Are they ALL like that. . . ?
Jan. 15th, 2006 02:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shalannaOnce again, I beg thy indulgence.
I'm trying to find out exactly how far I am out of my tiny mind. I suspect that my definition of "a character wanting something" and "forward motion" is wacky and/or nonstandard. I don't usually tell out loud what a character wants, in fact, but I did that in Daphne (she gives a LIST of what she wants when Snow asks) and it didn't help readers to feel that they knew what she wanted (which was supposed to be that she wanted to get the spell off and wanted the downhill spiral of bad luck to stop).
Here's a different book that has had good reviews from beta readers. I haven't sent this one out, because when I queried six agents who represent fantasy (last spring or summer), every one of them came back to me telling me that (a) this had to be a YA novel because the protagonist starts out as a young adult, and that therefore (b) it couldn't sell, because the protag is turning tricks (out of necessity--she's a runaway) at the opening, and therefore would be too Dirty for a YA novel. They said that would rule her out as a heroic character. (No mention of antiheroes or the tragicomic hero as defined in drama class.)
Well . . . having read a number of Really Really Dirty YA novels recently (they have changed, folks--I'm not kidding; read _Rainbow Party_ or _sandpiper_ and you'll see that sex is mentioned quite explicitly, and it's way more risque than Paul Zindel, who got banned from our middle school library years ago for being "naughty"), Camille turning tricks in desperation to get money for food and hitch-hiking doesn't seem so bad in comparison. My heroine gets out of that as soon as she can, when she starts running from the magician who is after her because she kind of stole his magical toy dragon. I took one agent's advice and put in a paragraph right at the start about how she got into this situation so readers would know she hasn't been there long and isn't a lost soul, etc.
So I am starting to feel that this book could be marketed now. It isn't a YA, at any rate. The larger story is about her search for home and "what constitutes a "family" when your biological family doesn't? But what Camille wants moment by moment is implied in each scene (*I* say.) Isn't it? That's waht I need to know.
If some of you would read this one and tell me whether it has the same flaw as LR in your perception ("We don't know what she wants--don't know why we should care"), or whether you see the character wanting something and having forward motion, maybe that would help me. *facepalm* It may not, but it's worth a try.
I mean, I know this is a completely different story. It is an urban fantasy such as Emma Bull or Rosemary Edghill (in her "Twelve Treasures" series) might write (I am not making a comparison between my writing and theirs, mind, just comparing the genre to what I can come up with.) It is not chick lit at all. It's third person and there is one other POV character, the villain who is chasing her to get his magical item back (it's actually more than that.) This turns into a "save the world" story when he arrives and the battle over the magic begins. So it's not for the same market. But I thought it would be easier to sell the chick lit (cue laugh track) because this is fantasy but it's not Luna material.
I'm sure you are roundly sick of reading stuff for me. But if anyone feels like taking a look out of curiosity, just to see if I know how to do these things or need to reboot completely, I'd really appreciate it.
You shouldn't feel obligated to read to the end, but I did include the story all the way to the first time that she accidentally invokes the magic that she doesn't know how to use. . . .
CAMILLE'S TRAVELS: or TRAVELS WITHOUT CHARLEY
By Shalanna Collins
Chapter One
By the time Camille MacTavish stepped off the bus in Texas, she was beginning to regret stealing the dragon. But there wasn't much she could do to correct that at the moment.
As the creaky Greyhound pulled away from the curb, exhaling a cloud of diesel smoke, Camille visored her hand and peered after it. She briefly wondered whether Philip knew she was gone yet. He was probably still sleeping peacefully under the icy motel air conditioning, snoring and dreaming of California.
This town was a lot smaller than the ticket clerk had said. Just her luck.
But maybe her luck would take a turn for the better. Way down at the bottom of her left-hand jeans pocket she could feel the dulled vibrations of the netsuke she'd stolen, a Japanese dragon carved out of a knot of burled rosewood to fit in a palm. Impulsively she shoved her hands deep into her pockets. When her fingers touched the dragon, they tingled.
She glanced both ways and started across the deserted intersection. From here, she could see just about the whole of the downtown business district.
A billboard claimed that the Chamber of Commerce welcomed her; from another next to it, the churches of Christ saluted her. Street lights clicked audibly off as lamps flicked on in a few windows. At the edge of her consciousness, she noted the sunrise painting the eastern sky with what she would've called (back when she was a teenage poet--only a few weeks ago, but it already seemed like forever) "vainglorious translucent shades of apricot edged with peach and gold." The same sunrise she had so optimistically called "the colors of freedom" when she was that ignorant kid. Now she left that kind of rhetoric to preachers and poets. She had finally come to understand that song lyric about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose.
Her stomach rumbled, sending up a splash of acid to urge her on to--where? Not the Salvation Army again. No churches, saluting her or not.
Peering into her backpack just in case she’d missed something, she took inventory: address book and journal, teddy bear, CD player and six CDs, set of colored pencils and sketchbook that she'd gotten for her sweet-sixteen birthday three months ago, pager with dead batteries, sewing kit with scissors, first-aid kit (out of her mother's Caddy's glove compartment), her ex-boyfriend Jerry’s antique Zippo pocket lighter and the postcard he'd sent her from Big Sur, her late daddy's pocketknife and his Navy dog tags, matches, flashlight, safety pins, mini photo album, charm bracelet, that coin purse she'd found, and her makeup bag with the usual girly necessities. And of course the stinky laundry: one pair of cutoffs, three wrinkled T-shirts, four changes of underwear, two sad-looking pairs of socks, four orange kerchiefs currently tied to form a halter top, and spare jeans that were getting a little loose. Everything else she'd thought to bring had been in the gym bag that some lowlife had ripped off when she'd turned her head at the last bus station. The peanut butter and crackers she'd taken from the pantry at home were long gone.
This sucked.
She had to be frugal. With Phil’s money and what she had left over from the tricks before him--minus the cost of the bus ticket and a bag of chips and a Coke at the station--she had two hundred and twenty-seven dollars.
Back when she'd baby-sat and mowed lawns, that would’ve seemed like a lot--a boatload of CDs and a handful of movie tickets. Now it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to get her to California. She couldn't handle the bus nonstop, even if she could afford it; her legs were already stiffening up from riding overnight. She'd have to find someone to ride along with, someone not quite as . . . eccentric . . . as Phil.
Across the street, an older woman wearing a gingham housedress was propping open the glass doors of a good-sized mom-and-pop grocery.
Camille hesitated at the entrance, fighting down pangs from her already-guilty conscience, but hunger urged her forward. She wouldn’t take much, only something to eat. "Shrinkage," they called it, and planned for it. The girls at home did worse during their initiations into the cool cliques, and they weren't hungry.
The scent of small-town store, a mixture of disinfectant and rotting produce, hit her in the face as she walked in. The place had an air of genteel shabbiness, but it was busy enough already. She wheeled a squeaking cart up and down the aisles, dropping things in at random.
In front of her a dad or older brother pushed young children in a cart as he consulted his list. It gave Camille a pang of nostalgia.
Since she’d run away--since the night her new stepfather, reeking of Irish whiskey, had stumbled into her unicorn-themed bedroom--her life had taken on a completely different shape. At the very moment when Jimmy Cline had launched himself onto her and the unthinkable began happening, she'd realized several truths. First, she couldn’t fight him; second, her mother would choose Viagra Boy over Camille anyway, as she'd made quite clear when Camille had tried to talk some sense into her so she wouldn't marry a man she'd just met through the Internet; third, if she went to Child Protective Services or told the school counselor, the family would ultimately end up demonizing Camille for "putting everyone through this," especially with her mother's fondness for claiming Camille was a pathological liar; and last and worst of all, that she couldn’t tolerate it even one more time. All at once she'd understood the meaning of the buzz-term "paradigm shift," because her own paradigm had damn well shifted into overdrive even before he'd rolled his bulk off her. After that, her eyes were like telescopes, seeing only what was far away from there.
She was learning to refocus on her new life.
By the dairy case, a middle-aged fashion plate stood behind a card table handing out coupons. On the table were sample goodies on toothpicks, lined up like dominoes. There were meatballs, cheese cubes, and pizza rolls. Next to that, two flavors of fruit drink were arranged in rows of tiny plastic communion cups.
Camille circled around and hit the table whenever there was a crowd to distract the hostess, managing three visits before getting busted.
The demonstrator's razor-thin eyebrows shot up across her furrow-plowed forehead. "Please limit yourself to one sample of each product, young lady." She cupped her hands over the samples of fruit drink, a sacred circle available only to potential paying customers. "Is there a particular product I may help you with?"
