Connection

by Monica G. Krek

Overview

Melinda is every book’s best friend. Josh wants to be Melinda’s best friend. Melinda has a dark past. Josh has a darker past.

When Josh moves into Melinda’s small town, she wants absolutely nothing to do with him. Richie, the high school jock, already gives her enough trouble. But Josh is determined to convince this blue-eyed beauty to take her nose out of her book and give him a chance. Even with much persuasion, Melinda is hesitant to do so. She wants to know more about this handsome stranger that has walked into her life. But what happens when she pries too deep into his past? What happens when his past comes back to haunt him and decides to take Melinda along for the ride?

Join these two teenagers in a thrilling story of youthful romance, small town adventure, and painful heartbreak as they embark on a journey of discovering themselves and each other.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781450275231
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	03/04/2011
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	354 KB

Read an Excerpt

connection

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By Monica G. Krek

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Monica G. Krek
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7522-4

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Chapter One

I stood there as still as a statue. My tangled blonde hair whipped across my face—slapping my pale skin. The town was just awakening as I stared past the morning fog, burning a hole into the pavement on the other side of the road. As I waited for the school bus to turn the corner onto Tree Comb Street, I couldn't help but think of how wrong this felt ... how wrong everything felt. It was my first day of school and my mother had already managed to "kindly offer" me a back-to-school outfit and then guilt-trip me into wearing it. She was my mother, after all. The ruffled white skirt was uncooperative in the wind and the unfamiliar "latest style" flats pinched my toes. Converse were more my type. My mother always complained that I was not a normal teenager, I was different. She always wanted me to look more like the other girls, more like I tried to make an effort, but apparently, her idea of "making an effort" was slightly different than mine. I knew she was worried about me; teachers complained, and I could hear her, every night, whispering to my Uncle Jerry about my supposed social outcast status. Though she didn't realize it, she was quite wrong. I had good grades, perfect attendance, and people took quite a liking to me. Sadly, the feeling wasn't mutual. I knew my mother thought I couldn't make friends because of my past, but that wasn't fully true, either. I could be friendly if I wanted, I just chose not to. Simply because I devoted my spare time to books (to put the phrase lightly), did not mean there was something wrong with me. Naturally, I preferred to bury my head into Shakespeare or science fiction rather than romances and Elle magazines.

My mother would always complain about how I wasn't a normal sixteen year old.

"When I talk to you, I feel like I'm talking to another adult," she would moan.

As the ruddy old bus approached me, huffing and puffing like a cigarette smoker, the feeling which overwhelmed me was how alone I felt, not that I wasn't used to the sense of loneliness.

The school bus came to a sudden halt, inches away from my face. I picked up my bag and stumbled up the worn-down stairway with my awkward, skinny legs. They were my mother's, those legs; apparently the only bad trait I had inherited from her, she claimed. I could remember her lecturing me about them as if it were yesterday.

"Melinda, you are such a klutz. What will we ever do with you?" she nagged.

Other than the times when I didn't live up to her standard as a daughter, though, she would tell me how beautiful I was.

"Curiously beautiful," she would coo.

I received that comment frequently, even from strangers. I refuse to call it a compliment, though. To be curiously beautiful, even exotic for that matter, wasn't at the top of my list of aspirations. It didn't even come close. In fact, my unique quality, as everyone called it, was merely a distraction to others, who, in turn, were a distraction to me. Boys fawning over me in class while I tried to focus on my studies was not the delightful experience it is made out to be. Most important, though, was the fact that, when staring at my reflection in the mirror, I saw nothing the least bit appealing staring back. Not that I thought I was in any way unattractive, I was just a plain girl; pixie-faced with an ivory skin tone, emerald green eyes, and loose, wavy hair, the color of straw. I never thought anything of the whole ordeal concerning my appearance. After all, to me, beauty was only skin deep. This, of course, is a well known cliché, but I believe it has the right to be popular. It bares truth. Allowing my mind to wander as I walked down the aisle of the bus, I hadn't the slightest hint of what was yet to come; what event would slowly, but surely, turn my world on its axis.

Chapter Two

He wore a knitted sweater of dark green, trousers the color of chocolate cake, and a wristwatch that looked like it had been mistakenly left in his pants pocket and run through the washing machine a couple of times. His untidy black hair was short and thick; it brought out the deep blue in his eyes. As I walked into homeroom that day, he was sitting in the corner, his eyes fixed upon the classroom clock, as several girls gathered around him and began to banter, trying to sway his attention. Slightly annoyed, I took my seat next to a boy fast asleep, drool oozing from the corner of his mouth. I accidently slammed my book down on the desk. Oh well, at least I gave drool boy over there quite a scare. As I took my seat, I noticed from the corner of my eye that everyone was staring in my direction. The boy who had been fast asleep was now looking at me incredulously. I quickly picked up my latest addiction and began to read, pretending not to notice. I wasn't the type of girl whose life revolved around popularity, appearance, and guys—such as Richie Belema. Since these were not my greatest priorities in life, I was considered, well, strange. Many of the girls were dismally surprised when I received nine offers to the semi-formal last year, including Hilary Jenson's football sweetheart, Richie. As I sat there, indulging in my book, it wasn't a surprise when I heard a whisper in my ear.

