Inspired

Inspired

by Susan Schaefer Bernardo
Inspired

Inspired

by Susan Schaefer Bernardo

Paperback

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Overview

As if life weren't complicated enough, teenager Rocket Malone has just learned that her mysterious Aunt Polly is actually Polyhymnia, a Greek Muse who desperately needs her help. Now Rocket needs to juggle middle school and apprentice Muse training, learn how to ride Pegasus and blow glass, battle Zeus and catch a crazed nymph named Echo -- all without losing her best friend or looking like an idiot in front of her crush Ryan. As she strives to inspire others, Rocket learns to trust her own voice and realizes that the most important spark she must ignite is her own -- because the brighter she shines, the more she lights the way for those around her.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780971122833
Publisher: Inner Flower Child
Publication date: 05/06/2018
Series: The Firefly Tribe , #1
Pages: 288
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.65(d)
Age Range: 12 - 17 Years

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

I don't know what woke me up, the nervous cat or the eerie glow in the room. Moo stood at the foot of the mattress, rigid and alert. He arched and hissed, backing up until he was practically on top of me. I batted his tail out of my face, sat up, and followed my cat's focused gaze across the room.

Light leaked around the frame of the door, a shimmering rectangle on the dark wall. I looked over at the clock where it sat atop the moving box that would be making do as a nightstand until my new furniture arrived.

Three o'clock in the morning.

"Go to sleep, Moo! It's just the hall light."

I dropped my head back to the pillow with a groan, exhausted after a long day hauling boxes from the cottage.

Something kept me from sinking back into dreamland. I remembered where I was - and that the door to the hallway was to my left, on the same side of the room as my bed. There wasn't a door across from me - just that enormous crate, delivered by a very strange, very gorgeous messenger late that afternoon.

He hadn't rung the front doorbell, just appeared outside the sliding door that led to the patio, wearing,dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt, nothing unusual, but on him the standard clothes looked wrong somehow.

"Special delivery for Mistress Rocket Malone," he announced, gesturing to a wooden crate that was almost as tall as he was.

I let out a startled shriek when I saw a stranger standing at my door, and then tried to cover it with cool.

'Mistress'? I wondered.

"I'm Mizzzzz Malone," I said, drawing out the "z" in my most sophisticated voice. "Would you like me to sign for it?" He tilted his head, confused. Thought hard for a second.

"Yes, yes, of course, you must sign for it. That's the expected custom in your world," he said.

With that odd statement, he whisked a gold clipboard and ostrich quill out of thin air and handed them to me with a flourish.

"What are you, an aspiring magician?" I joked. Welcome to Hollywood, I thought, where all the deliverymen and waiters are wanna-be actors.

Without responding, the deliveryman lifted the crate into my room like it weighed less than his feathered pen, and propped it against the wall.

I carefully signed on the dashed line in my most elegant cursive. I'd been practicing my signature all year, and I was particularly proud of the stylish loop at the tail. I handed it over to him, and studied the crate.

"Who sent this?" I asked, turning back to the messenger. But he had vanished without a word. Which was good, because I had no idea how much to tip, and even if I did know, I had no idea where to find my wallet in the clutter heap that was my new bedroom.

To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the delivery, because I'd been feverishly stuffing boxes at the old house most of the day.

But now the mysterious package was lit up and keeping me from desperately-needed, probably futile, beauty sleep.

Letting out a full-body yawn, I slumped out of bed and squatted down next to the glowing wooden crate.

The words "Glass - Fragile" were printed on multiple sides, with odd writing just below. Greek? I recognized a couple of letters, "Ω" - the upside-down horseshoe of Omega, and "n" - Pi, which everyone knows from geometry class. Pi are square, not round. Ha ha. Math humor.

Could it be something my mom had picked up for me on her honeymoon? She got married a couple of weeks ago, to this guy named Rick she's been dating for less than a year. He's actually her first husband, since my mom and real father never married. They were bohemians.