Camille grinned sheepishly, around a mouthful of meatballs. "Sorry. I missed breakfast, and"--she realized from the woman's expression that this was exactly the wrong tack, and switched gears--"and these are sooo deelish." She pointed at the display of jars on the endcap of the aisle behind the woman. "Is that the stuff you soaked them in?" As the demonstrator reflexively looked back, Camille grabbed two handfuls of cheese cubes.
"The marinade doesn't contain any picante sauce, no," the woman replied as she turned back. "If you like, I can give you the recipe." She held out a card, then frowned as she noticed the large hole in her formerly perfect display.
"Cool. I'll get Mom to make it this weekend. Thanks so much." Camille returned the woman's fake smile. Stuffing the recipe card into the pocket of her denim jacket atop the cheese, she hustled her basket away. In the dairy section, she helped herself to two pints of chocolate milk, putting one in the cart and opening the other to drink while she "shopped." Strolling through produce, she crunched down on a Granny Smith apple--apples went so well with cheese--as she loaded a few more into a plastic bag and settled it into her basket. One straggler made only a small bulge in the side of her jacket. She sampled a few Pick-And-Mix candies from a display, the wrappers and a few caramels going into her pocket. Feeling sure no one was watching, she palmed two full-sized chocolate bars and slipped them in behind, for later.
Nobody was taking any notice of her. Bold with confidence, she decided to take a chance on some smokes.
Nonchalantly she parked her basket in the longest checkout line. The cigarettes were protected by a plastic shield, but someone had already unlocked it. It was easy enough to slide it back with one hand and grab a couple of packs of the closest brand. As she curled her hand around them, she studied the headlines of the tabloids intently. Then she whirled to face the person behind her, pasting on an expression of sudden realization. "I forgot to get bread. You go ahead in front of me. I'll just leave my basket to one side, okay?"
"Sure." A pale older man wearing a Mickey Rat tie and pin-on hair nodded, happy to push his basket ahead of hers as she slid it out of the way.
"I'll be right back." Camille shot him her most beguiling little-girl smile as she wheeled and trotted down the closest aisle.
Almost home free. She doubled back through canned vegetables and headed for the exit. Only another few yards to daylight. Her foot had nearly touched the mat that activated the automatic door when she felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder.
"Haven't you forgotten something?" came a baritone voice behind her.
Camille stiffened reflexively at the uninvited touch. Hastily putting on an innocent, clueless-kid expression, she turned.
A store detective? Who'd've thought a rinky-dink place like this even had one?
He was actually semi-good looking. His chestnut hair was in the rumpled style that everybody on MTV currently wore, and his dark blue eyes were flecked with gold. He had a smooth complexion unmarred by scars or zits, and that touch of stubble was just enough to be sexy. He wore a flannel shirt and tight jeans, both of which showed bulges in all the right places. He sure didn't look like security to Camille, but in another sense of the word, he very much did.
"Okay, miss, you'll have to come with me." Before she could protest, he had her hands trapped behind her back, both wrists encircled in his long thin fingers. He led her up a half-flight of stairs to an office behind the customer service booth.
It was an airless little room with no other exits. A one-way picture window overlooked the store, perfect for undetected observation. He positioned her on the far side of a metal desk, kicked the door closed behind him, sat in a rickety swivel chair, and swung around so his back was to the door, almost all in one motion. His moves seemed choreographed, making her think of one of those Irish dancers. How many shoplifters did this dinky burg get? Maybe he'd rehearsed for hours just hoping to get a chance to try that out.
It was useless to try to make it past him and through the door. And she didn't feel like getting tackled, even by a good-looking guy, not unless it was for a different reason. She should've made a break for it the moment he challenged her, but he'd caught her off guard.
Shit! How had she screwed up so badly? She must still be logy and dull from sleeping on the damn bus. Well, now her guard was up big-time, and he wouldn't best her again.
His name tag said Dabney, no last name (unless that was his last name), and that he was grocery manager. Come on, a manager? He looked hardly older than she was. Probably around twenty, twenty-two. He crossed his arms and surveyed her. "What's your name, young lady? You can tell me while you empty your pockets onto the desk."
He wasn't going to frisk her. Silently she pulled the contents of her pockets out and tossed them onto the desktop.
She hated to reveal the netsuke. If only there were some way she could hold out. But if she did and he then checked, he'd know it was special, maybe even say it was stolen and confiscate it. Her only hope was the Purloined Letter tactic, hiding it in plain sight. She slid it out along with assorted pocket lint and pretended not to be worried as it clanked onto the desktop.
Glancing up at her periodically, Dabney spent a minute shuffling the candy bars, empty wrappers, and miscellaneous treasures around, evidently examining them to see which were the store's or what might be valuable. Camille kept quiet, mostly because she'd learned that sudden verbal outbursts were, in general, more damaging than silence. She got chills when he handled the dragon.
Her Choctaw blood--as well-concealed as it was by the peachy complexion and impish features she’d inherited from her Irish father--had spoken to her early this morning when she’d come across that "toy" dragon. Her hand had brushed it as she rifled Phil's pockets for small useful things he might not miss, and the power within it made itself known. It told her it was special. She knew it was a netsuke because her favorite teacher last year had let her do an extra-credit project on Japan.
The netsuke sat a little aside from the other items, as though it were a magnet repelled by the wrong pole of another. Dabney must've noticed her watching. He cupped his palm over it and caught her gaze, then half-smiled.
A thrill of anxiety ran down her spine. When it reached her butt, it turned around and scooted right back up to the roots of her hair. Her intuition screamed that Dabney most definitely should keep his hands off.
If he felt a prickle, he didn't let on. It was apparent, though, that he could see it was expensive, a collector's item. Like the stuff wealthy people kept in display cases. It probably wasn't a museum piece, but its soft patina suggested a minimum of handling by previous owners.
The netsuke was of a traditional Japanese subject, a dragon coiled around the sacred pearl of wisdom. The dragon was intricately carved, and its inlaid red glass eyes--maybe garnets, surely not rubies, even as small as they were--looked like expensive jewels. In the sunlight they'd seemed to have an inner glow, but under the flat fluorescents overhead, they were dull and dead. Still, the dragon's expression was cunning, not whimsical. Camille preferred not to look it directly in the eyes, which she admitted was silly, but it creeped her out a little if she stared at it very long.
Her stomach knotted up as he held her gaze. Any minute now, she figured he'd casually slip the curled dragon into his pocket. He could do anything while they were alone in here, then say she was mistaken or lying.
But he took his hand away without actually grasping the dragon. His smile broadened. "Can you tell me why you thought we were running a serve-yourself charity?"
The gift of blarney that had smoothed her way forever failed her for the first time in a long time. "Samples are supposed to be free." It came out a sulky mumble.
"But this ain't about the samples, is it? You know these candy bars ain't samples. The cigarettes, neither." He paused a second, not long enough to give Camille a chance to talk. "You don't even look old enough to be legally buying cigarettes. But I'll give you a break. If you'll let me call your parents, I can let you off with a warning and an admonition not to come back into this store for two years."
Parents! Despite the makeup, people always thought she was about fourteen. It had to be because she was so short--an inch and a half too tall to qualify for the Little People of America--although the wispy blonde hair in the pixie cut and a certain Audrey Hepburn-ish gamine quality didn't help. How could she make people understand that not only was she too old to need parents, but also that the ones she had were not her advocates? Obviously, they were all better off without one another. And foster care, she'd heard, could be as bad or worse.
An admonition--whatever that was; he said it like he was sounding it out as he read in front of the class--was fine with her. Except for the calling her mother part, which wasn't happening.
She wasn't going back.
Still, there was no use reasoning with this guy. People had their own ideas. The more she said, the more ammunition he'd have, and the more likely that some chance remark would get her into trouble.
Lucky he hadn't patted her down, or else he might've found one of her picture IDs. She kept two sewn in the inside back hem of the denim jacket, accessible by a hidden snap. Used to be three, until she'd had to bail on an ID situation that went bad. Just as well that one was gone, because she never could remember to answer to the name "Judy Simmons." She'd gotten the IDs done back in junior high, for going to bars with her friends, but she still looked pretty much like the pictures. Except maybe for the hair. And the breasts. And the makeup: she didn't wear that much any more.
These days she tried to avoid situations where she'd be forced to show an ID. It was always best to remain just another non-face in the crowd.
Her silence seemed to bother ol' Dab. His face took on a look of consternation.
"Are you a runaway?" Dabney's gaze ran up and down her, taking in the mended green T-shirt, worn denim, and backpack. "Your parents must be worried sick."