"Bookworm," I felt the hot breath press against my ear. Briskly turning around, I stopped to face the star athlete of our school, and the biggest jerk, I mean jock, I have ever met, Richie Belema. I pictured his face the night that I had told him I had no plans of attending Brookridge's semiformal with him; the way that smirk on his face contorted into a frown, leaving a trace of confusion on his face as if to say, "You're refusing me, the most popular guy in school?"Filled with rage, he had stomped out of the library, making quite the amount of noise, and slammed the door.

"Hello Richie," I spat as if his name was a deadly disease. He smirked.

"I see that summer hasn't changed your reading addiction, Linda," he replied, a full smile spreading across his face. I cringed at the last word. My father had called me Linda when I was young, before he had passed away, and I felt a surge of anger burst through my veins. I rolled my eyes, trying to make the motion as exaggerated as possible, but Richie wasn't looking at me anymore. To my relief, his gaze had shifted onto the new boy in the corner. Thankfully, I was out of the spotlight, for now.

"Who's that?" Richie murmured, nodding his head in the boy's direction. I shrugged. "Don't know, and honestly, don't care," I replied with the slightest hint of annoyance. Before I could return to my book, Richie's gaze was back onto me. He was wearing a shrewd expression and gave a little laugh.

"Tut tut, what an attitude we have here. I always liked that about you, Linda," he sneered, licking his over- chapped lips.

"You clearly don't get it, Richie. I AM NOT INTERESTED IN YOU!" I complained, adding in a moan of disgust, "And don't call me Linda. Last time I checked, my name was Melinda."

Slightly taken aback, Richie grabbed my wrist before I could turn around. Just as he was about to make a rude remark, a soft voice came from behind him, "Is there a problem?"

I swerved my head around as far as it could possibly go only to see the new boy standing there. His eyes moved back and forth between Richie and me. Immediately letting my hand free, Richie answered, "Uh, nope, 'course not," and before he could explain, Hilary Jenson skipped along, grabbed his hand with a soft giggle, and pulled him towards her seat on the other side of the class. I stared at them with a look of bewilderment and annoyance. How could she like him? He was so arrogant and self obsessed. The manner in which Hilary acted wasn't anything new, though. All the girls tended to be the same, never bothering to see past his handsome looks into the empty shell where his brain was supposed to be, and the shallow pit that was his heart. His light blonde hair, silvery blue eyes and strong biceps were only part of the package.

I watched as Hilary pulled herself up onto his lap, chattering nonstop. Her light brown curls were bouncing up and down when I heard someone clear his throat and say, "Are you okay?" Realizing the new boy was still there, I managed a smile and a "thank you but I can take care of myself so don't bother budding in next time" before I turned back to my book. I expected him to look affronted but, instead, he just smiled and walked away. Interesting, I managed to think but my thoughts were cut short when I heard a voice behind me shrill, "Take your seats, everyone!"

"For those of you who don't know me, I am Madame Bell," She paused to write her name on the board, "Your English teacher for this year and I expect that you will all behave yourselves during our term together. Other than that, I am sure we will get along quite nicely together." I could hear snickers in the background from my fellow classmates. Madame Bell was a slim and sophisticated woman who wore pointy glasses and a neatly ironed dress suit. Her hair was tied back into a tight bun and she wore small pearl earrings that hung from her perfect ears like frozen droplets from an icicle.

After her long and tiring speech, which, I'm sure, nobody actually listened to, she handed out our syllabuses and assignments for this term. While scanning the syllabus, I noticed we were to read a novel and, I must admit, excitement filled my head. After all, reading, to me, was like playing football, to Richie, but when Madame Bell handed me a copy of Lord of the Flies, my face fell. I had recently read this book- reread- actually, after my first time a couple of years ago.

"What is the matter ... Hannah?" Madame Bell asked me, after frantically searching for my name on the seating chart that she was holding. She must have had a hard time reading it because, to her dismay, a shy brunette in the back of the room raised her hand and murmured, "I'm over here, Miss."

"Oh, yes, that's right, you must be Melinda," the teacher proclaimed, "and by the way, Hannah, and everyone else, for future reference, I am to be addressed as Madame Bell, and Madame Bell only. Those of you who will choose to call me miss will be chosen to be ignored by me."

Hannah, who had sunk back in her seat, turned a brilliant shade of pink.

"Melinda, you were saying?" Madame Bell proceeded.

Well, she asked for it, better give it a try, I thought.

"I was just disappointed, Madame Bell, in your choice of literature, especially since I've read it more than enough times."

