Novel beginnings - part 1

I am posting up what is currently the first two chapters of a novel I have been working on for about 2 years... I say "working on" because I haven't touched it for months... Maybe posting it here for public scrutiny will light a fire:       [by GP]

1

The only important thing to ever happen at George L. Knight High School did not occur on a Friday night under the lights, nor did it happen in the Forum on stage in front of the newly renovated theater, though that location would see it’s time of panic as well.  It happened in student parking lot B, about 3 rows back, in an off blue Toyota Corolla that had obviously been passed down through a family.  Jeff Fisher, the fourth Fisher to grace the hollowed halls of Knight High, was currently undergoing the last great transformation any teenager really wants to endure, especially in a parent-looking car.

He had been extremely late getting to bed hence late getting up this morning, not feeling 100% but knowing that he had already accumulated six days of absences for the semester, and it was only half-way through February.  Jeff had gained back the time he lost oversleeping by cutting through the tractor path of Old Struther’s field, thus saving about four minutes of precious arrival time.  Pulling into the lot just after the warning bell, he was developing a pulsing feeling throughout his body, much like the first inklings of the flu.

Jeff’s thoughts drifted back to that decision to avoid the annual family trip to the drugstore for the $10 flu-shot.  He was frustrated because the six days of absences were not sick days and now on an actual day where he seemed sick, he couldn’t miss for fear of losing precious credit needed to graduate.  “Karma,” he thought, “is kicking my ass.”  He turned the radio up, listening to some classic pop goth from the last decade help him get amped up for the school day, and right now My Chemical Romance was welcoming him to “The Black Parade.” 

That moment he swung the wheel into the lot off of Roanoke Drive also had a dizzying effect on his eyes.  Like the pinnacle of blurrying of colors on a spinning carnival ride, he caught himself in time to not rear-end either Jamie or Johnny Madison, whoever was driving the Ford Edge today, also pulling in late.  They had to split time behind the wheel since the twins had gotten it for their 18^th birthday from modestly wealthy but obviously not-forward-thinking parents who hadn’t considered the upcoming distance in college choices between the kids and the fact that the car could not be split in half. 

The metallic orange of the tailgate appear to swirl to Jeff, who immediately tried to focus on the task at hand:  getting to a parking spot while his vision spun into kaleidoscopes of colors.  With four minutes to spare Jeff found an empty spot, not far from his average location, quickly threw it in park, and ripped the keys out of the ignition.  But instead of the instantaneous motion of grabbing the backpack and flying out the door that would normally fit a boy running late to first period again, Jeff leaned back in his seat, and put his hands over his face in a grimace.  His position looked to other kids hustling through the parked cars like someone just putting in eye-drops to mask the morning toke. As the last few cars pulled in, the appearance was more of a kid who had fallen back asleep in his car.

An average kid with average grades and an average social rep level, Jeff was that guy who everyone knew and was friendly acquaintances with but not the popularity king that his older brother and sisters had been.  He got by.  Usually.  He was definitely not getting by now.  He felt a nausea so intense he felt like he couldn’t throw up.  The progress of this flu bug was startling, and Jeff momentarily considered just starting the car up again and getting home ASAP.  But then his right hand went numb.

The color-blending vision was disturbing enough, and he seemed to minimize that problem by not moving his head quickly or looking around too fast, but having his right hand go numb kept him from picking back up his keys that he had dropped into the cup holder.  It was a gripping type of numbness, which seemed to cramp every muscle in his hand.  The tardy bell echoed over the lot signaling the beginning of something:  school for the 94.3% of kids in attendance that Tuesday morning and the end for Jeff Fisher, age 17 going on zero.

For the next 30 minutes, Jeff managed somehow to avoid hitting his horn. Consciously he avoided it because he believed if others found out about this conniption fit it would be the greatest single moment of embarrassment ever experienced by a high schooler.  Unfortunately, he unconsciously avoided it because his contracting numbing arms never allowed movement forward.  His brain seemed to be scrambling the muscle contraction commands around his body, causing an unorganized convulsion that only sent his blurry vision scrambling for a respite.  The flurry of activity in that driver’s seat was soaking through his clothes, his sweat streaming from all pores, adrenaline flexing his muscles in ways he hadn’t been able to do before.

The cold February morning hovering over the car that day gave the windows that warm-on-the-inside look, fogging up as the car jostled about in its spot.  The slightly rocking squeak of the struts and shocks combined with the fogged windows would appear to an outsider as one lucky teenager, getting a nice morning welcome from a girlfriend before having to deal with high school.  But Jeff was not a lucky teenager this morning.  Jeff was lucky only because he lost consciousness 22 minutes after he parked his car.  Those 22 minutes would be discussed by scientists and scholars for years to come. 

2

            Shayla Austin was nearly about to burst.  All of her ridiculously oversized clothes were stretched to the max.  Her belly’s disproportionate extension was in the back of mind of every person who saw her, though the thoughts that followed that were much more diverse, depending on who had been doing the thinking. 

            Principal Skeywer would think about enrollment numbers and how once Shayla went on homebound in two weeks, statistically the odds of her finishing high school would plummet, and that would be another scar on the school’s record.

            The two secretaries, Shannon and Mary, would both collectively think with only a glance of eyes at each other that Shayla was a slut who obviously was just looking to be loved so she opened her legs for some flunky senior.

            Mr. Coffman and Miss Tomanski, counselor extraordinaires, were both thinking that their attempt to provide condoms to students last year that was blocked by both the school board and the administration for being “morally ambiguous” had shown itself to perhaps be valid, even though Shayla claimed to her friends she had the opportunity for using one but avoided it to “keep it real.”

            Her besties, Leslie and Kayla, both of whom had a delicate balance to maintain friendship but avoid being labeled a slut alongside Shayla, thought it was more of just an inconvenience of being a sophomore girl.  They were even surprised that Shayla had decided to keep the baby, despite the fact that Shayla’s house was similar to her stomach, full to the brim.  The seven other mouths to feed were a spectacle at the dinner table, and Shayla intended to make it eight.

            Every morning she enters through the front of the building, just prior to the busses arriving, because her eldest brother, the only one gainfully employed, drops her off since she has no car and bus rides are “not good for the baby.”

Today was the same, gracing the front doors at her normal time, but thankfully missing all the disapproving eyes of the normal participants in the greeting gauntlet and she quickly made her way to her locker and a drop-by of Mr. Tavers’ room. It was empty, but she’d thought she’d check anyway, and then to the commons where she would hit up some pretty hardcore texting.

“Mr. Tavers is the hottest teacher in the building,” Shayla had stated during the first week of school, long before her pregnancy started to define her. “I bet I get him to hit on me before the end of the year.”  Her claim was met with giggles from her friends as if she was feeding on the idea of crossing the line.  It wasn’t a new thing.  Shayla swore she caught her last two math teachers trying to see up her skirt as she sat in the front row voluntarily.  Her friends didn’t believe that one, and Shayla wasn’t the type to try and turn someone in for it, so that story was allowed to lapse.