Collide Read online

  Collide

  By Alyson Kent

  Copyright 2013 Alyson Kent

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover designed and illustrated by Tomoka Murakami

  Cover copyright Tomoka Murakami and Alyson Kent and may not be removed, reused, or altered in any way

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  About the Author

  About the Artist

  Chapter One

  I ripped out a clump of grass from my mother’s garden and muttered a word that I had heard my Dad yell at the TV whenever his baseball team was losing. I knew that if Mom heard me say that word it would mean a trip to the bathroom to have my mouth washed out with soap, but at that point I was beyond caring. The prevailing thought in my brain was that life was extremely unfair. Deep musings for a seven year old, but I had been banished to Mom’s garden through no fault of my own. How was I to know that my twin brothers, two years old and still walking into walls, were tall enough to reach the seat of the chair where I had set my Easter basket?

  Two large chocolate eggs, a chocolate bunny, and a bunch of jellybeans later and my brothers had thrown up all over the floor, the chairs and themselves. I was grossed out. Mom was really, really angry and sent me outside with a light swat to my butt and an order to pull grass from her garden, something that I hated to do because I could never seem to get all of the roots out without digging deep into the dirt, and you just never knew when you might run across a large, slimy, icky worm.

  I sniffled and threw the clump I had just pulled up over my shoulder and into the yard.

  “Stupid brothers. Stupid chocolate. They ate all mine, and I won’t get any now. It’s all their fault.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  I looked up from where I had been muttering at a very stubborn clump of grass to see my best friend, Maria, smiling at me.

  “Weeding,” I said, and told her what had happened with my brothers.

  “Well, that’s stupid,” Maria said when I was done spilling my woe. “You didn’t make them eat the chocolate.”

  “Right!” I agreed as I finally yanked the grass free and tossed it.

  “Oh no, Jane!” Maria cried as she ran to pick up the grass I had just thrown. “Don’t treat it so badly, it’s not the grass’ fault that it’s in your mom’s garden.”

  “Huh?” I asked and looked at her. She was cradling the clump of grass, dirt and all, in her hands as if she were holding a bird’s egg or something equally breakable.

  “It’s mean to just throw the grass away because it was in the wrong place! I’ll help you pull them out, but we’re going to take it into the forest and replant them so that they can grow and feed the animals.”

  I nodded and smiled; willing to promise Maria what little was left of my Easter basket if only to get her help in the garden. She crouched down and began to pull up some of the other clumps. I watched her and carefully set my own batches down the way she did so that I wouldn’t “hurt the roots”. Soon we had pulled out all of the grass, and I followed Maria into the shade of the trees, where she proceeded to dig holes and showed me how she wanted the grass placed. Once we were done, she stood back and grinned at me.

  “Now the deer won’t go hungry in the winter!”

  I smiled back and nodded, my reply drowned out by a strange, annoying beeping.

  Thud. Groan.

  Why, oh why do alarm clocks have to be so obnoxiously loud in the mornings? Why can’t they sound like, oh, I don’t know, butterflies frolicking in meadow breezes? Though I guess that would defeat the purpose of an alarm clock in the first place, since I highly doubt frolicking butterflies make any sound what so ever. Still, it was a pleasant thought and I resolved to mention it the next time someone was looking for the next “big idea”. In my considerable opinion, whoever thought it was a good idea for alarm clocks to sound like screeching blue jays needed to be taken out into the street and shot.

  I dragged my comforter up over my head and curled into a tight ball, reluctant to leave my comfy nest and face another day in a world gone mad. I drifted lightly on the wings of sleep as my dream of a time when life was much simpler, back before everything changed and flew down the toilette bowl faster than you could hit the flush peddle, floated through my mind.

  Beep beep beep beep beep! Thud.

  “JANE ALEXANDER!” my mother shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “IF I HEAR THAT ALARM CLOCK GO OFF ONE MORE TIME I’M COMING UP THERE AND DRAGGING YOU OUT OF THE BED!”

  I sighed and sat up. A shudder wracked my body as cold air hit skin exposed by the thin tank top that I preferred to sleep in. You’d think that because I slept on the top floor of the house that my room would be a sauna due to the whole hot air rises/cold air falls rule, but no, our house was a converted church that we had moved into eight years ago, and while it was extremely cool that we still had some of the original stained glass windows and that the ceilings in the main rooms were arched with a few of the original light fixtures still in place, it also sucked because the entire building was made out of some kind of concrete or stone, and thus there was no insulation. It wasn’t so bad in the summer when the thickness of the walls kept the inside at a comfortable temperature, but it was hell in the winter, especially since we have hardwood floors. Sure, there are rugs, but you can only cover so much space with them and I was only allowed to have one small space heater because, according to Mom, any more than that would constitute a fire hazard. I once suggested that we buy tapestries to at least cover up my bedroom walls and help insulate against the cold, but she nixed that idea faster than my brothers could down a stack of pancakes.

