VICTORIAN
A
young adult novel about ghosts, history, and two girls who find second chances
at life.
With the help of the psychic’s son, who isn’t at all what her dream date would look like but rather endearing all the same, Celeste uncovers secrets about the village left hidden amongst the dilapidated buildings. Searching deeper will mean opening her heart, a part of her she’s locked up tight and been petrified of freeing.
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Check out Chapter 1:
I rolled my sleeve up and traced the raised white lines on the inside
of my wrist. They were like Braille, telling a story of the times I locked
myself in my bedroom with the compass from math class. The metal point worked
best; it made a neat line, more painful than razor blades.
I dug my fingernail into the flesh beneath my wrist bone, on the
underside, where the skin felt the most tender. The prick of pain grew like a
blossom, creeping along my arm and up my fingers, like a super power. I closed
my eyes, breathing deep through my nose and out through my mouth. A twisted
form of yoga for cutters.
Chuckling, I rolled the sleeve of my brown shirt back down. The
heater by the window, high up in the cellar wall, hummed like a little kid
trying to sing along to pop music. My magnificent Group Counselor, Michelle,
did her best with the space she rented under the hair salon. Not my style, but
anyone could see she tried.
Oriental carpeting covered the cement floor and bright tiles on
cement walls created a swirling pattern. Instead of hard office chairs,
Michelle preferred wicker porch furniture, and a sofa. I’d taken the sofa to
see who would sit beside me. So far, the two guys had taken single chairs and
the only other girl dwelled on the rocking chair. It creaked as she moved
despite the carpet under the rockers.
She picked at her black nail polish. How cliché. Black nail polish on
the troubled delinquent. She’d dyed her hair blue-black, and wore thick kohl
around her eyes. Plastic chains hung off her pants.
Maybe I should try for a look. My plain polo shirt and blue jeans
didn’t make much of a statement. Next time – knowing Mama, she’d make me attend
every stupid session of the Counseling Circle – I would wear my fairy princess
costume left over from Cory’s Halloween party. That would make a great
statement.
I opened the front pouch of my purse, the zipper loud and the
contents rattling, to remove my purple eyeliner. The boy in a plaid button-up
shirt glanced at me, so I grinned and made a show of rolling up my sleeve
again. I winked, flashing him a glimpse of my scars, and traced the tip of the
eyeliner over them in a macabre connect-the-dots. He didn’t pale, only blinked
at me. Good, we were both messed up. Now we could see which of us was the most
screwed.
The door opened upstairs and footsteps sounded. Low voices drifted
into the sitting room from the waiting room, and another girl entered. She
halted just inside the door, her eyes wide and lips parted, clutching her purse
against her chest.
Yes, honey, that purse will save your life.
She lowered her gaze and ran to take a seat on the end of the floral
sofa - my sofa. She pressed herself into the armrest as though to escape from
me.
“Hi,” I said to break up the stillness in the room. “I’m Weronika
Rivers. What’s your name?”
She jumped. The chick actually jumped off the sofa seat before
sitting back down. The orange and green flowered sofa, by the way, had to have
seen the 1970s.
“Celeste.” She breathed the word.
“Hey, Celeste,” I said.
The dude in the plaid shirt looked over at us. Nail Polish Girl kept
picking and the other boy played a game on his cell phone.
“Did your parents make you come too?” I asked.
She gulped and leaned harder into the armrest. “Um, no. My
grandfather told me it might be helpful. I like to read him the Sunday paper
and…the ad was in it.”
“My mom knows Michelle. She’s the counselor. They went to school
together.” I finished the drawing on my arm and popped the cap onto the
eyeliner. “Mama thinks this will be good for me, but she wants to show off to
her friends. ‘See, my daughter can get help. She can be normal again.’ ” I bit
the middle of the eyeliner pencil as if it were a rose and I about to dance the
tango.
The door opened again, fresh steps on the stairs. This time Michelle
entered with another girl. Michelle took the huge, plush armchair and Girl
Number Four, who wore a long flowered skirt like a hippie, took one of the
white wicker chairs.
“Hello, everyone.” Michelle leaned forward with that smile I’d always
hated, all teeth and gums. I tried to mimic it and I could swear Celeste
giggled just a little.
“My name is Michelle Smith,” our great leader continued. “I’m glad
you could all make it to our little circle. Before we get started, let me tell
you all a little about myself. I was born in England to a family of mixed race.
My mother had moved there from India. This is actually a Sari sent to me by an
aunt who still lives there.”
Michelle smoothed her hands over her bright ensemble. It looked
pretty cool, with an intricate gold design. “We moved to the United States when
I was five and I’ve lived here in New York ever since. I have my doctorate in
psychology, but I’ve always wanted to be a counselor.”
I exaggerated my head nods. This time Celeste giggled for sure.
“Each of you is here because of something troubling that has happened
or is happening in your life. I want to help you grow past that. We can do this
together. I want you to know we are all on the same team. Everything we discuss
in here will remain confidential.”
Yeah right. I almost snorted. Like I would trust anything deep, dark,
and secret with these idiots.
“Please share your name and why you are here, but only say what you
are comfortable with.” Michelle nodded to Nail Polish Girl. “Please go first.”
She finally looked up, a little blush on her high cheekbones. “Um,
hi, everyone. I’m Joanna McFadden. I…um…” She looked down at the carpet. “My
brother committed suicide.”
No one moved. I’d known the others here would have issues, but the
admission sent prickles across my skin. It shouldn’t rattle me. I should be
tough, unbreakable.
“Thank you for sharing,” Michelle said. “Your turn, dear.” She nodded
to Celeste.
Celeste stood up, still clutching her purse. “I’m, um, Celeste. On
the consent form, it says I’m Aeltye because that’s my real name. Celeste is my
middle name. I go by that.”
No wonder she was here. People had to make fun of her like crazy over
that name.
“All-Tee,” Michelle murmured. “How beautiful.”
“Thanks. It’s Dutch.” She dropped back onto the couch.
“What else would you like to share, honey?” Michelle had the same
verbal-diarrhea of every “medical health professional” I’d ever run across even
though they were just supposed to listen. They pushed, pushed, pushed. Just let
us wallow.
I dug my thumbnail into my wrist. The sharp nip kept me from jiggling
my legs.
Celeste held her purse so tightly her knuckles whitened. “I…um…I have
issues. With my dad.”
A vein pulsed in her throat just above her collar and the color
drained from her face. Her breathing came in short pants.
I reached across the sofa to squeeze her arm. If she kept it
together, I could stay less rattled.
“Thank you.” Michelle fastened
her dark gaze on me. “Your turn.”
No “sweetie” or “honey” for me. “I’m Weronika and I see dead people.”
I beamed at Michelle. “There’s a little boy who haunts the field across from my
house. He’s always there just watching me. Man it’s creepy.” I swept my gaze
over the others; only Celeste looked away. “How about you guys? Do any of you
see ghosts?”
Silence.
“I believe I saw one once,” Michelle offered.
“How about you, Aeltye Celeste?” I pumped my fist in the air for her,
as if we might be the team Michelle wanted. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
Crap; she looked ready to pass out or heave. I almost apologized for
asking.
The guy in the plaid shirt laughed as if I joked, and the others
joined in, save Celeste and Michelle. Fine, let them believe that was why I was
there. It was far safer than the truth.
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