The newlyweds dumped me in England with my Nana while they went off to Mykonos for two weeks and had fun in the sun without me. Whatever, I could live with that. Once we got back to Los Angeles, though, we charged right onto phase three ... merging into one big happy home. Rick's big home, to be specific, here in the Hollywood Hills. The "happy" is a matter of perspective.

I padded barefoot out to the laundry room where my mom stowed her toolbox. With a flathead screwdriver, I pried off the wooden lid. Peeling back layers of cotton padding and faded Greek newspapers, I found the source of the light -- a tall, narrow mirror with silvered glass and a carved wooden frame that looked old. Antique old. Maybe even ancient. It had been covered in gold leaf at one point, but much of the gilt had flaked off, except for what remained in the etched Greek key design that bordered all four sides.

Embedded in the top center of the frame was a tarnished disk, about six inches in diameter, made out of some sort of metal. The disk shimmered and pulsed with a soft golden light that illuminated everything in the room.

A scene had been engraved into the disk, but thick green patina obscured the details. I grabbed a fuzzy pink sock off the floor to polish it up a little. Zap! A jolt tingled through my fingertips. I pulled my hand back with a start, dropping the sock.

Moo emitted a freaked-out mewl, like when the neighbor's Rottweiler got into our garden and chased him up onto the roof. I wasn't scared -- curiosity had me in its clutches. Maybe the mirror was electric, like one of those bathroom gizmos where you can see your blackheads so magnified your skin resembles the meteorpocked surface of the moon. I felt all around the wooden frame for some sort of switch. Nothing.

With the tip of my index finger, I explored the grooves in the disk. My skin tingled and the light pulsed more rapidly, as if responding to my touch. My finger felt magnetized to the metal surface, like an iron needle to the North Pole. Stuck. Placing my left hand against the disk, I pushed and pulled hard, trying to leverage my right finger free. That was a mistake. Now both my hands were held captive.

Light strobed the room now, getting brighter and brighter. Arms raised above my head, stuck to the mirror, I looked desperately around me for a way out. Moo leapt onto a stack of boxes, his arched back and erect tail casting spooky shadows on the wall behind my bed. The glass mirror began to cloud up. And when I say cloud, I don't mean it became milky or opaque. Actual clouds drifted out of the mirror, cool and wispy against my face. The hard surface of the mirror dissolved, leaving only the wooden frame, and me attached to the disk at the top. Behind the clouds, inside the mirror, voices murmured, distant at first but drawing closer to me. Peering into the fog, I perceived vague swirls of movement and color.

A woman spoke, urgency in her husky voice. "Is it done, Narcissus?"

"Yes, Clio," a man replied. I recognized his voice. The deliveryman. "The mirror is in place, as you requested. But, goddesses, I have a few ideas for a new portal, something other than the same old mirror. Perhaps a handheld device that warps time and space or -"

"Old?!" chimed another woman. "It's not old. It's classic. And you're the one who invented it in the first place!"

Narcissus spoke again, ticking off a list of names. "Plato, the Grimm Brothers, Lewis Carroll, JK Rowling, Agatha Christie, Sylvia Plath, Isaac Asimov ... They all wove our mirrors into their stories. And that's just the writers - don't even get me started with visual artists --"

"It serves the purpose, Narcissus," interrupted another feminine voice, this one rich and sweet like warm honey. "But now, we must prepare ourselves to welcome our newest apprentice. Sisters, gather to me. Let us form the circle."

More voices rose in incomprehensible chatter, followed by the plucking of an unseen stringed instrument. The disk grew uncomfortably hot under my hands. What was I dealing with here? A coven of witches? Panicking, I braced my feet on the floor and strained my entire body backwards, using every pathetic little ounce of upper-body strength I had scraped together for those fitness tests in gym class. It didn't amount to much.

