Lovin Los Libros - Review
Book Nerds Anonymous - Interview and Review
GOOD Excerpt
Chapter 1 - angel on the highway
They couldn’t pick a busier road? Let’s just broadcast to the world what pathetic criminals we are.
I was out on Highway 28 dressed in my juvie garb
finest—orange jumpsuit with bright yellow vest—walking along the shoulder
picking up garbage tossed out of the car windows of other lawbreakers. I’d been
assigned to a community service-based juvenile detention center. I guess I
wasn’t hardcore enough to make it into the locked-down facilities. And I should
have counted myself lucky: I actually got to leave the building on work
assignments.
Yeah . . . whatever.
I was freaking embarrassed. I was embarrassed every time they dumped me on the
side of some road to pick up trash. My long blond hair was pulled up in a
required ponytail highlighting flushed cheeks that turned a darker shade of red
when a truck passed by slowly, honking obnoxiously, its passengers hanging out
of the windows yelling at me.
“Cadence!” one shouted. “Nice outfit!”
I looked down at my jumpsuit. It was unflattering, clinging
to my petite body like a baby onesie, but I could get over that. What I
couldn’t get over was the hideous color that washed out my fair skin.
“Do not respond,”
Officer Clements ordered.
“I wasn’t going to,” I mumbled, stabbing a Styrofoam cup
with my trash stick.
“What was that?” Officer Clements asked, towering over me.
“Nothing, ma’am,” I replied, and continued my work. Just one more month, I thought, walking
and jabbing, walking and jabbing.
I didn’t realize I had walked and jabbed my way down the
road next to a car parked on the side, hoisted up on a jack. It was an old
black Volkswagen, its owner a young man bent over changing a flat tire. Trash was
littered about his work area, and I wasn’t sure if I should pick it up. But he
seemed so wholly concentrated on screwing in the bolts that I was positive he’d
take no notice of me.
I speared a burger wrapper near the back of the tire, and
his face shot up.
My immediate reaction was to turn and run. I was afraid. I
remembered a discussion in youth group a while back about angels and how every
time they’re mentioned in the Bible, the first thing they say is, “Do not be
afraid.” My youth pastor said that this was because angels were scary looking—eyes
all over their bodies and under their wings. First of all, how did he know what
an angel looked like? And second, why would God make his angels look like a
bunch of freaks?
No. I didn’t think angels looked like that at all. I thought
they looked like perfect symmetry, and that’s what scared the hell out of
people. A form too beautiful to look upon. Like this young man bent over his
tire, staring at my orange jumpsuit and trash stick, wondering what a little
girl like me could have done to land in juvenile hall. Because I was little,
after all. I stood at 5-foot-2 and weighed 100 pounds.
“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” he said, wiping his
brow with the back of his hand.
I nodded and watched him finish tightening the bolts, then
stand and stretch his back. He wore the male version of skinny jeans and a
black T-shirt that read “Midnight in a Perfect World” across the front in stark
white letters. He sported red Converse All Stars, and a bunch of braided bands
of various colors were wrapped around his left wrist. His black wavy hair stuck
out in all directions, and I couldn’t tell if it was by nature’s blessing or hair
product. I hoped it was natural. I didn’t want to think he spent a lot of time
styling his hair.
He smiled at me, revealing soft dimples on both cheeks. I
smiled back. His eyes were light. Good combination, I thought. Dark hair, light
eyes. He was sexy. No doubt about that. Tall and lean. He looked like an
intellectual. I figured he was some scholarly Emory University boy. Probably a
philosophy major, I thought, smirking. I imagined he sat around chatting about
existentialism with his hipster friends in some dive coffee shop (never
Starbucks) sipping cappuccinos.
I giggled.
He stood at the trunk of his car putting away his tools and
turned around when he heard me.
“What’s funny?” he asked. The smile still lingered on his
mouth. “Did I split my pants or something?” He strained his head to look behind
him at the butt of his jeans.
I laughed harder. “No. You didn’t split your pants.” I tried
not to look at his butt.
“Phew!” he replied. “You know, I’ve done that in the past.
Squatted on the ground to change a tire, and rip! Right down the middle. I
happened to be on a date at the time.”
“No!” I cried, feeling just the slightest bit sorry for this
stranger.
“Well, the date was on shaky ground once the tire popped.
The pants-splitting sealed the deal, though. I guess she equated both of those
things with ‘loser’ or ‘no money’,” he said.
“That’s awful,” I replied.
“Atlanta women are tough,” he went on, leaning against the
trunk of his car. He looked me over and grinned.
“No, I’m not tough,” I replied to his unspoken question.
“Don’t let the jumpsuit fool you.”
He shook his head. “What in God’s name could a little thing
like you have done to wind up in juvie?”
I tensed. His demeanor. The way he talked to me. Like he’d
known me for years. And he used “little thing” like a term of endearment. I
knew I wasn’t imagining it. He did.
I opened my mouth to reply then shuddered at the sound of my
name.
“Cadence Miller!” Officer Clements yelled.
“Shit,” I whispered, and turned around.
copyright S. Walden, 2013
Wow. Can't wait!
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