(I haven’t gotten in touch with my graphic designer for a new header!)
Morgan wants what any high-school girl in a place like Central Nowhere wants: out of her life. And she's absolutely positive nobody's listening to her. Her sane-and-urbane grandma helps her cope with her horrible father, and her crush on Rob, a co-worker, helps her cope with the weirdness that is high school. But when sometimes-friend Tessa kisses her, Morgan has to make decisions, and none of them are easy. While she solves the Tessa riddle, her grandma's health starts to collapse, and her decline helps Morgan unravel a family secret. In the midst of it all, Morgan learns that people *are* listening, and she'd better start listening, too. It's all too important to miss.
Care to read the first few pages?
The hills save me, but I would never say that out loud. I hate this place. So I should hate the hills, right? But I don’t.
Today it’s ALIENS TAKE ME NOW, 15 times, shouted into the air. Then I AM INSANE and DIE ASSHOLE DIE and BITE ME, but only five times each.
1. CONSOLIDATE YOUR INTERESTS WHILE THE LIGHTS ARE ACTIVE—Tom Yun Fun’s, Minneapolis
Right now, I’m supposed to be stocking candy. There are bags and bags of M & Ms, plain and peanut, sitting on my conveyor belt. The store is empty, which is nice, so I take my time. The bags become piles, and then the plain ones become a house, with a doghouse made of peanut ones behind it. I try not to stare at Rob as he stocks cigarettes. I know I’m supposed to be faithful to Derek, and I am. Just not in my mind.
“Morgan!”
“What?” My plain M and M house falls over.
Rob grins. “Come help me stock cigarettes.” I wander over while he studies me. “You must be thinking very serious thoughts.”
I am not going to tell him the truth: I was pondering his very cute ass, which he displayed as he was working on the smokes. Where has that ass been all my life?
“Just contemplating fortunes.”
“Pardon me?” He hands me a carton of cigarettes.
“You know—inside fortune cookies?” I open it and shake out the packs. The Salem Ultra Lights slide into their spot.
“That’s a weird thing to think about.” He hands me another carton of Salem Ultra Lights.
“Not as strange as pondering something like, I don’t know, foam fingers. People do that, too, and that’s way weirder.”
“Like “we’re number one” foam fingers? How are those weird?” He seems to have taken personal offense.
“Fortunes are way more useful.”
“How could a fortune be useful? Besides that, where can you get fortunes around here?”
“In the deli.” I point toward the back of the store. No Chinese restaurant in Central Nowhere, of course. “But what if a fortune told you how to make a million bucks? You never know."
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
“You just have no imagination.” Even though I've only known him for a few weeks, I smack him on the arm.
He rubs the spot where I connected. “I bet you don’t have any friends. You hit.”
He intoxicates me. He invigorates me. He makes me think of obnoxious, hokey verbs like invigorates.
Since I was so busy looking at his lovely face, I put the Winstons in with the Marlboro Reds. But now Rob and the Winstons have to wait, because Crazy Gus is unloading groceries on my conveyor belt. Wow, does he need a shower. He smells like pee and dirt and feet, all at the same time. Cigars, Chex, and cat food. Must be a C evening at Crazy Gus’s house.
After Gus is gone, I go back to the candy because Rob’s done with the smokes. He fixed the Winstons after a glare in my direction. While I roll the Rolos in the right place, I see Rob sneaking glances at me from over by the corn, where he’s stocking the special of the week—creamed, for 49 cents a can.
For value, buy the creamed corn.
I can imagine the look on someone’s face when that falls out of a cookie.
It really is strange to want to write fortunes for a living. But people attach meaning to strange things and listen to all sorts of advice they shouldn’t, so why not convince them to buy creamed corn? It’s my dream to write the Great American Novel, but I’ve got to do something while I perfect my masterpiece. Fortunes are as good as anything else. No one will ever know it’s me writing them, but that’s probably OK.
For good luck, do not go to work on Tuesdays.
To find love, look under the couch.
I wonder if more people would stay home on Tuesdays or look under their couch.
I hope fortune writers make more money than poets.
It’s a million degrees in Central Nowhere, because it’s August 1st and global warming is turning everything into desert. I work in a grocery store. My boyfriend is boring. My dad and step mom, Brad and Anne Callahan, suck in an unbelievable way. College is two years away. I live in a hick town. We’ll run out of fossil fuels in twenty years, but no one will let me use the car before it happens. Rob is right: I really don’t have friends, just Girls I Sit By At Lunch. My mom died when I was almost three. My grandma is the coolest woman in this town. And I have to get a new life before I go crazy.
Stick it up your ass.
The fortune cookie factory had better supervise, or they'll get hate mail.
