
Emma’s eyes followed a shadow on her ceiling from the oak tree outside. It danced with the final leaves of fall in the afternoon breeze and Emma remembered the layers of leaves covering the lawn of their small rental that she had been avoiding all week. That meant one thing to her, well, besides raking. It meant tomorrow would be the day of the final “Rake ‘em and Bake ‘em” for the year, and there she would most likely see the girls from the cabin. She wouldn’t need to go tonight.
Emma preferred her time alone and really she liked to remain in the outer circle of most friendships partially as a result of insecurity, and also because she shied away from most of the “huge problems” that kept other people’s lives going. She was the simple “breath of fresh air” friend that breezed in and out as a contented listener and encourager, but a non-participant. Honestly, the thought of an evening at the cabin feeling like the outsider was not what she wanted.
The open window blew in the scent of fall and mingled with her eucalyptus/spearmint candle beckoning her to come outside.
Caleb! She rose to find her cell phone on her bedside table, exactly where she placed it every time she came home. While the dial tone sounded she crossed her eyes and gazed at the white Christmas lights lining her window making them dance and blur and twinkle with her squinting and unsquinting.
“Hello,” he answered.
She fell back on her bed abruptly, and smiling said, “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but then chuckled, “I was trying to think of a reply that might sound less lame, but I’m just sitting on my couch flipping through channels. Why? What’s up?”
“Um, nothing, but I want to come over. Okay?”
His voice betrayed his smile, “Ok, but bring money for Chinese. It’s your turn to pay.”
“Ah,” she gasped in mock offense, “you NEVER pay, and I always do because I’m the rich one in this friendship that actually has a job.”
She couldn’t see the flinched expression that crossed his face at a fact that he was quite aware of. His grades didn’t come as easily, and the various commitments that he had as a treasurer for his fraternity, community service organizer, and unofficial organizer for a Wednesday night college-wide devotional meeting prevented him from being available for more than 8 hours per week, not enough free time to support a part-time, minimum wage job.
His income consisted of a meager, but generous allowance from his parents that afforded him lunch meat, potatoes, cereal, coffee, and an occasional frozen pizza that he doctored up for special occasions.
“Well, yeah,” he made light of the situation, “but if it weren’t for me you would never spend money, so can you just put it on my tab? Please?”
1 comment:
That looks like Boston in the Fall! I was there, almost this time, last year. Still love the opening of this book. Such wonderful words, such wonderful dreams!
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