  I suppose it would have been smarter to stop sleeping in a tank top and boxer shorts considering the house was so frosty, but I loved the feeling of the flannel sheets against my skin, and I had enough blankets and two down comforters that it was only when I had to physically get out of bed that I had a problem.

  I knew that my mother would follow through with her threat since I was still very much out of her favor, so I quickly turned my alarm off, sucked in a breath of chilly air to fortify myself, and vaulted towards my bathroom. This was another reason why I slept in what could be considered our attic; I was one of the few girls who could boast about having a bathroom all to herself, which meant I didn’t have to share it with my two younger brothers who lived on the floor below me. This was a major god send for mornings like this one, because if I had been required to stand outside for any length of time to wait for my turn at the shower, heads would have rolled if I hadn’t turned into a popsicle first. As it was, waiting was a non-issue, and I gave thanks, yet again, that I had been smart enough to insist on this room when we had first moved from across town when I was nine. To be honest, at that time I think the real reason I wanted the top floor room had more to do with my love of Rapunzel than a desire for my
own bathroom. Still, it worked out in the long run.

  I hit the tiles and shut the door behind me with a sigh, then quickly stripped out of my sleeping attire and turned on the shower full blast. I dove under the hot spray and let it chase away the last of the lingering chill and sleep fog from my brain as I quickly soaped up and rinsed off. I shivered slightly at the sudden temperature change when I stepped out from behind the curtain, but it wasn’t near as severe as when I first got out of bed, and I toweled off quickly before I started to get dressed.

  It wasn’t until after I fastened my bra that I lifted my eyes and gazed at my reflection. I winced a little at the bruising that still marred some of my chest. A result of one of my less than stellar decisions, they had once been a lurid black and purple, but the damage had faded into a sickly yellowish/green color that was still very tender to the touch. Even though they were healing, they were a stark reminder of my extreme level of stupidity and I quickly grabbed the T-shirt that was going to be the bottommost layer for the school day and hid them from view.

  I sighed and worked especially hard to conceal the dark bruising under my eyes that spoke of nights of little to no sleep with make-up tricks I had learned from Youtube. I ignored the fact that they made a total lie out of my belief that I was handling things rationally. Worry about one thing at a time, I told myself and looked back at my reflection. I knew I was considered pretty, and I enjoyed moderate popularity at school, but recent happenings had marred and distorted things, and for a moment all I saw was a leering, sweaty face with dough like hands that reached for me.

  I shuddered and broke away from memories best left unpoked, and finished piling on the layers that were appropriate for this time of year. Once fall starts to hint of its arrival, the North Carolina Mountains exhibit a weird sort of bipolar disorder that made life hard for all involved. The days would warm up to the point where almost everyone would strip down to T-shirts or tank tops (provided that they fit in with the dress code at school) but the nights would occasionally dip down below freezing, making sweaters and sweatshirts necessary. You quickly learned how to layer your clothing in such a fashion that you could change easily without causing a fuss and still have the heavier garments on hand as needed.

  I yawned as I made my way down the stairs, dodging to the left when several thumps and a clatter alerted me to the fact that my brothers were stampeding their way towards the kitchen. I entered shortly after them and took a deep breath, drawing the scent of eggs, bacon and coffee deep into my lungs.

  “Morning,” I greeted everyone as I made my way to the coffee pot. Mumbles from my brothers matched my greeting as I poured myself a cup of the thick, black brew that I quickly doctored to my liking. I grabbed a piece of toast and some eggs, then sat at the table and nibbled while my brothers dove into their breakfasts. They resembled a pair of pigs instead of a pair of humans as they shoveled food into their mouths, and I made a face when a wad of scrambled eggs slid off one fork and plopped onto the table with a wet squelch.

  “Seriously, boys,” Mom said and lightly rapped both of them on the head as she made her way to her chair, “I know you have better manners than that!”

  “Yes’m,” the two muttered. They scowled, but slowed down their eating per Mom’s unvoiced, but heavily implied, request. I knew it wouldn’t take them long to start off again, though. Being twelve years old, and twins to boot, the boys were almost always involved in something that annoyed Mom, whether it was running around and getting dirty or acting like heathens at the table.

  I looked around and furrowed my eyebrows when I noticed the lack of a laptop, and gave Mom a curious look.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He had a meeting this morning. He said he’d try to Skype later, but I don’t know what time that will be.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. Dad was the curator for the local museum that illustrated the history of the town, and every now and then he has to take off for some conferences and classes given by experts in the various fields relating to conservation of rare artifacts, usually books and old maps. It wasn’t often, maybe once or twice a year, but whenever he spent any significant amount of time out of town he always tried to make sure to Skype with the family during one meal, usually breakfast (which would make for some interesting times for him considering different time zones) so that it didn’t disrupt the family routine too much and he was able to keep abreast of things.