I watch Rob for a while longer. He’s a bit of a novelty, because he’s only been here a few months. He’s the new assistant-something-or-other manager, but I've yet to see him manage anything. He’s moved on to baked beans, down at the far end of the aisle, and he’s bent over again, showing me that excellent butt.
I bet he collects foam fingers.
2. YOUR ATTENTION TO DETAIL IS BOTH A BLESSING AND A CURSE. Hot Pot Restaurant, Hong Kong
Mrs. Anderson stalks away, glaring at me after our little exchange about the price of a gallon of milk. Yes, it’s more expensive than it was in 1968, when the store opened. Yes, the price is correct. No, I don’t put the extra money in my pocket. I smile as she throws me one more daggered look over her shoulder, because I maintain an air of professionalism at all times. But I imagine myself ramming a full grocery cart into her car. If I did it right, with the correct angle, enough space, and repeated rammings, I could scratch my initials in her door.
Just shut up and work.
I am silently, calmly, casually stocking peaches. I am also listening for any good dirt. Gossip is one of the perks of this job. Since people don’t even notice you’re there, you hear crazy things. One time I heard two teachers from the high school talking about Mr. Hamilton and Mrs. Rogers doing it in the teacher’s lounge. I didn’t stay hidden that day because I was laughing so loud. But so were they.
Her breasts heaved. A white board marker quivered between her toes as he slowly locked the door.
“Are you ready to be my student?” His voice growled over the unwashed coffee cups and the papers scattered across the floor.
She sighed. “Of course, you big strong teacher. Take me now!”
The old saggy couch groaned under the weight of their passion.
I can put it in my novel.
I am moving cans of fruit around when interesting sounds drift over the top of the shelves.
“I cannot believe that . . . Tessa and Amanda?”
“She looks so lesbian, with that weird hair. We should’ve known.”
I almost drop my peaches.
“Amanda? That can’t be right.”
“Believe it. Amanda’s mom found them.”
“Oh my gosh!”
I peek around the corner, and two moms are parked in front of the salad dressing and relishes, gabbing away. I sneak over to find out more, but the case of pickles I grabbed for camouflage falls out of my fingers and crashes all over everything. Then the whole aisle smells like vinegar, and while I’m sweeping up the glass and mopping the floor, I cut my finger open, so blood mixes with the pickle juice. It’s just gross.
The moms are long gone by the time I get things cleaned up, which is probably good. I’d be very obvious, following them around the store.
Tessa is my neighbor, and I know exactly what these women are talking about.
Two Friday nights ago, sometime around 1 a.m., I was spacing out in my back yard, lying on a blanket and contemplating the stars. Then I heard Tessa’s back door open—her house is across the alley from mine—and I saw her start heading my way. It was easy to tell she was drunk, because she walked no straight lines in her path to get to me. I don’t know how she knew I was there, but she plopped herself on my blanket and began to tell me about her evening. I listened, but I kept watching the stars.
And then she leaned over and kissed me.
Up to that point, I had no idea she liked girls. In Central Nowhere, people don’t go there. Boys like girls and girls like them back, and that’s all you need to know.
The problem was I kissed her back.
It felt good. Really, really, really good. We locked lips and tongues and swapped all these vibes, and it felt excellent and horribly wrong all at the same time.
Then she stumbled to her feet, without a word, and lurched back to her house.
I lay on the blanket for a long time after that.
3. A MAN WHO LIVES ONLY FOR PLEASURE IS A POOR MAN. The Ultimate Noodle, Cincinnati
I am working and trying to blank my mind, trying not to think about Tessa or the back yard, trying not to be pissed that Ingrid and Jessica, the Girls I Sit By At Lunch Most Often, drove to Kearney without me when they know that I’ll do anything to get out of this town, even driving fifty miles to the nearest Target. Then Derek comes in and buys French onion dip and chips, a two-liter of Mountain Dew, and some hot dogs. No buns. Of course he comes through my checkout line.
Derek has beautiful eyes, wavy hair, and big muscles. He’s cute but dumb, like a bunny. We sat next to each other in study hall when I was in ninth grade and he was in tenth, and one day he realized I could help him with his math homework. Then he noticed I had nice boobs, so he asked me out. The rest is history.
I know everyone thinks we’re a strange couple—the nerdy brain and the dumb jock—but I keep him around to help with my social handicap, because it's at least –500. With him my handicap goes down to –5 or so, because the gorgeous jock status is a double bonus. –5 is much easier to live with than –500, though I’m not sure why I care. He keeps me around because he doesn’t know what else to do. But I also think he genuinely likes me. And I genuinely like him. Mostly.
He smiles his killer smile. “How are you, good-lookin’?”