Her "parents" were sick, all right, but they weren't worried. She restrained herself from vocalizing the thought.
His hazel gaze put hers on lockdown. She tried not to look defiant, but it was tough, because his eyes also held a challenge, and she could never resist that. After waiting a few moments for a response, he said, "I'm going to ask you one last time for your name."
Camille still didn't know whether to tell him one of her aliases, make something else up, or what. She took a breath, but it came right back out as a noise of exasperation. "Why do you need it? Don't you have one of your own?" That had popped out unedited, and it didn't sound witty the way she'd expected, just nasty.
Dabney matched her sigh and swept her stuff off the desk into a plastic grocery sack. "OK, have it your way. According to our policy, now I have to call the police."
Her heart sped up. She didn't need a police record--even a juvie, a juvenile record. Fighting down panic and nausea, she managed to put on an expression of complete disdain. "Surely that won't be necessary over a couple of candy bars and an apple. It's all right here on the desk, so the store really hasn't lost anything. And the two-year ban is a done deal. You can be damn sure I won't ever come back."
He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Don't you feel bad about what you've done?"
She shrugged. She couldn't even bring herself to lie with her body language, though it might help her case.
Okay, sure, she felt bad about having been caught, but did she really feel all that guilty? Not the way she would've last year. When her daddy was killed, it had killed something inside her. At first people told her "time will heal," but as the distance grew, the whatever-she'd-been didn't regenerate. It was easier, she found, to stay numb than to fight the pain. By now, she didn't want to re-awaken.
At that church her mother had insisted on joining, the Sunday school crowd used to admonish her to put on the armor of God. But she was still angry at God for taking her daddy. She'd found it possible instead to put on the armor of not giving a crap.
# # #
Saying he had to call the heat had been a tactical error on Dabney's part, Camille mused as she waited cross-armed in the airless office. If he'd really wanted to know her name, he'd have said he wouldn't call the cops if she'd tell. And if he'd felt like negotiating, he could've easily taken advantage of her while they were in the office alone. Forgetting for the moment, of course, that one couldn't "take advantage of" the willing. Either she didn't appeal to him, or he seriously thought she was jailbait. Or he was one of those rule-mongers with a stick up his butt who wouldn't think of stepping on a crack because it was Against Our Policy. Well, he wasn't that cute. His loss.
She counted to a hundred after his footsteps faded away, then inspected the office. There were no video cameras in here that she could see. She rattled the doorknob, but he'd locked her in.
Damnation. If these small-town beacons of morality decided to put a scare into her, especially if her clueless female parent had put her on some list of missing minors, she might need to be bailed out. Maybe she could get Philip to rescue her in exchange for the return of his luckpiece. Her gaze fell on an ancient black dial phone that sat sulking on the desk.
Philip Powers was basically a stranger, a lonely older man who'd wanted a temporary travel companion for solace; he'd been a trick, not a friend, and she shouldn't have traveled as far with him as she had. It had been nice for a few days to sleep all night in a motel in a real bed, not in a shelter or on the street. But he hadn't seemed in any hurry to go west, although he said he was headed to California just like she was, and had even headed into Louisiana on a costly detour.
She'd known it was time to move on. Besides, Phil hadn't fed her much, saying she should watch her weight, though she suspected he was simply economizing on food. So she sneaked away as he slept because she hadn't known how else to leave; she took her money from his wallet, which was only fair, plus a little more to get the bus ticket. And, of course, the keepsake, because at heart she liked him. She'd started doing that with some of the guys, without really knowing why.
She didn't consider it stealing, not really. She wasn't into taking just anything, picking up "screwvenirs," as the more crass of the street girls called it, and she didn't take things that'd be of high value and easy to hock. It was a form of commemoration or remembrance, a "bedpost notch" on some spiritual level she didn't want to examine closely enough to put into words.
In fact, since she'd been on the streets, she'd found it way simpler just to do things as they occurred to her and not think all the time, not analyze stuff so much. They'd taught the "value" of deep thinking in school, but so far it hadn't served her well on the street. She'd leave the analysis to brainheads like her stepfather. Of course, Jimmy Cline only imagined himself a genius. He was more like an accidental collection of spinal cord reflexes connected to a pull-string that could say a few stock phrases. Like a talking action figure, some old GI Joe.
Philip's cell phone number itched inside her fingers. Even though he might've already missed his little trinket and could be none too happy with her, she picked up the receiver.
No dialtone. Crap! No wonder Dabney'd had to go fetch instead of simply calling. She'd hoped he was just faking her out and would return alone with a different kind of offer for her freedom.
He'd been gone awhile, and nobody seemed to be keeping tabs on her. She ought to check the desk for cash. She moved around to the kneehole to examine possibilities.
Just as she was about to start jerking open desk drawers, the office door opened. Dabney was back, with a real cop in tow. A skinny young officer with buck teeth and greasy hair who, without even discussing the charges against her, immediately took charge of her. She read his plastic name tag as he got closer: Grady Post.
Grinning, Officer Post drawled, "I won't handcuff yew if y'won't give me no trouble, little lady."
"I won't, I promise." She made rounded little-girl-innocent eyes. During her short time on the streets, she'd confirmed that some guys let down their guard when they thought you were a stupid kid. Sometimes it was good to look a little young.
A clipboard hung from his belt by a chain. He pulled it up and took a look at the front page. "Need to fill out the paperwork first. Got any ID?"
Before she could react, Dabney reached into the grocery bag on his arm, pulled out a plastic card, and handed it to the cop.
She'd completely forgotten about that library card. Apparently, Dabney had found it in that cheap vinyl change purse. Of course, it wasn't hers. She'd found it on the bus, stuck down between the seats. She'd intended to track down Pauline Schwendinger somehow and return the purse, although she'd been forced to use a couple of the quarters here and there. But of course a library card wasn't like a credit card, so she hadn't worried about finding the woman right away.
Well, she hadn't lied to them. They'd made a mistake in identifying her, and she simply didn't bother to pipe up and correct them. A subtle distinction, but a distinction.
Dabney passed the grocery bag containing the contents of Camille's pockets to the policeman. "Shall we go?" he asked her, offering his arm as though they were about to descend the spiral staircase into the grand ballroom. The cop could apparently write as he walked.
Solemnly the two men escorted her through the store, as if they were the lost scout patrol. She suspected Dabney deliberately paraded her past every customer on the roundabout route he took to the front, but she decided that might be her imagination. "Good luck," he said offhandedly as the cop led her to the cruiser at the front curb. At least she thought he'd directed the sentiment at her.
The cop put her in the front passenger seat, which Camille knew they sometimes did when they flew solo. He held her head down as she ducked to get into the car, and he kept his hand there just a bit too long; then he started sliding it softly down her neck, all the way down to her bra hooks. Could a person, purely by accident, pop her bra?
He also brushed her breasts harder than necessary as he reached across in front and buckled her up. "Sorry to have to take you in," he said, "but if they wave us over, we've got to take them seriously. Otherwise we wouldn't get any more doughnuts, now, would we?"
She smiled. "No hard feelings. You're just doing your job."
"Ought to have just let you go with a warning. Wasn't no use making such a big deal out of it, you ask me. But then nobody axed me."
He tossed the sack of personal possessions across her into his seat and walked around to his side. While he was occupied, she slid her hand into the bag. Her fingers closed around the dragon. She'd have liked to retrieve her pocket knife, too, but Dudley Do-Right already had his hand on the door handle when she glanced up. She snatched her hand away and stuffed it into her back pocket along with the dragon. She pretended she was scratching an itch on her butt as he climbed into the car.
He swung his bony legs inside and leered over at her. As he started the cruiser, the radio came to life. He checked in with the dispatcher and made more notes on his clipboard. The radio talked to him a couple more times, mostly with static and a distorted voice reciting numbers, but apparently nothing that he needed to respond to.
He got on the highway going the wrong direction. She was sure he was headed straight out of town. After a couple of minutes, she decided that the danger of pointing out an error was outweighed by the possibility of ending up getting dragged along on his next call, to something terrifying like a lockdown at the high school. "I thought I saw the station house on the town square."
"We're bound for county sheriff's headquarters." He grinned into the rear view and kept driving.
Camille clamped her mouth closed on a dozen questions. She got the feeling he was going to make a move on her. It was always best to beat them to it. After all, she understood the rules of the road; the price of a ride on a Big Rig was usually "grass, gas, or ass."
