Out of Order

Published by

H
ARMONY
I
NK
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

[email protected]
•
http://harmonyinkpress.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Out of Order

© 2015 Casey Lawrence.

Cover Art

© 2015 Aaron Anderson.

[email protected]

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or [email protected].

ISBN: 978-1-63476-010-2

Library Edition ISBN: 978-1-63476-011-9

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-012-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901364

First Edition May 2015

Library Edition August 2015

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

For Dana, who told me where all the bathrooms were.

Thank you to my mother, who read to me as a child and who always did all the voices. Thank you to my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Martinello: I overheard you telling that woman who said I should be a model that I would be a famous author one day. Talk about a confidence boost! Thank you to Mr. Balsom, for kicking my butt in high school. Thank you, Mr. Poloniato, Mr. Fast, and Mrs. Smith for teaching high school English despite every reason not to, and for reading my essays when you didn’t assign a maximum length. Thank you to my friends, without whom I would be a hermit. Thank you to Billy Dickerson for being my sounding board and first reader. And thank you to the wonderful community on Twitter and Tumblr who supported the writing of this book with motivation, inspiring quotes, and word-count challenges.

S
ENIOR
YEAR
is supposed to be the highlight of any teenager’s life. You’re finally old enough to do the grown-up things you’ve wanted to do since you were little, like drive and stay out late. You’re still too young, in most cases, to drink or vote; you still obey your parents’ rules while you live under their roofs, get home by curfew, do your chores and say “Yes, please” and “No, thank you.” But you have certain freedoms. You can work part-time and earn your own money. You can hang out with your friends without supervision. You can rent a limousine to take you to prom, and you can still believe that you’re invincible. But you aren’t.

My senior year taught me a lot of lessons. Most, if not all of them, were learned outside of a classroom, beyond the hallways of this institution. The most important thing I learned is that we are not invincible.

“I
CAN
’
T
go out there and say this,” I said, shoving the neatly printed cue cards back into my mother’s hands. “This is bullshit. It’s meaningless.”

“You’re the valedictorian,” my mother stressed, pushing the cards back into my hands. “Saying meaningless crap is in the job description!”

My eyes filled with tears involuntarily, as they had been wont to do for days. I leaned back against an empty desk and shook my head. “Things are different this time. They deserve better than this.”

I turned and stalked out of the classroom, ignoring my mother’s stern request that I “come back here, young lady, this instant!” I was sick and tired of reading speeches that my mother had written for me. I wasn’t going to do it anymore.

“You better go take your seat,” I said as she caught up to me, her heels clicking menacingly on the polished linoleum floors. “Dad will be wondering where you are.”

My mother grabbed my hand and put the cue cards into it, forcing my fingers to curl around them with her own. “Just try. Please. For me?”

I pulled away, but I didn’t drop the cards or throw them in her face. I was tempted to, but I didn’t want to look like a child, so I just gritted my teeth and shrugged. She left to return to her place in the auditorium, where by now they were lowering the lights and opening the curtains to reveal the stage—decorated with black crepe paper and fresh flowers instead of streamers and confetti in our school colors.

Pacing backstage alone, I fingered the cards nervously. My mother’s idea of a solemn valedictorian speech was a farce. This whole day was a farce. However, I had no choice but to go along with it, whether I was grinding my teeth to nubs by the end or not.

“You’re on,” someone whispered, and I flinched but hiked up my dress and climbed the stairs anyway. Normally my speech would have been saved for last, but the whole program had been changed. Instead of sauntering confidently onto the stage, diploma in hand and blue dress swishing about my knees, I staggered up the stairs, holding up the black dress I’d had to borrow from my mother; it pooled on the floor when I let it go. A little girl playing dress-up, not a valedictorian.

It felt very different standing at the podium than it had during rehearsal. The bright stage lights were the same, but the crowd of students and parents was not emitting the low hum of conversation that usually accompanied the shadowed, faceless audience. There was no applause when I reached the podium and adjusted the microphone downward toward my mouth.

I have always been small, but at that moment, I felt young, small, and insignificant, which is not much like a valedictorian at all.

“In any other circumstance, today would be a joyous occasion,” I started, reading from the cards my mother had painstakingly written for me. My voice was shaking horribly, and I coughed before I continued. “Today we celebrate the academic achievement of ourselves and our peers, but there is something missing.”

I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to shake off the chill that had crept into my sternum. “There’s someone missing.”

Someone in the audience coughed, and I flinched but kept speaking. “Three of our own classmates have been—taken from us—” Someone coughed again, and I froze, unable to find my voice again. The tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over. “I can’t do this,” I choked.

“You can!” someone yelled. It was a man’s voice, roughened by age. Someone’s grandfather in the back row, I guessed.

“I can’t,” I repeated, dropping the cards onto the podium. “I can’t read the speech I wrote four months ago, and I can’t read the speech my mother wrote last night to replace it.” I tried to blink away the tears but only succeeded in pushing them over the edge to spill over my cheeks. “I cannot, in good conscience, deliver either of those well-written, eloquent addresses. And this is why.”

I
CROUCHED
on top of the broken toilet, breath held tight inside my chest. My heart was beating a mile a minute, a sickening, too-loud tattoo against my breastbone that I was sure would give me away. Pulse pounding in my ears, adrenaline kicking in too late—far too late—I waited, not breathing.

It was prom night. The four of us had gone stag—or is it called “doe” when it’s a group of girls? We’d had the debate, put it to a vote, and decided “stag” sounded cooler; we went to prom as four hot single ladies. Jessa’s boyfriend Brandon had dealt with this decision gracefully and stuck by us the whole night, despite not being her official date. He and his best friend took turns dancing with all four of us, taking group pictures, being gentlemen. Everything was supposed to be perfect—had
been
perfect—until ten minutes ago.

It was after one o’clock by the time we had gotten to the diner. We got our limousine to drop us off at Sparky’s; we were all starved, and our prepaid time with the limo was up anyway. We could walk to Ricky’s from Sparky’s Diner; we would just spend the night at her place. Our partying was over. We just wanted a quick bite to eat and a warm bed to crash in.

Somehow, we’d ended up as Sparky’s last customers. A boy I vaguely recognized as having graduated the year before was working all by himself when we toppled through the door. He was cute, a fact I would have recognized even if Ricky hadn’t subtly nodded her head in his direction—to make sure I noticed, I suppose. He had a country-boy face, tanned and freckled, and a home-done bowl haircut that somehow did him justice.

I flirted with him out of obligation, with the others egging me on, while he seated us in a booth and brought us our drinks. Kate shot me a Cheshire grin every time his back was turned, and I returned it meekly, brushing our fingers together under the table. It was a bit of a joke, really. His name was Jake; I remember thinking that it was a good, strong name. I think he was flirting back, if Jessa’s giggles were any indication.

Go to prom, dance your heart out, drop off the boys, take a limo to Sparky’s, flirt with a cute employee—the whole night was a perfect cliché. Maybe it was too perfect. Maybe I should have known, should have knocked on wood or… something. Anything.