"Let go of me!" I shouted. Abruptly, the music and movement ceased. A woman spoke again.

"She is not yet ready."

The mirror went dark. My hands flew off the disk, and I went tumbling back onto the carpeted floor, my head colliding with the edge of my metal mattress frame.

Everything went dark.

CHAPTER 2

Rumbling. ... shaking ... earthquake! I started to duck and cover until my sleepy brain registered that I was sprawled on the floor, and the quake's 'epicenter' was warm, furry and laying on my stomach. I stretched out my hand. A sandpapery kiss confirmed this wasn't a tremor, just a hungry cat purring for breakfast.

I gathered him in for a hug and started to stand up, but it felt like all the blood had drained from my head to my toes. I sat down, hard, on the mattress. The room swam in front of me. Touching the tender lump on the back of my head gingerly, I stared at the mirror. The night's events came spilling back into my conscious mind.

In the light of day, it all seemed so ... silly. The mirror was tilted innocently against the wall, the black velvet bunched up at its top. A click-clacking at the sliding glass door drew my attention. The vertical blinds were rustling against the screen. I walked over slowly and pulled hand over hand on the long cord to open the vertical blinds. Squinting against the early morning light, shivering at the damp cool breeze, I stepped onto the patio and looked west. On a clear day, you could see the ocean from the edge of the patio, but with morning fog settled like a white blanket over the entire Westside, this hilltop felt like an island floating on a sea of down feathers.

Sounds drifted through the fog from neighboring houses and the busy city just beyond. I could hear the drone of leaf blowers, car engines revving, drivers honking in their impatience to get to work and start another day. No doubt there were a few giant plasma screens with surround sound speakers in this neighborhood, too.

A dream, then. Sleepwalking, too. That's all I had experienced the night before. And, why not? Everyone knows sleep deprivation can drive a person crazy. This was all just a reaction to jet lag, moving and sleeping in a weird new place, I told myself.

My mom tapped on the door and poked her head into my room, pulling me out of my trance.

"Rise and shine, Rocket," she said. "We need to get over to the cottage to pack up the final load. Rick already took the truck back over there."

Thirteen years and three hundred sixty-three days of my life bubble-wrapped, boxed and loaded onto a truck - and just like that, the cottage where I was born was about to become the place where I used to live.

"Moving sucks!" I told her not for the first time, as I rummaged through boxes looking for something to wear. I finally gave up and pulled on the same old shorts and t-shirt I'd worn the day before. "It's so not fair! Why couldn't Rick move into our house instead? Why are we the ones who had to move out?"

"Love, we've gone over and over this," she replied. "The cottage was perfect for two single girls, but it's simply too cramped for all of us now. Don't you remember how you were always moaning that your closet was smaller than your shoeboxes, and you hated sharing a bathroom with me? Now you have your very own bathroom and a closet practically as large as your bedroom in the cottage. And you know that Rick's company is downtown - the commute from the beach would be dismal."

"So, I have to commute from Hollywood to Venice for school instead? That doesn't make sense."

My mom hesitated. I could tell I was about to hear something I didn't want to hear. I was right.

"Umm, I've been meaning to speak to you about that. You know, Rick went to Hollywood High, just a few miles from here. He said they have a really good program. You could start fresh in the fall."

I couldn't believe I was hearing this. I stared at her in horror.

"Oh no, no, no. You promised I could go to VB High next year with Gillian. That was the deal. You said renting out the cottage would help cover the tuition!"

"Rocket, it's just an idea. You have two months of middle school and all summer to think about it. Now calm down or you're going to have an attack. Where's your inhaler?"

"In one of those," I said, pointing to the tower of boxes. She started rummaging through the box on top, sighing when she saw what a jumbled mess it was. She sat the first box on the floor, and was about to unpack a second when she spotted the mirror.

"Where'd this come from?" she asked.

I was surprised. "It's not from you? It was delivered yesterday, in that big crate. My name was on it."