About a mile down the two-lane highway, when the strip malls stopped and fields lined both sides of the road, Camille made her play. "I guess there's no chance we could work something out here, is there? I mean, since you don't really feel I ought to have been taken into custody, and frankly, neither do I. Maybe if you felt inclined, we could take care of this and have a little fun to boot. I know how to treat a fellow right."
The young patrolman's buck teeth displayed brightly as his bony face split into a grin. "And now just what might that mean, little lady?"
She smiled back. "You look like a smart fella. I think you can figure it out."
He pulled over, sending a shower of gravel under the tires. Wedging the cop car between two trees, he set his radar gun on the windowsill, as if he were setting up a casual speed trap. Without saying anything more, he unzipped and pushed her head down. He stank like old sweat socks and grime. And cheap, expired Roquefort.
Lucky thing she'd bought all those "thumb" lollipops to practice on.
Afterward, as she straightened up and reached for a tissue out of a box on the cluttered dashboard, he giggled. "Buckle up again. They'll be wondering why I ain't checked in, and we're overdue at the sheriff's."
"What?" Camille clutched the tissue in her fist. She dabbed at her face, feeling it heating up even more than it already had. "I thought . . . I mean." She felt a wave of nausea, but it was only partly because of his general grossness. "That wasn't the agreement. I thought we had a bargain here."
He grinned like Bucky the Bastardly Beaver. "I didn't exactly say that, now, did I?"
Anger welled up in her along with the tears. "You knew that was the deal. You had to know."
"Can't help you now." He shrugged, adjusting the rear view mirror. "Your paperwork's already started, and these forms are numbered in order. I can't just tear one up, now can I?" Turning to her, he winked. "I've seen prisoners cry no telling how many times, so it's not going to do you any good. You may as well settle down and handle it like the grown-up woman you've just proven you are. Red eyes ain't becoming to nobody. You don't want your mug shot to be unflattering." He started the car, still grinning as he tucked himself back in with his free hand.
With supreme effort, she controlled herself rather than engaging him in further pointless conversation. She wished she'd pulled a Garp and bitten it off, only that would have been too disgusting. Was there still time to do something to hurt him? He deserved it. The hand of justice, indeed. If there were any justice, he'd be struck by a bolt from above.
He was heading back into town. So he had hoped for an interlude with her in the first place. And now he was hauling her back to the pig vault. That was doubly infuriating.
She became aware of a different pain in the ass--actually, a pain in her back pocket. And that one wasn't just metaphorical. What the hell? She must've sat back down on something, maybe part of the seat belt, or it could be some of the loose crap he had floating around in this junkhole. He ought to clean out this car. She readjusted her butt, but got no relief.
"Ants in your pants? Or maybe you're just horny after that performance." He laughed. "Get that seat belt on, now, or I'll have to cuff you."
As she reached for the shoulder harness, the spot on her butt heated up even more. She pressed her buttock gently against the seat, as casually as she could, and suddenly realized the source had to be the netsuke. She felt its branding-iron imprint on her skin.
Unable to stand it any longer, she reached around to grab the spot. The dragon had heated up like a firecracker. She didn't need it literally blistering her butt. As soon as her hand got near it, it seemed to jump to her palm, as if magnetized. It flowed into the shape of the inside of her fist, yet without softening. The dragon instantly suctioned onto her flesh, but wasn't burning her.
Seemingly realizing she was up to something, Grady grabbed for her wrists. "Oh, no, you don't." He seemed to think she was going for a weapon. If only she had one. She balled both hands into fists so he wouldn't guess as easily which one he ought to pry open.
It took him only a second to pull onto the shoulder. He circled her wrists in one of his meaty paws and started getting his cuffs off his belt with the other hand. "We'll have to do things the hard way."
She'd never had claustrophobia, but the thought of her wrists being confined panicked her. She couldn't stand to have her hands tied. Plus, the dragon was warming up again, so she needed to drop it into her pack or purse where he couldn't get at it. Preferably before it burned her hand. That thought gave her a rush of strength.
She flailed at him and kicked, connecting with his kneecap with a satisfying crack. He screwed up his face and turned redder, jerking at the cuffs, which seemed to be stuck on his belt.
They struggled, tossing each other back and forth in the seat. He was a lot stronger, and even with the boost she got from sheer adrenaline, he was winning. She jerked her head away, but he used his elbow to bash her face into the dashboard. Her right cheek caught the brunt of the blow. Anger shot through her like a million comets, and her hipbone burned with their fire.
Her left hand suddenly pulled free. Her fist came up like a shield. She brandished it at him. "Drop dead, you bastard," she shouted, pain searing her cheekbone.
He made a sound that at first seemed like a laugh, but quickly turned guttural. Twisting, he gave her a look of absolute incredulity as his grip loosened. She caught her breath as she watched the folding of space around him, a blue haze surrounding his body like one of those auras that her cousin used to claim she could see around every living thing. It seemed he might pop out of 3-D space like a paper doll off the page. Impossible as it was, she halfway expected him to disappear or disintegrate into a cloud of orange dust.
Then everything stopped.
Time shimmered and froze; she experienced the scent of magnolias and the taste of oysters, but seemingly with the wrong senses. It was as if she had synaesthesia: her sensory inputs passed through crossed cables and caused reactions from the sense organs not usually associated with them, and her mental wires twisted and sparked. She heard a flash of blue sparkles and saw a thunderclap, though the sky was clear.
After an undefined interval of not-time, reality came back. She could almost feel the jerk as time started to flow again, like when the film catches on the sprockets and the movie goes forward. The accompanying sense of unreality abruptly lifted, leaving her clammy and damp with perspiration. Her heart hammered like a frenzied construction worker. She blinked a couple of times to make sure everything was back, including herself.
Grady was slumped in the seat, his expression broadcasting his confusion. He released her wrists, his hands dropping into his lap as his head rolled forward. Suddenly limp, he fell forward over the wheel.
# # #
To wish someone dead and then suddenly have it come true was a damned scary experience.
He couldn't be dead. Just as she reached over to poke him, though, he began tumbling sideways, head lolling. Hastily she propped him up so his gun wouldn't go off or something. Touching him was creeping her out. Her head pounded as her heartbeat raced. He seemed totally inert, like a bag of sand. Or a worn-out Beanie Baby.
Had she caused this? What had she done? More to the point, how had she done it?
She opened her left hand. The dragon's eyes winked in the sun, then faded, so quickly she couldn't be certain she hadn't imagined it. It was cool to the touch. Before she had time to think too much about it, she stuffed it back into her pocket.
She checked for a pulse on his neck the way doctors did on TV shows. When she wasn't sure she felt anything more than her own finger throbbing, she tried the breath-in-the-mirror trick using a round powder compact she'd noticed loose on the dash--his girlfriend's, or some other deal-making female's. Feeling panic rise in her chest again, she watched the surface of the mirror. A hint of steam fogged the glass and she could get her breath.
She'd really freaked for a second there. He'd merely passed out. Maybe he'd touched the radar gun with the cuffs and shocked himself senseless. Yeah, that had to be it. Although she'd never heard of anyone being electrocuted that way. Plus, she hadn't felt a thing, and she'd always heard that anyone who touched somebody who fell on a live wire would bring the charge over to themselves.
He'd probably wake up soon on his own, or so she hoped, because she had no first-aid training and no idea what to try. Besides, she needed to get out of there. Her stomach was in knots. Without really thinking about it, she stuck the mirror in her pocket as a souvenir and wiped the dash with the tail of her T-shirt.
Her cheek smarted. Still, she didn't think she was seriously hurt. The blistered area on her tailbone felt slightly numb, but she didn't figure there was anything to worry about. But the quaking and rumbling in her stomach that seemed determined to keep spreading up into her throat might be.
This had never happened. She'd just get her stuff and bail out. Snatching the bag from a spot near his feet, she rummaged in it for her kerchief top. She wrapped the cloth around her hand. Anywhere that she thought she might've touched, including his shiny-cheap belt buckle, she quickly wiped down.
Once she'd scuffed up her prints, she managed to get hold of the release on his side that opened the passenger door. No way could she clamber over him out the driver's side. The car didn't have one of those vidcams like in the big cities, at least not one she could identify, thank goodness. Fiddling with the release, she finally heard the lock click open.
Her legs trembled as she staggered onto the asphalt. Shaking and quivering, she threw up just outside the car.
His radio woke up, emitting a burst of muffled talk riddled with numeric codes that she couldn't understand. They could be calling him. Since he couldn't answer, they'd get very interested, very quickly.
The road was deserted; not a truck had passed by that she'd noticed. The patrol car shielded her from the road. That still didn't make her safe.
