I haven't touched this blog in a while, but that doesn't mean I haven't been writing.
Actually, I've been writing feverishly. Or, more accurately, editing feverishly.
This novel, "In Search of Me," has some crazy twists. I wrote it back in '09, but I never really shopped it out to publishers. Once I'm done editing, I just might do that. Granted, it isn't the most meaningful of my books. It's bizarre and unpredictable, though. And (hopefully) entertaining.
Here's the premise: at age five, Krista is approached by a boy (Ethan Carlson) who tells her that her cousin misses her. The weird thing is, she doesn't have any cousins. Fast forward ten years, and Ethan's grown into a rule-breaking, troublemaking tortured artist. He's a jerk, in Krista's opinion. Below is their chance encounter at a coffee shop.
See, the interesting part is that Ethan is more than just mysterious. He's magical. And he just happens to know something about Krista's past, something that will determine the course of her entire life.
Well, that was a lot of backstory! With all that info, hopefully the passage below will make sense.
Love, Lisa
At 4:15, I slide into a corner booth at Starbucks.
Across the room, there are a bunch of college kids sitting around a table. Although textbooks are scattered across the wooden surface, it doesn’t appear anyone is studying. A pretty Asian girl is telling some exaggerated joke. When she reached the punchline, one of the boys at the table snorts his mocha through his nose. It’s gross but also sort of cute. Of course, the whole group bursts out into laughter at the sight of their mocha-spewing friend.
After a moment, I shift my gaze to the window. A brilliant blue sky stares back at me. There are no storm clouds, no peals of thunder in the distance. It’s a nice spring day, much nicer than the sticky summer weather that is going to be here soon.
Another gross Atlanta summer, I reflect with a hint of disdain. With a sigh, I reach into my backpack.
“Where is it?” I mumble, searching for the wad of money I stuffed in there earlier today. My heart skips a beat.
Just as my fingers wrap around the cash, Ethan Carlson steps inside Starbucks. As usual, there’s a guitar strapped to his shoulder. But this isn’t the guitar he brings to school. This one’s a little older and a little more worn.
I gasp as the puzzle pieces fall into place.
“Ethan is ROCKER361,” I whisper to myself. Hurriedly, I whip out my phone and shoot Mandy a text.
Guess who the Craigslist mystery guitar man is? I type.
“Krista?” Ethan asks, placing both palms on the table.
I tuck my phone into the pocket of my jeans. Swallowing, I glance up at Ethan.
The first thing I notice is his hair. It’s longer than it used to be.Sometimes he ties it in a ponytail at school, and I’ve never spent more than a second or two looking at him. But now that he’s right in front of me, and his hair is loose, I can see how long it’s grown. It brushes his shoulders.
The second thing that catches my attention is the color of his eyes. Ethan’s got these bright, dramatic irises that don’t match his dark features. Those eyes stare straight into mine, without a trace of fear or hesitation.
Ethan tilts his head slightly. “Hey.”
I don’t respond right away. While waiting for me to say something, Ethan leans against the booth. His studded belt presses into the fabric. Ethan has a thin, wiry body and no hips at all. His belt highlights how skinny he is.
“So you’re the Craigslist guy,” I conclude, flicking my eyes toward his guitar case.
“And you’re the Craigslist girl,” he shoots back. There’s enough sarcasm in his voice to send a shiver up my spine.
“Alright then,” I mutter, ignoring Ethan’s mocking tone. I gesture toward the other side of the booth.
Once a jerk, always a jerk, I reflect. Ethan might look good, but he is rotten inside. Decaying, in fact.
He yawns and takes a seat.
“Well this is the guitar,” he says, pointing to the Yamaha. “Obviously.”
“Is there anything wrong with it?” I ask. “Any specific reason you want to sell it?”
He stares at me. “It was my first guitar. Ever. I’ve upgraded. What is this, an interview?”
What’s your problem? I think.
“Well I’m taking your word for it,” I say. I slide the envelope across the table. “I only have $150-”
“Seriously?” he scoffs. A strand of hair falls over his eyes, and I find myself wondering how someone manages to hit the genetic jackpot in that way. His eyes are so vibrant, yet his skin is dark. It seems unfair; nobody should be allowed to have that kind of perfect contrast. It’s distracting.
“This is all I have,” I say quietly.
His eyes narrow. “Are you kidding me?”
I blink. In a flash, I think back to Mandy’s texts and comments about how sweet Ethan is.
She’s had the wool over her eyes this whole time, I muse. Ethan Carlson is a total bully. He’s always been that way.
I bite my lip. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you were asking for $175, but I worked like a slave all spring and this was what I managed to save up.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Thanks for wasting my time. Didn’t you read the Craigslist posting? Were you planning to bargain? Like a flea market or something?”
“Wait,” I say as he jumps to his feet. “Please, Ethan. I don’t have any more money. I really need this guitar. Don’t leave. Please!”
“Well I really need $175,” he tells me, reaching for the Yamaha. “Too bad.”
Dazed, I watch him storm out of the front door. Then I grab my belongings, trying to process what just happened.
