November Surprise
Authors: Laurel Osterkamp
November Surprise
a novel
by
Laurel Osterkamp
PMI Books, Boulder,
Colorado
Campaign
Promises
:
"Short
and sweet, Osterkamp creates a world of politics and high school memories that
meld together to form a novella that works." – Keri English (
Indiereader.com
)
"
Campaign
Promises
is a
intelligent peek into one woman’s journey into adulthood as her naivety and
idealism are nurtured into mature self-awareness. At 75 eBook pages, Campaign
Promises is the perfect companion for short trips, lunch hours, or an early
afternoon with a cup of tea that leaves you feeling accomplished and satisfied.
" — Christine @
Bitchlit.com
My Toes
:
Winner! 2008
Indie Excellence Award for Chick Lit.
"A
wonderful story of learning to forgive yourself and others, trusting your
instincts and not giving up... a great read." —
Muse Book Reviews
, July 2006
"Ms.
Osterkamp has penned a tale that is pure delight and will touch the reader on
many emotional levels." —
Love
Romances
June 2006
"
Following My Toes
connects the reader to
the feeling of chatting with a close friend." —
TCM Reviews
, June 2006
"Osterkamp's
background as a comedy writer is readily apparent with the nice balance between
the humor and the serious." —
BookPleasures.com
,
December, 2006
"Faith's realization of her
faults and that she is more than everyone thinks she is, makes a very good
story." —
Coffee Time Romance
(coffeetimeromance.com)
, June 2006
November Surprise
a novel
by
Laurel Osterkamp
PMI
Books, Boulder, Colorado
This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by
Laurel Osterkamp
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or
distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
eISBN
(Kindle): 978-1-933826-45-5
Published by PMI
Books
an imprint of
Preventive Measures, Inc.
254 Spruce St.
Boulder, CO 80302
Discover other titles
by Laurel Osterkamp at
http://www.laurelosterkamp.com
Praise For Laurel Osterkamp's
Books:
Chapter
2. 1988 - George H. W. Bush vs. Michael Dukakis
Chapter
4. 1992: Clinton vs. Bush vs. Perot
Chapter
6. 1996: Clinton vs. Dole
Chapter
8. 2000: Al Gore vs. George W. Bush
Chapter
11. 2004: George W. Bush vs. John Kerry
Chapter
13. 2008: Obama vs. McCain
Praise
for Starring in the Movie of My Life
Preview
of
Starring in the Movie of My Life
Chapter 1. August 1988
The night is noticeably drier and cooler than it has been
all summer. Fall is definitely in the air. Still, the heat of the bonfire has
become a little overbearing, so I step away. It’s not like anyone will miss me.
Once I have a little space, I breathe deeply and look up at
the sky. All the stars are out. Should I pick one and make a wish? I know
that’s not how it works; you’re supposed to wish when there’s only one star in
the sky. But I’m on the cusp of my senior year in high school, and my best
friend is leaving for college in two days. I need all the help I can get.
I’ve settled on the brightest star to wish upon, and I’m
focusing and planning my wish, when I feel him come up from behind me.
“Hey, Training Bra.” That’s his pet name for me, but it’s
always been one of malice rather than affection. I hear him slur, “What are you
going to do now that your stronger half is leaving you?”
He’s referring to my best friend Sharon, whom I came here
with tonight and who helped me stand up to his bullying years ago. But soon
she’ll be gone at college, and I’ll be left alone. He’s right. I’m nervous
about standing up to him without her help.
I shrug my shoulders and try to act nonchalant. “Reggie,
let’s say we call a truce?” I don’t wait for an answer but start to walk away.
He grips my arm, tightly, and keeps me from making a smooth exit.
“How about you get over yourself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” And I don’t. I know I’m not
perfect, but that’s sort of the point. Having a huge ego has never been one of
my problems.
“You think you’re so smart,” he says. “Always trying to
one-up me in class, raising your hand and spouting off. Nobody cares about what
you have to say.”
“Fine,” I say with a forced laugh. “I’ll get over myself.
Now can you let go of my arm?”
He pulls me in closer. His breath stinks and makes me want
to gag. “You’re so pathetic. That’s the irony. You do know what irony is,
right?”
I struggle to free myself. “Of course I know what irony is.
I’m in honor’s English. But so are you. We’re both smart, okay? Can’t we just
leave it at that?’
His grip tightens. “You think you’re so superior.”
Now I’m getting mad. I raise my voice. “Reggie, seriously,
let me go.”
But he’s a lot stronger than I am, and instead of releasing
me, he pulls harder on my arm. “In a minute, you big baby,” he sneers. “First I
have something to say.”
I’m still trying to escape, when all of a sudden I hear
another voice come from behind.
“Hey, Reggie. If you have to hold on to her so tight, it
means you should let go.”
I turn and see that the voice belongs to Monty Bricker. He
just graduated, and we aren’t friends. I know him only because everyone knows
him. He was the class valedictorian, student council president, star soccer
player, and homecoming king. On the first day of school, whenever teachers
called roll and they said “Montgomery Bricker,” he would always say,
“Montgomery Bricker is my grandfather. Please call me Monty.”