"I think it's from Greece," I said, showing her the labels. "I figured you bought it on your honeymoon. Or maybe Yaya sent it?"

"Oh," my mom said, realization dawning. "I'll bet it's from Aunt Polly."

"Aunt Polly? The godmother I've seen twice in my life?" I asked, surprised.

My mother nodded. "It was the strangest thing. We ran into her outside the Acropolis. She told me she was sending you a little something for your fourteenth birthday."

"A little something usually means cash," I grumbled.

"It looks like an antique. Could be valuable. Be careful with it," said my mom. "And you need to write a nice thank-you note."

She looked at her watch. "We really need to get going, Rocket."

"I can't!" I wailed. The more I thought about moving, the tighter my chest got.

My mother reached down her hands and pulled me to a standing position. "Let's do some yoga poses for a minute, okay?" She slid one foot up the inside of her thigh, balancing like a crane on her other leg. "Tree pose," she instructed. "You're stressed and jetlagged.. .and you're focusing on all the negatives, instead of seeing the potential."

A bead of sweat appeared on my forehead as I wobbled on my right leg, trying to find my center of gravity. No use. I lurched to the side, my left foot landing with a thunk.

"Start with warrior pose," she suggested, moving smoothly into a lunge. "Stretch out your arm, like this. Come on, I said 'warrior,' not 'worrier,' pose!"

After a few moments of stretching and focusing on just my hand in front of me, instead of my whole looming future, my breathing slowed a little. My mom put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

"Come on. One more load, and we'll have everything moved out. Then we can grab cones at Rosie's. A last hurrah to the old neighborhood."

I shook my head. "There's nothing to hurrah about."

When we got to the cottage, Rick bounded over like a Labrador puppy and gave my mom a hug. "A couple hours and we will be locked, loaded and ready to roll," he announced. "Then it's three ... two ... one ... blast-off!" he said to me, holding his hand up in the air expectantly.

"Wow - original," I commented, keeping my own hands tucked firmly inside the pockets of my gray hoodie.

"What, you've heard that one?" he asked with an extremely annoying wink. Honestly, if I had a dollar for every half-witted joke people have made about my name, I could afford to build an actual spacecraft and zoom off to Mars. Where I could form a colony consisting of two residents: me and Moo.

"Come on, Rocket, show a little enthusiasm," urged Rick.

"This is a big day for Team Patrick!"

"I'd rather stay in the dugout if you don't mind," I muttered.

Between the space references and this whole "Team Patrick" thing, I'm constantly on the verge of barfing. My mother may have changed her last name, but mine is still Malone. Legally. And it's going to stay that way. Rocket Patrick does not roll off the tongue. It sounds like the name of an Irishman who's downed a few too many green beers, if you know what I mean. Hmm, that might explain how he got saddled with the name "Rick Patrick." Sounds more like a fast food breakfast sandwich, loaded with ham and extra cheese.

My real father was a glassblower, like my mother. Except he created actual art, and she makes tacky souvenirs to sell to the tourists who swarm Venice Beach 24/7/365. They met when he was teaching a workshop at my mother's college in York, England. When he died, a reporter in "Collector" magazine wrote: "The art glass world is shattered at the loss of its most vibrant craftsman, Gabriel Gonzaga." Get it? 'Shattered?' I was only four when he died, and I don't have any memories of him. My mom says he's responsible for my crazy name. It was his idea to name me after the thing she craved most while I was taking up space in her body. Once she got pregnant, it was "good-bye, bangers and mash"(which is Brit-speak for sausages and mashed potatoes) and "hello, vegetables." She jokingly calls it her "green period." Her favorite was a type of lettuce called "rocket." I guess I'm lucky she didn't use the American version and name me Arugula.

(Continues…)



Excerpted from "Inspired"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Susan Schaefer Bernardo.
Excerpted by permission of Inner Flower Child Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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