Shivering, Camille started running parallel to the highway, desperate to hitch anywhere.
I'm trying to find out exactly how far I am out of my tiny mind. I suspect that my definition of "a character wanting something" and "forward motion" is wacky and/or nonstandard. I don't usually tell out loud what a character wants, in fact, but I did that in Daphne (she gives a LIST of what she wants when Snow asks) and it didn't help readers to feel that they knew what she wanted (which was supposed to be that she wanted to get the spell off and wanted the downhill spiral of bad luck to stop).
Here's a different book that has had good reviews from beta readers. I haven't sent this one out, because when I queried six agents who represent fantasy (last spring or summer), every one of them came back to me telling me that (a) this had to be a YA novel because the protagonist starts out as a young adult, and that therefore (b) it couldn't sell, because the protag is turning tricks (out of necessity--she's a runaway) at the opening, and therefore would be too Dirty for a YA novel. They said that would rule her out as a heroic character. (No mention of antiheroes or the tragicomic hero as defined in drama class.)
Well . . . having read a number of Really Really Dirty YA novels recently (they have changed, folks--I'm not kidding; read _Rainbow Party_ or _sandpiper_ and you'll see that sex is mentioned quite explicitly, and it's way more risque than Paul Zindel, who got banned from our middle school library years ago for being "naughty"), Camille turning tricks in desperation to get money for food and hitch-hiking doesn't seem so bad in comparison. My heroine gets out of that as soon as she can, when she starts running from the magician who is after her because she kind of stole his magical toy dragon. I took one agent's advice and put in a paragraph right at the start about how she got into this situation so readers would know she hasn't been there long and isn't a lost soul, etc.
So I am starting to feel that this book could be marketed now. It isn't a YA, at any rate. The larger story is about her search for home and "what constitutes a "family" when your biological family doesn't? But what Camille wants moment by moment is implied in each scene (*I* say.) Isn't it? That's waht I need to know.
If some of you would read this one and tell me whether it has the same flaw as LR in your perception ("We don't know what she wants--don't know why we should care"), or whether you see the character wanting something and having forward motion, maybe that would help me. *facepalm* It may not, but it's worth a try.
I mean, I know this is a completely different story. It is an urban fantasy such as Emma Bull or Rosemary Edghill (in her "Twelve Treasures" series) might write (I am not making a comparison between my writing and theirs, mind, just comparing the genre to what I can come up with.) It is not chick lit at all. It's third person and there is one other POV character, the villain who is chasing her to get his magical item back (it's actually more than that.) This turns into a "save the world" story when he arrives and the battle over the magic begins. So it's not for the same market. But I thought it would be easier to sell the chick lit (cue laugh track) because this is fantasy but it's not Luna material.
I'm sure you are roundly sick of reading stuff for me. But if anyone feels like taking a look out of curiosity, just to see if I know how to do these things or need to reboot completely, I'd really appreciate it.
You shouldn't feel obligated to read to the end, but I did include the story all the way to the first time that she accidentally invokes the magic that she doesn't know how to use. . . .
CAMILLE'S TRAVELS: or TRAVELS WITHOUT CHARLEY
By Shalanna Collins
Chapter One
By the time Camille MacTavish stepped off the bus in Texas, she was beginning to regret stealing the dragon. But there wasn't much she could do to correct that at the moment.
As the creaky Greyhound pulled away from the curb, exhaling a cloud of diesel smoke, Camille visored her hand and peered after it. She briefly wondered whether Philip knew she was gone yet. He was probably still sleeping peacefully under the icy motel air conditioning, snoring and dreaming of California.
This town was a lot smaller than the ticket clerk had said. Just her luck.
But maybe her luck would take a turn for the better. Way down at the bottom of her left-hand jeans pocket she could feel the dulled vibrations of the netsuke she'd stolen, a Japanese dragon carved out of a knot of burled rosewood to fit in a palm. Impulsively she shoved her hands deep into her pockets. When her fingers touched the dragon, they tingled.
She glanced both ways and started across the deserted intersection. From here, she could see just about the whole of the downtown business district.
A billboard claimed that the Chamber of Commerce welcomed her; from another next to it, the churches of Christ saluted her. Street lights clicked audibly off as lamps flicked on in a few windows. At the edge of her consciousness, she noted the sunrise painting the eastern sky with what she would've called (back when she was a teenage poet--only a few weeks ago, but it already seemed like forever) "vainglorious translucent shades of apricot edged with peach and gold." The same sunrise she had so optimistically called "the colors of freedom" when she was that ignorant kid. Now she left that kind of rhetoric to preachers and poets. She had finally come to understand that song lyric about freedom being just another word for nothing left to lose.
Her stomach rumbled, sending up a splash of acid to urge her on to--where? Not the Salvation Army again. No churches, saluting her or not.
Peering into her backpack just in case she’d missed something, she took inventory: address book and journal, teddy bear, CD player and six CDs, set of colored pencils and sketchbook that she'd gotten for her sweet-sixteen birthday three months ago, pager with dead batteries, sewing kit with scissors, first-aid kit (out of her mother's Caddy's glove compartment), her ex-boyfriend Jerry’s antique Zippo pocket lighter and the postcard he'd sent her from Big Sur, her late daddy's pocketknife and his Navy dog tags, matches, flashlight, safety pins, mini photo album, charm bracelet, that coin purse she'd found, and her makeup bag with the usual girly necessities. And of course the stinky laundry: one pair of cutoffs, three wrinkled T-shirts, four changes of underwear, two sad-looking pairs of socks, four orange kerchiefs currently tied to form a halter top, and spare jeans that were getting a little loose. Everything else she'd thought to bring had been in the gym bag that some lowlife had ripped off when she'd turned her head at the last bus station. The peanut butter and crackers she'd taken from the pantry at home were long gone.
This sucked.
She had to be frugal. With Phil’s money and what she had left over from the tricks before him--minus the cost of the bus ticket and a bag of chips and a Coke at the station--she had two hundred and twenty-seven dollars.
Back when she'd baby-sat and mowed lawns, that would’ve seemed like a lot--a boatload of CDs and a handful of movie tickets. Now it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to get her to California. She couldn't handle the bus nonstop, even if she could afford it; her legs were already stiffening up from riding overnight. She'd have to find someone to ride along with, someone not quite as . . . eccentric . . . as Phil.
Across the street, an older woman wearing a gingham housedress was propping open the glass doors of a good-sized mom-and-pop grocery.
Camille hesitated at the entrance, fighting down pangs from her already-guilty conscience, but hunger urged her forward. She wouldn’t take much, only something to eat. "Shrinkage," they called it, and planned for it. The girls at home did worse during their initiations into the cool cliques, and they weren't hungry.
The scent of small-town store, a mixture of disinfectant and rotting produce, hit her in the face as she walked in. The place had an air of genteel shabbiness, but it was busy enough already. She wheeled a squeaking cart up and down the aisles, dropping things in at random.
In front of her a dad or older brother pushed young children in a cart as he consulted his list. It gave Camille a pang of nostalgia.
Since she’d run away--since the night her new stepfather, reeking of Irish whiskey, had stumbled into her unicorn-themed bedroom--her life had taken on a completely different shape. At the very moment when Jimmy Cline had launched himself onto her and the unthinkable began happening, she'd realized several truths. First, she couldn’t fight him; second, her mother would choose Viagra Boy over Camille anyway, as she'd made quite clear when Camille had tried to talk some sense into her so she wouldn't marry a man she'd just met through the Internet; third, if she went to Child Protective Services or told the school counselor, the family would ultimately end up demonizing Camille for "putting everyone through this," especially with her mother's fondness for claiming Camille was a pathological liar; and last and worst of all, that she couldn’t tolerate it even one more time. All at once she'd understood the meaning of the buzz-term "paradigm shift," because her own paradigm had damn well shifted into overdrive even before he'd rolled his bulk off her. After that, her eyes were like telescopes, seeing only what was far away from there.
She was learning to refocus on her new life.
By the dairy case, a middle-aged fashion plate stood behind a card table handing out coupons. On the table were sample goodies on toothpicks, lined up like dominoes. There were meatballs, cheese cubes, and pizza rolls. Next to that, two flavors of fruit drink were arranged in rows of tiny plastic communion cups.
Camille circled around and hit the table whenever there was a crowd to distract the hostess, managing three visits before getting busted.
The demonstrator's razor-thin eyebrows shot up across her furrow-plowed forehead. "Please limit yourself to one sample of each product, young lady." She cupped her hands over the samples of fruit drink, a sacred circle available only to potential paying customers. "Is there a particular product I may help you with?"
