(This is an excerpt from the fiction novel I am writing.)
About the author:
This is more of an "about the author's intent" paragraph, rather than "about the author" himself.
My name is Troy Dearbourne; I am an early twenties YA contemporary fiction author. I'm aware that SteemIt is particularly used for blog posts, but I am testing the waters to see if full-length novels would not only be accepted here on this site, but if they would be read and enjoyed as well.
So how would you liked to get PAID to read?
Those of you who aren't fond of reading fiction books can leave this post, as it is not likely to interest you. But for those of you who love to read a good book, imagine this: instead of paying 'X' amount for an ebook on Kindle, you instead come to SteemIt, where you vote for books/chapters you enjoyed reading, while also having the opportunity to comment and resteem to earn Steem yourself. There would be no upfront cost to the reader, but the opportunity exists where they could earn money/Steem by reading works written by novelists and upvoting their book posts.
Every day between the hours of 12:00 p.m. and 1:00 p.m. EST, I will be posting a new chapter of this book until all chapters are posted and the book is complete. From there, I will leave it on this site for readers to enjoy and upvote, comment, resteem as they please.
Granted, this is just a field test, but I would love to hear from you in the comment section below. If you too are a novelist, whether fiction or non-fiction, give me a shout!
To enjoy the story to its fullest potential, please seek out the first chapter and read from the beginning. All posted chapters can be located on my blog wall.
And without further delay, please enjoy my novel, Paraplegic, below.
Chapter 3
Mother is sitting on the couch in the theater room with her laptop, one leg tucked underneath her, while the other is propped up on the coffee table. She tells me to have a great day, basically her go-to sentence since my first day of school, and I proceed to the garage, stopping by the kitchen to grab the car keys off the wall rack.
The garage door shudders and hums as it rolls up. I squint just a little as the light bursts into the dark room. It's a three car garage, but we only own two vehicles. Father drives a silver Porsche, which is what he takes to work, and mother drives the Benz. The Benz was first father's car, but upon landing his current job at the firm, he bought the Porsche as a present to himself. He said he wanted to make his image appear more proficient, but I know it was truly because he's wanted a sports car all his life. Since the time that I've had my license, the Benz has languidly gone from being mother's vehicle to mine. The only time she drives anymore, it seems, is when she makes the weekly grocery run.
The engine roars to life as I turn the key. I consciously make an effort to back out of the driveway slowly, turning my head in each direction to make sure there aren't any other cars passing by. Father will ground me till I'm thirty if I scratch this thing, or worse, wreck it entirely. The neighborhood is just waking up. Most of our neighbors are elderly, so they're early risers; mainly because they go to sleep at like, six every evening.
Mr. Driscoll, our next-door neighbor, who I believe is a retired orthodontist of thirty-five years, waves to me as I drive by. I lightly honk the horn in greeting. He turns back to his car and loads a set of Callaways into the trunk, preparing for an early round of golf, I presume.
Our house rests between the 15th and 16th hole of Emerald Fairways Golf and Country Club. It's a Tudor-style home: six bedrooms and eight bathrooms with an ellipse shape swimming pool. The problem, in my opinion, with the suburbs is that every house within the community looks identical one to another. Each lawn is kept manicured and greener than a stalk of celery, while every driveway is paved with multicolor stone pavers, and each mailbox is enclosed within a brick structure with the resident's surname hanging from a laminated sign.
Stardust High is only an approximate four miles from our house. Calculating an extra five minutes for the reduced speed school zone, I should be there ten minutes before class, and with any luck, pull into the parking lot the same time as Xander. But as I make my way down the last street, I see that it's backed up bumper to bumper with school buses, which is weird. It's never this backed up.
After a couple minutes of standstill traffic, the car behind me grows impatient. The driver holds their fist to the horn for a long while. I look in my rearview and see a boy, about my age, driving it. Looks like a beamer, black and shiny. He revs his engine, then propels the car forward, breaking abruptly, inches away from rear-ending me. He does this two more times before jerking out into the other lane, passing me. I come to a halt, tires squealing and skidding on the asphalt as he slides into the slim space in front of me. My fist impacts the horn, "What's wrong with you, you selfish jerk!" I know he can't hear me, but it feels therapeutic to release an outburst, even if it doesn't change the outcome. The boy does it to the driver in front of him and the one after that before cheating his way into the school parking lot. Seeing his success, I'm almost envious I didn't think of using such tactics myself.
