Adrenaline, The Beginning of a Story

So some of you wanted a chance to read my newly finished book that I did for National Novel Writing Month. Sadly, Adrenaline is far from being ready for an audience. But I'm willing to share the first chapter with you, since it is sort of where the whole story begins. So here it is, I hope you enjoy and I'd love some feedback, critical or not! 

“Alright students, for the last fifteen minutes of class we are going to analyze one of Shakespeare’s sonnets…together.” Mr. Peterson flicked the lights off as a poem projected itself on the white board at the front of the room.

                A unified chorus of moans erupted throughout the class, mine included, which resulted in Mr. Peterson’s infamous you-have-no-power-over-me look. It included the oh-so-carefully raised eyebrows and the slight upward twitch of the left lips. This man enjoys making us suffer. We were so close to the freedom of fall break. Couldn't we spend our final fifteen minutes of school enjoying it?

                “Conner, why don’t you honor us the pleasure of reading this sonnet for us?” Mr. Peterson’s ever so present smirk almost seemed to have intensified when he saw Conner’s face slightly pale.

                “The whole thing, sir?” Conner asked. He was a tubby fellow with an acne infested face and ginger hair, and he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box I should mention.

                Was he stupid? I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time this day. Were people really so empty-headed? Of course he meant the whole thing. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Peterson and I were the only ones who ever knew how to use our brains properly, with common sense. But to compare myself to my English teacher is a bit bizarre, don’t you think?

                “What would you prefer, a D on your next essay?” Mr. Peterson’s eyes narrowed wickedly. I rolled my eyes once again. He was only kidding, but students fell for it all the time; especially poor Conner. I almost felt sorry for him; it must be difficult to have no brains.

                Connor stood up, hitched his much-too-small cargo shorts up higher on his waist and began to slowly sound out each word that was displayed on the projection. He read it so slow that it was like listening to a funeral dirge. These next fifteen minutes were going to last us forever.

                Connor’s voice was like a monotonous bee that just would not stop buzzing. I read over Shakespeare’s Sonnet 38 at least five times before Conner had even reached line three of the sonnet. We sere seniors in high school, I thought we learned how to read like ten years ago! I glanced over at Mr. Peterson with begging eyes. Please don’t make him read the whole sonnet!!!

                “Alright Conner, your wish is granted. You can stop there!” Mr. Peterson interjected. He stroked his bare chin and then glanced his piercing eyes over in my direction. “Idalia,” He pointed at me. “Why don’t you finish reading the sonnet for us?”

                Even though I had no fear of talking in public, my stomach still seemed to feel it necessary to lurch in protest. I mentally and possibly physically forced my stomach to calm down before standing up and finishing the sonnet. But my pride would not allow me to start off in the middle of a line. And to prove to my class just how intelligent I was. I started the sonnet from the beginning.

“How can my muse want subject to invent,

While dost though breathe, that pour’st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper, to rehearse?

O! Give thy self the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou they self dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date

If my slight muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

I couldn't help but glance over in Conner’s direction. But he was focusing on the ketchup stain on his shirt. I rolled my eyes once again…

                “Thank you, Idalia.” Mr. Peterson locked eyes with mine. “Who would like to be daring and attempt to tell the class what this sonnet is about?

                I slumped back down in my seat, adjusting my shirt and pants to fit comfortably around my body. I proceeded to zone out of whatever the class was talking about. My honey colored hair escaped from behind my ear and dropped down to cover my face. I ignored it, but instead focused my attention out the window next to me. I was seated in the back corner of the room next to Mr. Peterson’s desk and right up against a tall window that looked out over the small subdivisions and cul-de-sacs that surrounded the one side of our house. I caught a small toddler recklessly kicking his legs on a swing in the backyard of one house. Even from the third floor of the school I could see his wide grin. In another yard an elderly woman with a straw sunhat was pulling out dead plants from her once beautiful flower garden. I remembered from last year how vibrant and lively her garden had been. But fall’s chill had done its job and the flowers were now slowly dying off one by one. If you really think about it, all is a cruel season.