A snort came from the back of the room. I could hear the whispering that broke out all around me. Typical, I thought, typical dumb teenagers who have never read the book and probably never will.

Madame Bell looked slightly taken aback. I was sure no student she had ever had before had criticized her choice of material.

"Well, Melanie," she sniffed, "I expect that an avid reader like yourself will not mind reading such a complex novel one more time. I'm sure that even you have not decoded all of Golding's hidden meanings."

With this remark, the bell rang, and the rest of the class rushed for the exit. I, still feeling Madame Bell's eyes staring me down, got up from my seat, picked up my stack of books, and headed for the door. I certainly wasn't looking forward to her class tomorrow. As I entered the large room which was to be my art class for the next term, I was overcome with the strong fumes of paint and clay. As my eyes scanned the room for an available seat, I couldn't help but notice the walls, every inch covered with splattered paint; bright colors that lit up the room. The desks were scattered all over the class, papers draping off the sides of them. I chose a seat towards the back of the room, closest to the door. The row was empty, I had it all to myself. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I quietly sat down. A petite woman, who I guessed was the teacher, sat behind an easel, unfazed by the rowdy students who clobbered into her class. Her silvery white hair flew in all directions; no wonder she kept it rather short. Her appearance gave off the feel that she was an avid morning jogger, sporting a pair of worn down sneakers, black leggings that hugged her skinny legs, and an oversized white t- shirt that read "Soccer is Life". I sat there watching her as she painted in her oversized t-shirt covered in paint, her face warped into a concentrating frown as she ran her brush slowly across the parchment. She was fully dedicated to her painting, that was for sure. She didn't even look up when Denise Wiler let out a shriek of surprise, a paper airplane stuck in her vivacious mass of curls. Miles Flagin let out a snicker, giving away that it was he who threw the, now, rumpled piece of paper. Right as I was about to rest my feet on the chair next to me, the new boy pulled it from under my legs and took a seat.

"Mind if I sit here?" he asked, a little too late.

"Sure," I replied, adding an ounce of disappointment to the phrase he would surely pick up.

The bell rang, signaling class to begin.

The class started to settle down but the teacher still hadn't noticed us; she was lost in her painting. After a few minutes of silence, Peter Penwon, a lanky Chinese boy, cleared his throat and asked in a sultry voice, "Uh ... Excuse me ... miss?"

The moment the words left his mouth, she whisked her head in our direction, revealing a vibrant expression lined with crow's feet. Glancing around, she noticed that there were students sitting in the desks. "Well, well, well," she started, "welcome to Art class. My name is Molly Smith, but Miss Smith is too boring, everyone calls me Miss Molly." She continued in an exuberant tone. Her voice seemed rushed, as if she felt like the class would not last long enough for her to finish what she had to say. "Here we will be studying the ways in which art affects peoples' lives. Painting, sculpting, drawing, you name it. This class is here for you to express yourself ... find the spice in life. I will feel that I have done my job once you leave my class as changed human beings. Hopefully you will exit my classroom with a different point of view of the world than you had, coming in." She took a breath to relax and carried on in a gentler fashion, "I hope to get to know each and every one of you, to help you bring out your inner beauty. I just know we will have a great time together this year." Her arms were gesturing wildly, accidently knocking over a cup holding many colorful paintbrushes. The students in the front row scrambled to pick them up as others tried to hold in their laughter. A red haired boy in the corner of the room was clutching his sides as if he was going to burst. I didn't know what their problem was. Though, I must admit, she was a tad bit overenthusiastic, she seemed like she cared, and that was most important.

Ignorant to the fact that she was the laughing stock of the classroom, Miss Molly went on lecturing about the rules, "There is only one rule in my classroom. The word 'can't' cannot be found in the dictionary, therefore, it will not be included in the language used in my classroom. I do not want to hear the word uttered from anyone's mouth."

"What about the word 'cannot'?" a smart aleck yelled from the desk in front of me. What a jerk, I thought to myself. He wouldn't be able to create art if someone paid him. On the contrary, people would pay him to get rid of his trash.

Regardless, Miss Molly kept on talking. This was, probably her way of dealing with troublemakers ... ignoring them.

"Now, don't mind the clutter on your desks. Take out a piece of parchment and start creating your masterpiece!" Supposedly, this meant that the theme was up for grabs. I took out my rough paper and began to imagine what I could create on the page.

From the corner of my eye, I could see a girl with a purple Mohawk raise her hand, eagerly. I wondered how she got her hair to stay in that position.

"Is this assignment due at the end of the period?" she asked.

"Oh, goodness, no!" Miss Molly exclaimed, "This project will take you weeks, months maybe, to put together. Remember, everything must be perfect, all elements must feel right." She, then, returned to her easel, focusing on her own masterpiece.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from connection by Monica G. Krek Copyright © 2011 by Monica G. Krek. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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