After several more minutes of stop-and-go motions, the traffic hasn't yet subsided. Students ranging from freshman age to senior status poured out of the long line of school buses. I glance down at the digital radio clock on the dashboard; class is going to start in less than seven minutes and I still haven't even made it into the parking lot.
Coming from the other direction, I see Xander pop a wheelie over the curb, bypassing all the traffic, and skid across the sidewalk into the parking lot. The sun glistens off his shiny helmet, while the black visor hides his face from view.
No! I'm gonna miss the opportunity to walk into the building with him. And this is the last day of school, too. I'll never get another chance. This isn't happening! He parks his motorcycle next to the curb of the school's entrance, where it is clearly written with white paint: Emergency vehicles only – no parking. Ooh, he's such a bad boy. And he always seems to slither his way out of getting fined.
It takes another four minutes and a whole lot more honking before I'm able to cruise into a parking spot. I grab my backpack from the backseat and hop out, hoping to catch up with Xander. He had taken his sweet time in securing his helmet to his bike and stuffing his fingerless gloves inside his black, leather jacket, not to mention checking his appearance multiple times in the side mirrors. But still a few hundred yards away, I watch him pass through the glass doors and into the school. Stupid traffic. Stupid people. Stupid . . . something!
School buses take turns pulling up to the curb, unloading dozens of students; looks like everyone is going to be late today. One bus in particular pulls up and Stardust High's basketball team, the Shadow Hawks, leap off the bus. They look like an army of crusaders marching into battle, each one wearing their scarlet and gold letter jackets. The Hawks' cheer team, more formally known as the Blue Jays, hop off the bus behind them. A girl with brunette hair fixed in pigtails enthusiastically waves a pair of turquoise pompoms in my direction. "Hey, Bestie!" sprinting towards me.
"Hey, Aurora."
She slaps her arms around me in a tight embrace. A small groan is squeezed out of me from feeling my rib cage collapsing inward.
Aurora Ardenaux, Co-caption to the cheerleading squad, and my best friend since the day she puked on me in kindergarten. It's kind of a long story. Day two of kindergarten: twelve of us kids sat in a group circle with our teacher explaining how the sun gets its energy. Aurora had been timidly playing with a stack of counting cubes and nibbling on her snack when the teacher called on her. I, much to my misfortune, was sitting next to Aurora within the circle. You should have seen the horrified look in her eyes as she stared back at us. She was so nervous having all the attention focused on her. Her tiny hands trembled as she glanced from one kindergartener's face to another. Finally, she opened her mouth to speak, but words weren't the only thing that came out. Yep. All over my new sundress that mother had bought me the week before. Nothing brings two people together like already been chewed Cheetos.
Aurora excitedly jumps up and down, repeatedly clapping her hands together. "Guess what, guess what, guess what?"
"Your parent's bought you tickets to a Justin Bieber concert?"
"Eww. No!" She unzips her backpack and pulls out an iPhone, which is housed in a sparkly case. "My parent's got me the newest iPhone as a graduation present!" She holds it up in display.
"Oh, that's so cool." I fake my interest.
I guess I can't really blame her for being excited. It's not something I would get excited about; I get a new phone practically every six months, but I also know the Ardenauxs live hand-to-mouth, so it's a rare event for Aurora to receive something special. I think her dad still stocks shelves at Wal-Mart or something and her mom works as a checkout clerk there, too. It's kind of weird how Aurora and I became friends. We're not really all that much alike or even into the same things. She's more of a tomboy, Swiss army knives and capture the flag battles is more her thing, whereas I prefer things like nail polish and prom dresses. Honestly, when I asked her to join me for cheerleading tryouts in our sophomore year, I was surprised to hear her agree.
"We have to take a picture!" She yanks me in close, jamming our cheeks together. "Cheese!" we gleefully scream. "Aww, we look so cute! I'm gonna send this to you." My phone jingles seconds later. "So what'd you get for graduation?" her narrow eyes light up with curiosity.