                I glanced up at the clock again and saw that it was almost five minutes until the bell rang for school to end. Thank the stars above! I amusedly watched my classmates try to silently pack up their notes, textbooks, pencils and other paraphernalia without Mr. Peterson noticing. But as usual, the sound of 20 zipping and unzipping backpacks was deafening. I slumped and leaned back against my chair, the edge of it digging into my shoulder blades.

                Whoever had tried to explain the sonnet, Kayla I think was her name, had finally been shooshed by the disappointed Mr. Peterson. He turned the lights back on, my eyes had a temporary moment of blindness before my eyesight return. Thanks for warning us, Mr. I glared at him under my hair. He didn't notice.

                “Since you all seem to be lacking in your Shakespeare skills, I’m going to give you some homework over the break.” Mr. Peterson’s smirk returned along with another chorus of moans. “I want you to read Sonnets 1-10 over the break and write a paragraph for each sonnet explaining what it is about. It shouldn't be too difficult if you set your mind to it.”

                A scrawny girl with a rainstorm of freckles all over her face raised her hand but proceed to talk without waiting for anyone to acknowledge her. “But where are we supposed to find the sonnets?”

                Uh….the internet? I sometimes can’t believe people my age are this dumb. I was so tempted to call her out on her stupidity, but bit my lips instead. As my grandmother would always tell me as a kid, If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all. Why does my grandmother have to always be right?

                “Cheyenne, I’m sure you kind find them quite easily using Google. I hear it’s a really nice thing teenagers love to use and that its chuck full of grand information.” Mr. Peterson had obviously never met my grandmother. I had to snort at my own joke, sometimes I think I’m funny.

                Before the class could say anything else terribly embarrassing, Mr. Peterson raised up his voice. “And don’t forget, class. Be safe during the holidays and don’t do anything I wouldn't do.” He smirked again and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Have a great weekend.”

                And with that final phrase, the class rose up in their seats and zoomed into their small groupings. I stayed rooted in my seat. I didn't know anyone in this class, nor did I have any desire to.

                Mr. Peterson passed by me as he headed towards his desk. “Miss Brice, could I speak with you after the bell rings.”

                Uh oh, what had I done now? I nervously thought of all the bad things Mr. Peterson could have found out about me. And the next question that pounded in my head was how could Mr. Peterson have found out?

                The bell rang, a short yet deafening drone. Students eagerly pushed and shoved towards the door. There was at least five students jamming themselves into a door that could only safely allow two in at a time.

                I stuffed my backpack with the things on my desk, zipped it up and slung one strap up onto my shoulder. “What is that you want?” I tried to sound completely calm. But inside, my stomach was probably already in the biggest knot in the universe and a headache was already forming.

                Mr. Peterson smiled, it wasn’t his typical smirk, but an actual genuine smile. I think that made another knot in my stomach. Mr. Peterson never smiled like that.

                He swiveled his office chair around to a cabinet that was standing behind him. He pulled open the second drawer form the bottom and pulled out a folder that was brimming with leaves of white paper. He slammed it open onto his desk and then proceeded to leaf through each page. He was mumbling under his breath, completely indecipherable, until he obviously found what he was looking for. He pulled out a stapled stack of pages, there was probably about fifteen to twenty pages in it. I couldn't see the words on the page, but I had a strange feeling about this packet.

                My premonitions were correct when my English teacher slid the packet in my direction. In the top left hand corner typed in Times New Roman was my name: Idalia Bryce. I instantly knew what this was without having to read the title. During the first week of school, Mr. Peterson had required us to right an original story with a maximum of ten pages. Mind had been twenty two pages. I remembered that I had been the only one with anything more than ten pages, everyone else had done the absolute minimum.

                “What about it?” I asked.

                Mr. Peterson gestured to the worn stool that is always right next to his desk. He keeps it there when he needs to talk to students one on one. It was nice being in the back because I can always eavesdrop on all of the conversations.

                I slid onto the stool, subconsciously hoping it would spin. It didn't.

                “Have you written fiction before this?” He lifted my giant packet.