  Turned out to be a good thing that the laptop wasn’t in the kitchen, because a minor war broke out amongst my brothers about what tasted best on eggs, ketchup or Tabasco sauce, and it took Mom standing over them with a Look of Doom upon her face to get them to stop trying to shove their personal choice upon each other and myself. Unfortunately, she was unable to save the table and by the time she had subdued them the extreme amounts of red made it look like they had dismembered a small pig for breakfast.

  They finished up the rest of their food quickly and tore off to grab their book bags while I cleaned up the mess. I decided that I was going to swear off ketchup and Tabasco sauce for the rest of my life as I mopped up red, red, and yet more red. Mom had pulled out the newspaper and was glancing through it, but gave me a sharp, extremely pointed look when I finished and headed towards the door.

  “You’re coming straight home from school today,” she said.

  I fought the urge to stiffen and scowl as I gathered up my purse, checked my phone quickly to see if I had missed any texts and grabbed my car keys from their hook by the door.

  “I can’t, Mom,” I said. “I have to work this evening, remember? I’m doing close down tonight.”

  Mom’s face darkened a little, and despite my best effort my shoulders tensed. “Someone else needs to take over close down duties, I only want you working on the weekends until further notice.”

  “We’ve been over this, Mom, there is no one else because Mr. Baker is a miser and refuses to hire more help,” I argued. “I asked him about hiring someone else to help out and give him more time off, but he looked at me like I had suggested that he cut off his own leg. The man hates to part with his money.”

  Mom’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to retort but before she could say anything the twins barreled back into the kitchen, book bags in place and danced from foot to foot as they demanded that we leave, and leave NOW before they were late for school.

  “I’ll be calling the store,” Mom warned as I ushered the boys out the door, very thankful for their general chatter because it meant I could sigh without being heard. Mom meant what she said, she was going to call the store later that evening to make sure that I was where I said I was going to be. Ever since they cut back the hours at the library where she was Head of Acquisitions, she had been looking for ways to keep herself busy, and after my latest mess up I was providing that service.

  I piled the boys into the backseat of the old Honda Accord that I had inherited from my dad on my sixteenth birthday and made sure they were safely buckled in before I carefully backed out of our driveway onto the curvy mountain road that we lived off of. I told myself that I had no right to resent Mom for checking up on me; it was, after all, my own fault that she could no longer trust me.

  Instead I tried to focus my attention on the glory of the Blue Ridge Mountains. They were slowly being cloaked in their fall colors of burnished gold, brilliant reds and fiery oranges as the seasons changed. The sun was just peeking over the horizon as I carefully navigated the turns, and the mists and clouds were tinged with a soft, lavender light that gave everything an almost mystical glow. If I rolled down the window just a bit I knew that I would breath in clean, crisp air that carried a hint of the apples that were ripening in the orchids along with a faint, biting tinge of winter, but it was too cold to do so. Instead, I contented myself with a glance out of the passenger window when we hit an area where the trees opened up to the splendor that surrounded us. I thought now, as I had many times before, that it was no wonder people found the mountains to be a sour
ce of inspiration and peace, for I could feel my own emotions settle in the strengthening light.

  I glanced briefly into the rear view mirror at my brothers; identical in every way except for the way they wore their hair. Chad favored a spiky, more modern haircut, while Kelly tended to leave his auburn locks shaggy and long, a fact that made Mom despair whenever it was time for a haircut. I was struck again by how much they resembled Dad, and while their faces still had the rounded cheeks and chins of the really young, I could see faint hints of Dad’s strong jaw line and rugged good looks. I didn’t envy the girls when these two discovered them, because they didn’t stand a chance against Dad’s looks and Mom’s eyes.

  I returned my attention to the road. My major mistake three weeks ago had affected my brothers just as much as it affected me, a fact that they resented greatly, but did their best to curtail because they didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Mom’s ire, either. Still, it was my fault that they had to ride with me to school every morning instead of riding with their friend Ryder from down the road, and their disappointment hung heavy in the air despite the small favor of their not giving voice to the emotion.

  And they were small favors, and probably ones that I didn’t deserve. It really wasn’t fair that my brothers were being punished right alongside me, but I guess Mom figured it was the best way to keep me out of trouble to and from school, though on days like today, when I have to perform the close down duties for the small bookstore I work for, the boys get a little bit of a break from babysitting their big sister. Besides, they have their own sports and such that they play, both loving soccer and rapidly becoming their team’s most valuable players. So really, it was more the mornings that were a chore to them than the afternoons, but they still resented having to ride with me, and I resented having to take an extra thirty minutes out of my morning to get them to their school. That was thirty minutes of potential sleeping time that was wasted.