"Dunno. I haven't been given anything as of yet. Pretty sure my lame parents forgot to get me something."
"Oh, I'm sure they will. Maybe they're just waiting to surprise you?"
"Uh, yeah, I won't hold my breath."
Jace Thompson, the Shadow Hawks' point guard, rushes in front of us to open the school doors. "After you, ladies." He waves us inside with a smile. I return the smile, tossing my hair in a flirtatious manner as I brush by him.
The school hallway is stuffed with students. It's times like these that I'm reminded how much I don't like people. If no one is standing around admiring my beauty, then what good are they to keep around?
A group of nerds are standing in a circle, gawking at the cover of some new comic book. It's so stupid. They're practically salivating over a stupid character, someone who doesn't even exist. Sooooo juvenile. You would think after four years of high school some people would learn to grow up.
My nose twitches at the all too familiar scent of Gucci cologne. With a quick scan of the crowded hallway, I spot Xander casually leaning against one of the school lockers talking to Samantha Strauss. My fingers clench with jealousy. Samantha is probably the prettiest girl in school, besides me of course. She has olive tone skin with raven colored hair, which today is held together in a French braid. Her petite height makes her look like a child in comparison to Xander's stately frame. I don't like her. Never have. She's Greek, I think. Not that I don't like Greek people. I do, I guess. I just don't like her. Her presence is . . . irritating. Xander says something, which makes her laugh. My jealousy spikes. Samantha's laugh is this lighthearted, bubbly kind of laugh. As much as I don't want to admit it, it's kind of a cute laugh. Why can't she sound like a starving hyena or something?
My locker is six down from Samantha's. I turn around and begin walking backward, pretending to not notice where I'm going. The back of my shoulder bumps into Xander's. "Oh! I'm sorry, Xander. I didn't see you standing there."
He looks down at me and grins. "No worries." My insides flutter.
Samantha gently taps me on the shoulder. "Hello, McKenzie," her eyes crinkle as her perfect lips reveal a set of straight, white teeth.
"Oh. It's you. Hi, Samantha."
She clasps her hands together and rests her chin on her fingers. "Xander and I were just talking about how fast time has flown. I can't believe tomorrow's graduation day! It feels like just yesterday I moved here from San Diego and walked through the doors of this place for the first time."
"Uh, huh. Yeah. Whoop-dee-do for you." I turn my attention back to Xander. "So, you nervous about the big game tonight?"
He stuffs a hand inside his jeans pocket. "Nah. Coach has us running some new plays and screens to trip up the Knights. Should be fun."
"Speaking of fun, Hollywood Ending is just a few weeks away. You going with anyone special?"
He leans forward, the scent of his cologne growing stronger. "I am now," a smile finishes his words. The bell signaling first period shrills throughout the hallway. All the students frantically rush to their desired classrooms. "I guess that's our cue. Hey, I wanna tell you something later. I'll see you out on the court, okay?"
"I'll be waiting." He leaves in the direction of Mr. Harold's chemistry class. I flash a smug smirk at Samantha before heading to English Lit.
As I turn around, some girl flies from around the corner and collides into me. I'm shoved backward, slamming the back of my head into a locker; the girl tumbles to the ground, her textbooks scattering across the linoleum floor. "Watch it you little freak!" The girl hides her face from me and quickly picks up her books.
Aurora hears my screech and rushes over. "What happened? Are you two okay?"
"No! This oaf wasn't watching where she was going." I rub the back of my sore head.
"Sorry," the girl mumbles, still gathering her textbooks from the floor. Aurora kneels down to help her.
"Here ya go." The girl grabs the books from her hand, then darts down the adjoining hallway. Aurora stands to her feet. "I don't think I've ever seen her before."
"So? It's a big school. There's gotta be like, five thousand students here or something," still rubbing the back of my head. "She's probably just a nobody. Forget her. We need to get to class before we're given a tardy slip on our last day."
I thank you greatly for reading. Please 'follow' me and hit that 'vote' button, as that really does help. Comments are also welcomed.
~Cheers
(c) Copyright by Troy Dearbourne 2017. All rights reserved. Anyone who copies this document in any capacity without the written consent from the author will be in subjection to extreme legal action.