                I wasn't sure if he kept me here to make fun of me or to say how proud he was. I hesitated to tell the truth if he was going to mock me. The truth was, I wrote every day. Stories seemed to pop into my head as quickly as dead skin falls off of my body (which is quite often, might I add).  I finally decided to keep it neutral. “Yes, I have.”

                “Do you have an interest in writing?” He asked.

                I was beginning to feel the hardness of the stool numb my butt. I squirmed around a bit before answering. “I guess you could say I do.”

                Mr. Peteron’s smile widened. “That is good to hear.” His eyes suddenly went large and wide, like a kid that had woken up on Christmas morning. “And tell me this, have you ever considered joining a writing club. Where you could critic with other writers?”

                “Mr. Peterson, are you asking me to join your honor club?” I had heard about his Writer’s Anonymous club that included students only he invited. My friend, Abigail had been invited a week ago.  I suddenly felt silly for worrying that my teacher would mock me for writing. He was an English teacher.

                “Well it depends. Are you interested?” His eyebrows raised, so high that they almost disappeared into his pepper gray mop of hair.

                I couldn't believe it. Mr. Peterson was personally asking me to be a part of his club. That means he thinks I’m good right? I sure hoped that he believed in my writing.

                “Yes, I’m very interested.” I tried to sound as calm and mature as possible. But it’s difficult when you’re about to join a secret writer’s club. Even though it wasn't that much of a secret anymore.

                He nodded with a giant grin, slid the copy of my original story back into the hazardous folder and placed back in its proper spot in the second drawer up from the bottom of his filing cabinet. “Glad to hear that, Brice! Our meetings are every Thursday after school unless noted otherwise. I think you will be a great member of this club. You've got grit, Idalia.”

                It felt strange to hear someone call me by my full name. Most people called me Dalia or even sometimes Dolly, but never Idalia. But I shoved away the thought and gave my teacher my most winning smile before thanking him for this incredible offer.  I adjusted my backpack’s strap before heading towards the door. Most of the students had left already and the halls were creepily empty.

                “Oh, and Miss Price,” Mr. Peterson called out before my foot even crossed over the door.  “Make sure you keep yourself attentive this weekend.”

                What an odd thing for a teacher to say. I didn't know what to say to that. Is that something you say thank you to? Do you say anything at all? I hated being social for these very reasons! I ended up half smiling, waving and then escaping that classroom before something else unexpected or awkward happened.

                Mr. Peterson’s last words stuck with me all the way from the third floor to the first floor, and all the way down to the abandoned locker hall that my locker was strangely located in. I muttered it over and over to myself as I pushed myself against the exit door and out into the autumn chill. The parking lot was all but empty. There were a few junky cars that I assume were left behind because they wouldn't start. And then there was a neat line of black, white, and gray trucks that took up the back two rows of the parking lot. Everyone knew that those belonged to the football team. Is it normal for guys to match vehicles? Is it similar to girls and fashion? Not even I understood why girls found it necessary to match with their friends, so I didn't even expect myself to understand the football team and their matching trucks.

                My thoughts returned to Mr. Peterson and his farewell to me as I made my way to my car which was parked out on the road. Make sure you keep yourself attentive this weekend. Why did he say that of all things? Did I look like I needed to be more attentive? I guess I did zone out in class today, but I didn't think that was reason enough to warn me.  Maybe he’s awkward at being social like me, I thought. Maybe we have a lot more in common than just brains and sarcasm. An image popped in my head of Mr. Peterson in his usual sweater and black slacks sipping hot chocolate with me in his classroom sharing our common interests. I shuddered and shoved the thought away. The idea of my English teacher becoming my “bestie” was a bit too much even for my imagination.

                A chorus of burly cheers interrupted my thoughts. I looked over and saw a group of four football players sneak away from the field and run towards the row of trucks. Were they supposed to leave early from practice? I didn't know enough about football to make any sort of judgment. I tried to return back to my thoughts. But the four football players shouts and obnoxious jokes kept jarring my train of thought. I watched them all jump into one of the trucks. The driver of the truck had obviously altered the muffler to make it rumble deep and loud. I rolled my eyes, typical men.