Camille grinned sheepishly, around a mouthful of meatballs. "Sorry. I missed breakfast, and"--she realized from the woman's expression that this was exactly the wrong tack, and switched gears--"and these are sooo deelish." She pointed at the display of jars on the endcap of the aisle behind the woman. "Is that the stuff you soaked them in?" As the demonstrator reflexively looked back, Camille grabbed two handfuls of cheese cubes.
"The marinade doesn't contain any picante sauce, no," the woman replied as she turned back. "If you like, I can give you the recipe." She held out a card, then frowned as she noticed the large hole in her formerly perfect display.
"Cool. I'll get Mom to make it this weekend. Thanks so much." Camille returned the woman's fake smile. Stuffing the recipe card into the pocket of her denim jacket atop the cheese, she hustled her basket away. In the dairy section, she helped herself to two pints of chocolate milk, putting one in the cart and opening the other to drink while she "shopped." Strolling through produce, she crunched down on a Granny Smith apple--apples went so well with cheese--as she loaded a few more into a plastic bag and settled it into her basket. One straggler made only a small bulge in the side of her jacket. She sampled a few Pick-And-Mix candies from a display, the wrappers and a few caramels going into her pocket. Feeling sure no one was watching, she palmed two full-sized chocolate bars and slipped them in behind, for later.
Nobody was taking any notice of her. Bold with confidence, she decided to take a chance on some smokes.
Nonchalantly she parked her basket in the longest checkout line. The cigarettes were protected by a plastic shield, but someone had already unlocked it. It was easy enough to slide it back with one hand and grab a couple of packs of the closest brand. As she curled her hand around them, she studied the headlines of the tabloids intently. Then she whirled to face the person behind her, pasting on an expression of sudden realization. "I forgot to get bread. You go ahead in front of me. I'll just leave my basket to one side, okay?"
"Sure." A pale older man wearing a Mickey Rat tie and pin-on hair nodded, happy to push his basket ahead of hers as she slid it out of the way.
"I'll be right back." Camille shot him her most beguiling little-girl smile as she wheeled and trotted down the closest aisle.
Almost home free. She doubled back through canned vegetables and headed for the exit. Only another few yards to daylight. Her foot had nearly touched the mat that activated the automatic door when she felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder.
"Haven't you forgotten something?" came a baritone voice behind her.
Camille stiffened reflexively at the uninvited touch. Hastily putting on an innocent, clueless-kid expression, she turned.
A store detective? Who'd've thought a rinky-dink place like this even had one?
He was actually semi-good looking. His chestnut hair was in the rumpled style that everybody on MTV currently wore, and his dark blue eyes were flecked with gold. He had a smooth complexion unmarred by scars or zits, and that touch of stubble was just enough to be sexy. He wore a flannel shirt and tight jeans, both of which showed bulges in all the right places. He sure didn't look like security to Camille, but in another sense of the word, he very much did.
"Okay, miss, you'll have to come with me." Before she could protest, he had her hands trapped behind her back, both wrists encircled in his long thin fingers. He led her up a half-flight of stairs to an office behind the customer service booth.
It was an airless little room with no other exits. A one-way picture window overlooked the store, perfect for undetected observation. He positioned her on the far side of a metal desk, kicked the door closed behind him, sat in a rickety swivel chair, and swung around so his back was to the door, almost all in one motion. His moves seemed choreographed, making her think of one of those Irish dancers. How many shoplifters did this dinky burg get? Maybe he'd rehearsed for hours just hoping to get a chance to try that out.
It was useless to try to make it past him and through the door. And she didn't feel like getting tackled, even by a good-looking guy, not unless it was for a different reason. She should've made a break for it the moment he challenged her, but he'd caught her off guard.
Shit! How had she screwed up so badly? She must still be logy and dull from sleeping on the damn bus. Well, now her guard was up big-time, and he wouldn't best her again.
His name tag said Dabney, no last name (unless that was his last name), and that he was grocery manager. Come on, a manager? He looked hardly older than she was. Probably around twenty, twenty-two. He crossed his arms and surveyed her. "What's your name, young lady? You can tell me while you empty your pockets onto the desk."
He wasn't going to frisk her. Silently she pulled the contents of her pockets out and tossed them onto the desktop.
She hated to reveal the netsuke. If only there were some way she could hold out. But if she did and he then checked, he'd know it was special, maybe even say it was stolen and confiscate it. Her only hope was the Purloined Letter tactic, hiding it in plain sight. She slid it out along with assorted pocket lint and pretended not to be worried as it clanked onto the desktop.
Glancing up at her periodically, Dabney spent a minute shuffling the candy bars, empty wrappers, and miscellaneous treasures around, evidently examining them to see which were the store's or what might be valuable. Camille kept quiet, mostly because she'd learned that sudden verbal outbursts were, in general, more damaging than silence. She got chills when he handled the dragon.
Her Choctaw blood--as well-concealed as it was by the peachy complexion and impish features she’d inherited from her Irish father--had spoken to her early this morning when she’d come across that "toy" dragon. Her hand had brushed it as she rifled Phil's pockets for small useful things he might not miss, and the power within it made itself known. It told her it was special. She knew it was a netsuke because her favorite teacher last year had let her do an extra-credit project on Japan.
The netsuke sat a little aside from the other items, as though it were a magnet repelled by the wrong pole of another. Dabney must've noticed her watching. He cupped his palm over it and caught her gaze, then half-smiled.
A thrill of anxiety ran down her spine. When it reached her butt, it turned around and scooted right back up to the roots of her hair. Her intuition screamed that Dabney most definitely should keep his hands off.
If he felt a prickle, he didn't let on. It was apparent, though, that he could see it was expensive, a collector's item. Like the stuff wealthy people kept in display cases. It probably wasn't a museum piece, but its soft patina suggested a minimum of handling by previous owners.
The netsuke was of a traditional Japanese subject, a dragon coiled around the sacred pearl of wisdom. The dragon was intricately carved, and its inlaid red glass eyes--maybe garnets, surely not rubies, even as small as they were--looked like expensive jewels. In the sunlight they'd seemed to have an inner glow, but under the flat fluorescents overhead, they were dull and dead. Still, the dragon's expression was cunning, not whimsical. Camille preferred not to look it directly in the eyes, which she admitted was silly, but it creeped her out a little if she stared at it very long.
Her stomach knotted up as he held her gaze. Any minute now, she figured he'd casually slip the curled dragon into his pocket. He could do anything while they were alone in here, then say she was mistaken or lying.
But he took his hand away without actually grasping the dragon. His smile broadened. "Can you tell me why you thought we were running a serve-yourself charity?"
The gift of blarney that had smoothed her way forever failed her for the first time in a long time. "Samples are supposed to be free." It came out a sulky mumble.
"But this ain't about the samples, is it? You know these candy bars ain't samples. The cigarettes, neither." He paused a second, not long enough to give Camille a chance to talk. "You don't even look old enough to be legally buying cigarettes. But I'll give you a break. If you'll let me call your parents, I can let you off with a warning and an admonition not to come back into this store for two years."
Parents! Despite the makeup, people always thought she was about fourteen. It had to be because she was so short--an inch and a half too tall to qualify for the Little People of America--although the wispy blonde hair in the pixie cut and a certain Audrey Hepburn-ish gamine quality didn't help. How could she make people understand that not only was she too old to need parents, but also that the ones she had were not her advocates? Obviously, they were all better off without one another. And foster care, she'd heard, could be as bad or worse.
An admonition--whatever that was; he said it like he was sounding it out as he read in front of the class--was fine with her. Except for the calling her mother part, which wasn't happening.
She wasn't going back.
Still, there was no use reasoning with this guy. People had their own ideas. The more she said, the more ammunition he'd have, and the more likely that some chance remark would get her into trouble.
Lucky he hadn't patted her down, or else he might've found one of her picture IDs. She kept two sewn in the inside back hem of the denim jacket, accessible by a hidden snap. Used to be three, until she'd had to bail on an ID situation that went bad. Just as well that one was gone, because she never could remember to answer to the name "Judy Simmons." She'd gotten the IDs done back in junior high, for going to bars with her friends, but she still looked pretty much like the pictures. Except maybe for the hair. And the breasts. And the makeup: she didn't wear that much any more.
These days she tried to avoid situations where she'd be forced to show an ID. It was always best to remain just another non-face in the crowd.
Her silence seemed to bother ol' Dab. His face took on a look of consternation.
"Are you a runaway?" Dabney's gaze ran up and down her, taking in the mended green T-shirt, worn denim, and backpack. "Your parents must be worried sick."