Now Reggie laughs and releases me, pretending like this is
all a big joke. “Sure, Man. We were just playing around.”
Monty shrugs his shoulders and addresses me. “You okay?”
I nod and look at Monty. He’s wearing jeans and a Cure 1987
World Tour t-shirt, his hair is dark and his face is in shadows. And, now that
he’s gotten my confirmation of okayness, he turns to Reggie.
“Is it true you broke up with Amanda Kantor?” Monty asks as
he takes a swig of his beer.
“Yes. She was getting on my nerves.”
Monty laughs. “I heard she was the one who dumped you.”
Reggie defends himself, and the two of them talk as if I
wasn’t there. That’s okay. I’d rather be someplace else, anyway. I walk away
without saying anything more to Reggie, and without thanking Monty. What he did
was nice, but it was a simple reflex, what any decent person in that situation
would do. Now that it’s over, it’s like it never even happened.
It’s not like Monty will ever remember this, or me, anyway.
Dukakis
I know I’m not normal.
There are signs everywhere. First, most seventeen-year-old
girls spend lots of time making their hair big and poufy, unconcerned that
they’re depleting the ozone with all the aerosol hairspray they use. I’m
constantly taming my hair down; if I don’t, it will turn into a big, tangled,
light brown afro. Second, at school most people have no problem talking to each
other, joking around, and thinking up clever things to say. But if they’re
called upon in class, they freeze up. I’m exactly the opposite. And third, I
actually read books during summer vacation. I’m not talking novels either; I’m
talking big, dense history books that I find on the dustiest shelves in the
library.
At first I didn’t notice there was anything different about
me. Then I started junior high, and I hung up a poster of Robert Kennedy in my
locker. My mom and I had watched a mini-series about him, and that’s when I
fell in love. He was so principled, so handsome, so witty, and sooo powerful. I
went to a flea market that sold old photographs, and spent three dollars on a
reprint of a
Life
magazine cover
featuring RFK. And I hung it up in my locker.
My mom had her doubts.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather hang that in your room,
Lucy? Your dad could frame it for you and mount it to the wall.”
“No thanks,” I told her. My locker door had been bare for
too long. All the cool kids had something to decorate their space. I was proud
I finally had something too.
But when I heard snickering from a couple of girls two doors
down (who incidentally had taped up images of Duran Duran and Bon Jovi) I knew
I had gotten it wrong, at least by junior high standards.
I can’t help it. My idols are
those who lead with compassion. It’s about as uncool as you can get, but to me
it makes a lot more sense than worshipping rock stars like Milli Vanilli. I bet
people would worship them even if they couldn’t sing at all.
Now I’m a senior in high school, and I’m counting down the
days to graduation. It’s only the end of October, so it’s a long count.
However, today I’m walking to school with a smile on my face because memories
of last night’s debate are still floating through my mind. Lloyd Bentsen really
gave it to Dan Quayle. Bentsen knew ahead of time that Quayle would compare
himself to JFK. So, when the opportunity came, Bentsen seized it. He was so
calm, standing at his podium, simultaneously looking and speaking down to
Quayle.
“Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy, I knew Jack Kennedy,
Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine.
Senator,
you're no Jack Kennedy
.”
The crowd roared, applauded, and some cried out in protest.
Quayle got all huffy and told Bentsen that his remarks were uncalled for. My
mom and I, sitting comfortably in our living room, laughed our heads off.
I think of this as I approach the front doors of my school,
and I’m still grinning. Then I see Reggie Hanson, and my grin disappears. His
dark hair is hanging in his eyes, and his Levi 501s are ripped at the knee.
Even though most guys look similar, somehow he has an extra air of rebellion.
“Hey Lucy!” he shouts. “Wanna hang out after school?” I
don’t look over at him. He yells louder. “How about lunch time! Between third
and fourth period?” I keep my head down, and he laughs at my cowardice. “Come
on,” he jeers, “you know you want to!”
My cheeks burn and I walk away, the laughter of Reggie and
his buddies echoing in my ears. Reggie has been teasing me since third grade.
I’m not really sure why he hates me so much. The only reason
I can think of is back then, when we were voting for class officers, I decided
I wanted to be class reporter. Reggie wanted to be president, but he lost to
Gerry Presscott. The next “election” (which consisted of the class raising
their hands and voting) was for vice president, so Reggie ran for that too, but
he lost to Margaret Close. And so it went for secretary and playground monitor,
until finally we got to the last election, which was for class reporter. Reggie
just wanted to win something, but I had dreams of one day being a journalist,
and I was sure this was the perfect beginning to my writing career.
Reggie and I had to wait outside while people voted. I was
sure he’d win, because there were more boys in the class than girls, and I
figured all the boys would vote for him. But when we were asked back in I found
out I had won, unanimously.
Shortly after that his bullying attacks began.
At first he would kick me whenever he was behind me in the
lunch line. But that wasn’t the worst Reggie did. Once at recess, when I was
hanging from the monkey bars, he ran up beneath me and pulled my skirt down.
Everybody saw my Strawberry Shortcake underwear, and it took the rest of the
school year for me to get over the embarrassment.