I push each piece of junk food over the sensor, beep beep beep. “Thought you were going out tonight with your buds.”
“We’re staying home to watch wrestling. Come over when you’re done.”
Think what his breath will be like then.
I try to look cute so he won’t be pissed. “I have to work early tomorrow.”
“That sucks. See you tomorrow night?”
“You got it.” I smile, and hope it’s convincing.
He stops to think. “Oh, but I start football practice tomorrow night. After that?”
“Pick me up when you’re done.” I give him another semi-convincing smile.
He leans over and gives me a quick kiss, then waltzes out the door with a wave. Already his breath is not so good, so I’m glad I get to skip the after-chips-and-dip-and-hotdogs version.
Those muscles got me hooked, and then I noticed the smile and realized he’s funny, so that sealed the deal. But he’s in the bottom third of his class, and he’s not one for reading, which to me is like saying you're not one for breathing. He intends to work for his father’s construction company after high school and set himself up with a nice house, a nice truck, and a nice life, with no desire to see anything outside of the boundaries of Central Nowhere. And I can see to the edge of the world.
I watch Derek through the window. He’s walked across the parking lot and is laughing with the people at Kwik Gas, also known as Gas and Ass. Once you get into high school, you discover that Gas & Ass is the place to be—all plans and announcements get made there, from who’s having the fiesta to who’s hooking up with whom (it’s the ultimate proof of my nerdhood—I used the word whom). A shared parking isn’t a bad thing for the store: you stop there, find out where the party is, then wander over to buy Coke for your vodka and chips for your pot munchies. Kwik Gas and Food Pride. Gas & Ass and Any Other Name But Food Pride.
Derek’s being his social butterfly self, and the women are eating it up. I’m not sure whether I care.
Derek swept Morgan into his arms. And then he stood there, because he didn’t know what to do. So he dropped her.
Morgan picked herself up off the floor. “Yeah, well, your breath stinks and you’re stupid. Get out of my sight.”
Maybe I should write cautionary fortunes.
Do not fall in love with great hair and big muscles.
Like anyone would listen.
And then there’s our sex life: boring. Or, to use my dictionary-ness, uninteresting, tedious, dull, mind-numbing, lackluster, dreary, tiresome, monotonous, unexciting, wearisome, repetitive, humdrum, and uninspiring.
He’s got a big black 1994 Buick, and the front seat is as big as a sofa, though much more slippery. We park it on the same dead-end street every Friday and Saturday night and turn the radio to one of the three kinds of stations we get out here: easy listening, country, or talk. Yuck. Usually we pick easy listening, because on that station no one accidentally gives out a “yee haw!” at an inopportune moment.
We kiss for a while, though never long enough, and that part’s fantastic, because 1) Derek is an inspired participant in that activity, and 2) I think kissing is one of the best things ever invented. Any kind, all kinds—Eskimo kisses, your basic smooch, deep tongue wrestling, air kisses—whatever way you can do it. It can be impartial, or it can be the most intimate gesture around.
Which is why I have no idea what it means that I kissed Tessa back—too many options for meaning.
Nobody in my bio fam kisses each other except for me and Grandma.
While we’re locking lips, Derek runs his hand up and down the front of my shirt, and he’s very gentle, but insistent, so he gets my heart—and the rest of me—going, so I’m always ready for something gentle and slow, but everything goes downhill from there. Clothes fly everywhere, and I fake it—lots of moans and groans, and “oh yes!”—but usually I feel nothing. I always figure I should make union scale for my acting job.
Watch out for bad sex. If you’re sure it’s bad, that is.
Maybe it’s really OK sex, and I’m just not paying attention. But I know I should feel more than bored. And Derek’s anatomy is NOTHING like the guys in Playgirl, either. Jessica and Ingrid bought one when they went to Kearney, and those are some gigantic penises if the photos are real. I know Derek can’t help what he was given, but I wonder. Maybe you need to use your little penis in a big way. Maybe I need to read to him, or to his penis.
I also wonder about sex in a bed. It has to be better than sex in a front seat.
Do not have sex in a car.
Do not have sex after boring dates.
In my mind, I am always in a room with roses, with someone who makes shivers run up and down my body, like the guys women swoon over in all the cheesy date movies Ingrid and Jessica make me watch. There is mucho kissing, and we are doing what I want to do, even though I’m not sure what that is right now, with my limited repertoire.
Sometimes I’m with Jack Sparrow, ooh la la. Sometimes I’m with Rob. No matter who it is, Derek is nowhere to be found. Nor, for the record, is Tessa.
Derek’s still standing at the Gas and Ass, and there’s a circle of women around him, then a circle of men around the women. The men look very crabby. The women look very happy.
I should look elsewhere.