                Without even a warning, the truck leaped out of the parking space and zoomed around the parking lot. They started to drive in mad circles, weaving in and out of the cars that were already there, sometimes missing them by just a hairline. Were they really that stupid? Their windows were rolled down and their music was pounding so loud, I could feel the speaker’s bass from where I was.

                I was about to look away when I saw a boy, probably a sophomore step down into the parking lot. He could see the truck doing donuts in the parking lot, and hesitated. But it was obvious that his vehicle was beyond the truck. Don’t try kid, I thought. Don’t even try to run over to your car.

                The kid adjusted his backpack and started to march towards a beaten up mini-van. I stopped in my tracks. He was going to try and get to his car. I shifted my sight to the football players in the truck, doing donuts, they weren't even paying attention. I could see the driver was not even looking out the window, but at whoever was screaming at him behind the seat.

 That kid was going to get hit, I knew it.

                Without even thinking, without any thought at all, I flung my backpack off and raced towards the truck that was steering its direction towards the boy.

                I could feel my heart pounding loud and hard in my chest, pushing me to not stop. I had never been much of a runner, but I suddenly felt like my body was built for that very thing.

                The kid, he could see that the truck’s driver wasn’t paying attention. I saw even from my distance that his body clenched up.

                My body was coursing with adrenaline. It was so powerful I felt my heart was beating faster to keep my body caught up with whatever was fueling me. My breathing was hard, but even.

All I could hear was the pounding of my heart.

All I could feel was the slapping of my feet against the asphalt.

All I could see was the truck and the kid.

                I caught a glisten of tears on the kid’s cheek. He knew he was going to die.

                No! He couldn't die. I wouldn't let that happen. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. I leaped forward, reached my hand out and yanked the boy by his t-shirt, I could feel the material tear when I flung him behind me and onto the ground. Almost like there were cotton balls in my ears, I barely heard the rumble of the truck or the screams of the boy behind me. I could feel the rumble of the truck right behind me through the soles of my shoes to my feet.  I sensed how close it was to us. I spun around.  There it was, a giant metal behemoth coming straight for me. Instinctively, I flung my fist against the grate of the truck, expecting myself to crumble and be completely swallowed up by its enormous weight. I kept repeating in my head, I can’t let the kid die, he has to be okay. I couldn't let the kid die, I wasn't going to let that happen! I waited for the pain of 4000 lbs to roll on top of me and end my life. But I didn't want to die this way either, I suddenly let a sob break free as I waited for my life to end.

But I felt nothing, nothing but the deafening beats of my heart and the long gasps of breath I was making. I could still feel that power coursing through me, fueling me to keep fighting,  it was so powerful that it was almost painful to stand still and wait or whatever was to come next.

                The truck had stopped. My fist was planted deep into the truck’s grate. I could see a small bead of blood run down my wrist and drip onto the black pavement. I had dented the truck’s grate. Dented. I struggled to pull my hand free, it was the most painful thing I had ever experienced. I could feel skin being pulled clean off and left behind as I yanked it out. I looked down at my hand and instantly regretted even looking because as soon as I looked the pain that had lanced through me only intensified. My hand was completely covered in my own blood, already bruises were forming up and down my arm from the impact. My skin was pretty much scraped off of my knuckles and everywhere else or that matter. I cried out, my heart pounded faster. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably and my knees weakened. What had happened? Did I just stop that truck? I looked up and managed to see the driver and passengers staring at me with white eyes of horror. I glanced down at the boy I had saved. His eyes were wide too. What did I do? I felt so hot, like I had been dipped into a cavern of lava. My heart hadn't slowed down and my body felt it was coursing with power. This was too much.

                My head started to pound. My eyes couldn't focus. Why was my body in so much pain? But why did I want to keep running? What was happening to me? I need to get out of here, I suddenly thought.

                So I ran. My body was still pushing me, to not ever stop, to keep running until there was nothing left of me. But I forced myself to slow down, unlock the driver’s side of my car and throw myself inside. Just as soon as I had slammed the door shut, I suddenly felt my throat close. I couldn't breathe. My heart pounded harder and faster. Clenching my fists tight, I collapsed to the ground and waited for darkness to overpower me.

Thank you everyone for your love and support!