Her "parents" were sick, all right, but they weren't worried. She restrained herself from vocalizing the thought.
His hazel gaze put hers on lockdown. She tried not to look defiant, but it was tough, because his eyes also held a challenge, and she could never resist that. After waiting a few moments for a response, he said, "I'm going to ask you one last time for your name."
Camille still didn't know whether to tell him one of her aliases, make something else up, or what. She took a breath, but it came right back out as a noise of exasperation. "Why do you need it? Don't you have one of your own?" That had popped out unedited, and it didn't sound witty the way she'd expected, just nasty.
Dabney matched her sigh and swept her stuff off the desk into a plastic grocery sack. "OK, have it your way. According to our policy, now I have to call the police."
Her heart sped up. She didn't need a police record--even a juvie, a juvenile record. Fighting down panic and nausea, she managed to put on an expression of complete disdain. "Surely that won't be necessary over a couple of candy bars and an apple. It's all right here on the desk, so the store really hasn't lost anything. And the two-year ban is a done deal. You can be damn sure I won't ever come back."
He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Don't you feel bad about what you've done?"
She shrugged. She couldn't even bring herself to lie with her body language, though it might help her case.
Okay, sure, she felt bad about having been caught, but did she really feel all that guilty? Not the way she would've last year. When her daddy was killed, it had killed something inside her. At first people told her "time will heal," but as the distance grew, the whatever-she'd-been didn't regenerate. It was easier, she found, to stay numb than to fight the pain. By now, she didn't want to re-awaken.
At that church her mother had insisted on joining, the Sunday school crowd used to admonish her to put on the armor of God. But she was still angry at God for taking her daddy. She'd found it possible instead to put on the armor of not giving a crap.
# # #
Saying he had to call the heat had been a tactical error on Dabney's part, Camille mused as she waited cross-armed in the airless office. If he'd really wanted to know her name, he'd have said he wouldn't call the cops if she'd tell. And if he'd felt like negotiating, he could've easily taken advantage of her while they were in the office alone. Forgetting for the moment, of course, that one couldn't "take advantage of" the willing. Either she didn't appeal to him, or he seriously thought she was jailbait. Or he was one of those rule-mongers with a stick up his butt who wouldn't think of stepping on a crack because it was Against Our Policy. Well, he wasn't that cute. His loss.
She counted to a hundred after his footsteps faded away, then inspected the office. There were no video cameras in here that she could see. She rattled the doorknob, but he'd locked her in.
Damnation. If these small-town beacons of morality decided to put a scare into her, especially if her clueless female parent had put her on some list of missing minors, she might need to be bailed out. Maybe she could get Philip to rescue her in exchange for the return of his luckpiece. Her gaze fell on an ancient black dial phone that sat sulking on the desk.
Philip Powers was basically a stranger, a lonely older man who'd wanted a temporary travel companion for solace; he'd been a trick, not a friend, and she shouldn't have traveled as far with him as she had. It had been nice for a few days to sleep all night in a motel in a real bed, not in a shelter or on the street. But he hadn't seemed in any hurry to go west, although he said he was headed to California just like she was, and had even headed into Louisiana on a costly detour.
She'd known it was time to move on. Besides, Phil hadn't fed her much, saying she should watch her weight, though she suspected he was simply economizing on food. So she sneaked away as he slept because she hadn't known how else to leave; she took her money from his wallet, which was only fair, plus a little more to get the bus ticket. And, of course, the keepsake, because at heart she liked him. She'd started doing that with some of the guys, without really knowing why.
She didn't consider it stealing, not really. She wasn't into taking just anything, picking up "screwvenirs," as the more crass of the street girls called it, and she didn't take things that'd be of high value and easy to hock. It was a form of commemoration or remembrance, a "bedpost notch" on some spiritual level she didn't want to examine closely enough to put into words.
In fact, since she'd been on the streets, she'd found it way simpler just to do things as they occurred to her and not think all the time, not analyze stuff so much. They'd taught the "value" of deep thinking in school, but so far it hadn't served her well on the street. She'd leave the analysis to brainheads like her stepfather. Of course, Jimmy Cline only imagined himself a genius. He was more like an accidental collection of spinal cord reflexes connected to a pull-string that could say a few stock phrases. Like a talking action figure, some old GI Joe.
Philip's cell phone number itched inside her fingers. Even though he might've already missed his little trinket and could be none too happy with her, she picked up the receiver.
No dialtone. Crap! No wonder Dabney'd had to go fetch instead of simply calling. She'd hoped he was just faking her out and would return alone with a different kind of offer for her freedom.
He'd been gone awhile, and nobody seemed to be keeping tabs on her. She ought to check the desk for cash. She moved around to the kneehole to examine possibilities.
Just as she was about to start jerking open desk drawers, the office door opened. Dabney was back, with a real cop in tow. A skinny young officer with buck teeth and greasy hair who, without even discussing the charges against her, immediately took charge of her. She read his plastic name tag as he got closer: Grady Post.
Grinning, Officer Post drawled, "I won't handcuff yew if y'won't give me no trouble, little lady."
"I won't, I promise." She made rounded little-girl-innocent eyes. During her short time on the streets, she'd confirmed that some guys let down their guard when they thought you were a stupid kid. Sometimes it was good to look a little young.
A clipboard hung from his belt by a chain. He pulled it up and took a look at the front page. "Need to fill out the paperwork first. Got any ID?"
Before she could react, Dabney reached into the grocery bag on his arm, pulled out a plastic card, and handed it to the cop.
She'd completely forgotten about that library card. Apparently, Dabney had found it in that cheap vinyl change purse. Of course, it wasn't hers. She'd found it on the bus, stuck down between the seats. She'd intended to track down Pauline Schwendinger somehow and return the purse, although she'd been forced to use a couple of the quarters here and there. But of course a library card wasn't like a credit card, so she hadn't worried about finding the woman right away.
Well, she hadn't lied to them. They'd made a mistake in identifying her, and she simply didn't bother to pipe up and correct them. A subtle distinction, but a distinction.
Dabney passed the grocery bag containing the contents of Camille's pockets to the policeman. "Shall we go?" he asked her, offering his arm as though they were about to descend the spiral staircase into the grand ballroom. The cop could apparently write as he walked.
Solemnly the two men escorted her through the store, as if they were the lost scout patrol. She suspected Dabney deliberately paraded her past every customer on the roundabout route he took to the front, but she decided that might be her imagination. "Good luck," he said offhandedly as the cop led her to the cruiser at the front curb. At least she thought he'd directed the sentiment at her.
The cop put her in the front passenger seat, which Camille knew they sometimes did when they flew solo. He held her head down as she ducked to get into the car, and he kept his hand there just a bit too long; then he started sliding it softly down her neck, all the way down to her bra hooks. Could a person, purely by accident, pop her bra?
He also brushed her breasts harder than necessary as he reached across in front and buckled her up. "Sorry to have to take you in," he said, "but if they wave us over, we've got to take them seriously. Otherwise we wouldn't get any more doughnuts, now, would we?"
She smiled. "No hard feelings. You're just doing your job."
"Ought to have just let you go with a warning. Wasn't no use making such a big deal out of it, you ask me. But then nobody axed me."
He tossed the sack of personal possessions across her into his seat and walked around to his side. While he was occupied, she slid her hand into the bag. Her fingers closed around the dragon. She'd have liked to retrieve her pocket knife, too, but Dudley Do-Right already had his hand on the door handle when she glanced up. She snatched her hand away and stuffed it into her back pocket along with the dragon. She pretended she was scratching an itch on her butt as he climbed into the car.
He swung his bony legs inside and leered over at her. As he started the cruiser, the radio came to life. He checked in with the dispatcher and made more notes on his clipboard. The radio talked to him a couple more times, mostly with static and a distorted voice reciting numbers, but apparently nothing that he needed to respond to.
He got on the highway going the wrong direction. She was sure he was headed straight out of town. After a couple of minutes, she decided that the danger of pointing out an error was outweighed by the possibility of ending up getting dragged along on his next call, to something terrifying like a lockdown at the high school. "I thought I saw the station house on the town square."
"We're bound for county sheriff's headquarters." He grinned into the rear view and kept driving.
Camille clamped her mouth closed on a dozen questions. She got the feeling he was going to make a move on her. It was always best to beat them to it. After all, she understood the rules of the road; the price of a ride on a Big Rig was usually "grass, gas, or ass."
About a mile down the two-lane highway, when the strip malls stopped and fields lined both sides of the road, Camille made her play. "I guess there's no chance we could work something out here, is there? I mean, since you don't really feel I ought to have been taken into custody, and frankly, neither do I. Maybe if you felt inclined, we could take care of this and have a little fun to boot. I know how to treat a fellow right."
The young patrolman's buck teeth displayed brightly as his bony face split into a grin. "And now just what might that mean, little lady?"
She smiled back. "You look like a smart fella. I think you can figure it out."
He pulled over, sending a shower of gravel under the tires. Wedging the cop car between two trees, he set his radar gun on the windowsill, as if he were setting up a casual speed trap. Without saying anything more, he unzipped and pushed her head down. He stank like old sweat socks and grime. And cheap, expired Roquefort.
Lucky thing she'd bought all those "thumb" lollipops to practice on.
Afterward, as she straightened up and reached for a tissue out of a box on the cluttered dashboard, he giggled. "Buckle up again. They'll be wondering why I ain't checked in, and we're overdue at the sheriff's."
"What?" Camille clutched the tissue in her fist. She dabbed at her face, feeling it heating up even more than it already had. "I thought . . . I mean." She felt a wave of nausea, but it was only partly because of his general grossness. "That wasn't the agreement. I thought we had a bargain here."
He grinned like Bucky the Bastardly Beaver. "I didn't exactly say that, now, did I?"
Anger welled up in her along with the tears. "You knew that was the deal. You had to know."
"Can't help you now." He shrugged, adjusting the rear view mirror. "Your paperwork's already started, and these forms are numbered in order. I can't just tear one up, now can I?" Turning to her, he winked. "I've seen prisoners cry no telling how many times, so it's not going to do you any good. You may as well settle down and handle it like the grown-up woman you've just proven you are. Red eyes ain't becoming to nobody. You don't want your mug shot to be unflattering." He started the car, still grinning as he tucked himself back in with his free hand.
With supreme effort, she controlled herself rather than engaging him in further pointless conversation. She wished she'd pulled a Garp and bitten it off, only that would have been too disgusting. Was there still time to do something to hurt him? He deserved it. The hand of justice, indeed. If there were any justice, he'd be struck by a bolt from above.
He was heading back into town. So he had hoped for an interlude with her in the first place. And now he was hauling her back to the pig vault. That was doubly infuriating.
She became aware of a different pain in the ass--actually, a pain in her back pocket. And that one wasn't just metaphorical. What the hell? She must've sat back down on something, maybe part of the seat belt, or it could be some of the loose crap he had floating around in this junkhole. He ought to clean out this car. She readjusted her butt, but got no relief.
"Ants in your pants? Or maybe you're just horny after that performance." He laughed. "Get that seat belt on, now, or I'll have to cuff you."
As she reached for the shoulder harness, the spot on her butt heated up even more. She pressed her buttock gently against the seat, as casually as she could, and suddenly realized the source had to be the netsuke. She felt its branding-iron imprint on her skin.
Unable to stand it any longer, she reached around to grab the spot. The dragon had heated up like a firecracker. She didn't need it literally blistering her butt. As soon as her hand got near it, it seemed to jump to her palm, as if magnetized. It flowed into the shape of the inside of her fist, yet without softening. The dragon instantly suctioned onto her flesh, but wasn't burning her.
Seemingly realizing she was up to something, Grady grabbed for her wrists. "Oh, no, you don't." He seemed to think she was going for a weapon. If only she had one. She balled both hands into fists so he wouldn't guess as easily which one he ought to pry open.
It took him only a second to pull onto the shoulder. He circled her wrists in one of his meaty paws and started getting his cuffs off his belt with the other hand. "We'll have to do things the hard way."
She'd never had claustrophobia, but the thought of her wrists being confined panicked her. She couldn't stand to have her hands tied. Plus, the dragon was warming up again, so she needed to drop it into her pack or purse where he couldn't get at it. Preferably before it burned her hand. That thought gave her a rush of strength.
She flailed at him and kicked, connecting with his kneecap with a satisfying crack. He screwed up his face and turned redder, jerking at the cuffs, which seemed to be stuck on his belt.
They struggled, tossing each other back and forth in the seat. He was a lot stronger, and even with the boost she got from sheer adrenaline, he was winning. She jerked her head away, but he used his elbow to bash her face into the dashboard. Her right cheek caught the brunt of the blow. Anger shot through her like a million comets, and her hipbone burned with their fire.
Her left hand suddenly pulled free. Her fist came up like a shield. She brandished it at him. "Drop dead, you bastard," she shouted, pain searing her cheekbone.
He made a sound that at first seemed like a laugh, but quickly turned guttural. Twisting, he gave her a look of absolute incredulity as his grip loosened. She caught her breath as she watched the folding of space around him, a blue haze surrounding his body like one of those auras that her cousin used to claim she could see around every living thing. It seemed he might pop out of 3-D space like a paper doll off the page. Impossible as it was, she halfway expected him to disappear or disintegrate into a cloud of orange dust.
Then everything stopped.
Time shimmered and froze; she experienced the scent of magnolias and the taste of oysters, but seemingly with the wrong senses. It was as if she had synaesthesia: her sensory inputs passed through crossed cables and caused reactions from the sense organs not usually associated with them, and her mental wires twisted and sparked. She heard a flash of blue sparkles and saw a thunderclap, though the sky was clear.
After an undefined interval of not-time, reality came back. She could almost feel the jerk as time started to flow again, like when the film catches on the sprockets and the movie goes forward. The accompanying sense of unreality abruptly lifted, leaving her clammy and damp with perspiration. Her heart hammered like a frenzied construction worker. She blinked a couple of times to make sure everything was back, including herself.
Grady was slumped in the seat, his expression broadcasting his confusion. He released her wrists, his hands dropping into his lap as his head rolled forward. Suddenly limp, he fell forward over the wheel.
# # #
To wish someone dead and then suddenly have it come true was a damned scary experience.
He couldn't be dead. Just as she reached over to poke him, though, he began tumbling sideways, head lolling. Hastily she propped him up so his gun wouldn't go off or something. Touching him was creeping her out. Her head pounded as her heartbeat raced. He seemed totally inert, like a bag of sand. Or a worn-out Beanie Baby.
Had she caused this? What had she done? More to the point, how had she done it?
She opened her left hand. The dragon's eyes winked in the sun, then faded, so quickly she couldn't be certain she hadn't imagined it. It was cool to the touch. Before she had time to think too much about it, she stuffed it back into her pocket.
She checked for a pulse on his neck the way doctors did on TV shows. When she wasn't sure she felt anything more than her own finger throbbing, she tried the breath-in-the-mirror trick using a round powder compact she'd noticed loose on the dash--his girlfriend's, or some other deal-making female's. Feeling panic rise in her chest again, she watched the surface of the mirror. A hint of steam fogged the glass and she could get her breath.
She'd really freaked for a second there. He'd merely passed out. Maybe he'd touched the radar gun with the cuffs and shocked himself senseless. Yeah, that had to be it. Although she'd never heard of anyone being electrocuted that way. Plus, she hadn't felt a thing, and she'd always heard that anyone who touched somebody who fell on a live wire would bring the charge over to themselves.
He'd probably wake up soon on his own, or so she hoped, because she had no first-aid training and no idea what to try. Besides, she needed to get out of there. Her stomach was in knots. Without really thinking about it, she stuck the mirror in her pocket as a souvenir and wiped the dash with the tail of her T-shirt.
Her cheek smarted. Still, she didn't think she was seriously hurt. The blistered area on her tailbone felt slightly numb, but she didn't figure there was anything to worry about. But the quaking and rumbling in her stomach that seemed determined to keep spreading up into her throat might be.
This had never happened. She'd just get her stuff and bail out. Snatching the bag from a spot near his feet, she rummaged in it for her kerchief top. She wrapped the cloth around her hand. Anywhere that she thought she might've touched, including his shiny-cheap belt buckle, she quickly wiped down.
Once she'd scuffed up her prints, she managed to get hold of the release on his side that opened the passenger door. No way could she clamber over him out the driver's side. The car didn't have one of those vidcams like in the big cities, at least not one she could identify, thank goodness. Fiddling with the release, she finally heard the lock click open.
Her legs trembled as she staggered onto the asphalt. Shaking and quivering, she threw up just outside the car.
His radio woke up, emitting a burst of muffled talk riddled with numeric codes that she couldn't understand. They could be calling him. Since he couldn't answer, they'd get very interested, very quickly.
The road was deserted; not a truck had passed by that she'd noticed. The patrol car shielded her from the road. That still didn't make her safe.
Shivering, Camille started running parallel to the highway, desperate to hitch anywhere.
