Monarch: A Contemporary Adult SciFi/Fantasy (Swann Series Book 2) Read online

A few minutes later, the doorbell rings and I’m like, Oh please, no! I answer it and find myself face to face with my mortal enemy and his halfway cute friend whose name rhymes with bile.

  Grinning, clearly looking to run game on me, Jacob says, “That wasn’t polite. Just ignoring us like that.”

  For me this is no game at all. “You look like the kinds of guys I just don’t like.”

  “You always judge books by their cover?” he retorts.

  “If you were a book, I’d throw you away so my eyes would never have to suffer the sight of you again. Or maybe I’d burn you, like they do with all books that suck.”

  His face goes beet red. He’s now officially shut down. “Jeez,” he says. His friend looks down, then away. His friend scratches his head and averts the hell out of his eyes.

  “Jeez what? You sound like an idiot. Don’t walk up to my house, ring my doorbell, and then just stand there looking like a Justin Bieber’s ugly younger brother with nothing interesting to say. God, you’re such typical rich boys, thinking all you need is a winning smile and daddy’s money get a girl wet.”

  His friend coughs out a laugh, stifles it quickly. He still won’t look at me.

  “And you,” I say, glaring at Jacob’s friend, Kyle, “you’re a nobody, too. At least your friend here made a half-ass attempt at speaking. Plus he’s way better looking than you.” I’m channeling Brayden right now. Being extra blunt. Being cruel. And if I wasn’t trying so hard not to channel Bridget, I would have punched him in his stupid face by now.

  “Do you know who I am?” Jacob asks, his lovely face now scorched at the cheeks. Like I should have thought twice before unloading on him.

  “Why yes, you’re Jacob Brantley.” He can’t be more surprised. “You’re the jerk with the tiny little sausage wiener. The micro-penis. Sorry, I don’t talk to guys with baby dicks.”

  Before he can utter even a word, I slam the door in his face and spin on my heel, fully intent on heading back to my bedroom to cool off and maybe, just maybe get some sleep. My father though, he’s standing right there, his mouth hanging wide open.

  The way he looks, I’m pretty sure I’m tits deep in trouble.

  2

  In my defense, I say, “You don’t know what that boy has done to me. The things he’s said about me. About us! They were horrible things, daddy, and he posted them for everyone to see only months ago!”

  “Officially we have no history with these people, Savannah. You’re not even Savannah Van Duyn anymore.”

  “The hell I’m not!”

  He steps closer to me and, keeping his voice tight and low, he says, “You didn’t tell him your name, did you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He appears to breathe easier. “You shouldn’t have been so mean. We need to lay low. And at the very least, we should start out on a good foot with our new neighbors.”

  “First off, telling that jerk to stuff it hard was better than eating a tub full of Ben & Jerry’s. You can’t imagine how incredibly freeing that was! Second, look at us! We’re beautiful. You’re rich. How do you suppose we’re ever going to stay on the DL? If you wanted us to blend, you should have chosen average looking clones and moved us to the ‘burbs. Like Pacific Heights, or something.”

  He hands me a packet of documents. Social security card, ID, driver’s license, credit card. I look it over, aghast.

  “That’s my new name? Abigail Swann? I’m not using it. I’ll use the last name, maybe, but I’m not giving up Savannah.”

  He bristles at my hostility, and my total lack of cooperation. “Abigail is a Christian name that means ‘Father’s Pride.’ Besides, do you know what I went through to get those ID’s?”

  “Yeah, it’s part of Gerhard’s program. New ID’s. Not very well thought out, though, were they? I changed at school.”

  “These names aren’t for school. They’re for us here at home.”

  “So I should live two lives as the same person? Don’t you think that will bite us all in the ass one day?”

  “Look, I called in a favor from a guy who knows a guy who now knows us. If I was better at this kind of thing, I’d have him smoked. That’s what you’re supposed to do, but I can’t. I should, but I just can’t. And not doing so means you should appreciate the stress it put me under and use the damn things already.”

  “They’re not tampons, dad.”

  “I’m not asking.”

  “This is bullshit,” I say. “I’m going out.”

  “You know, I shouldn’t have to keep pretending to ignore that horrible mouth of yours. I’m still shocked you dropped the f-bomb the other day.”

  “The f-bomb? Where are you picking these things up at? That’s how kids talk, dad, that’s not how men your age talk!”

  “I’m self-educating my way through the urban dictionary,” he says, his entire demeanor flipping on a dime.

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, well it sounds less right on you than on, say, everyone else.” I toss my new identity packet onto the entryway table and blow out of the house, hoping like crazy not to run into Jacob or his fruity sidekick again.

  3

  Where I end up is the bookstore, not sure how this whole Netty thing is going to play out. I’m nervous. I’m sick to my stomach and thinking, what the effing heck am I doing here (yep, I’m trying being less vulgar, even in my thinking)? It has to be done, I remind myself. I can’t put off seeing Netty anymore. I miss her too much. And I could really use a friend right now.

  Netty won’t be working for another ten minutes so I head to the periodicals. The magazine section is three aisles deep, and it sits in the front of the store next to a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into the parking lot. I skim the latest Teen Vogue, Allure, and maybe Glamour, too. Within a few minutes, I’m still irritated, but at least Netty has arrived. Seeing her walking so casually inside the book store fills me with so much love and needing—that longing for someone familiar and safe—that I can hardly stand it. Seeing her now, a little fuller in the face, her hair a few inches longer and styled, I’m reminded of how much she means to me.

  The minute she walks in the front door I want to run and grab her. I want to hug her tight and tell her everything. But I’m not me. Not the me she knows. What she’ll see is the impossibly pretty version of someone who looks and sounds nothing like me. If I try to explain my condition, the treatments, she probably won’t believe me anyway. She’ll call security. Her day will be wrecked for sure, with only myself to blame.

  Netty says “hi” to several of her co-workers and a few of the customers before walking through a door labeled Employees. Wandering through the “Mystery” section of the bookstore, I trail my fingers over the spines of books written by authors whose names don’t even register with me. I’m not really looking for a good read. Not really serious about the whole mystery genre at this point in my life.

  Every so often, I glance over at the Employees door. Several frumpy girls and a rashy looking teenaged boy ask if I need help, if there’s something I’m looking for in particular, and each time I’m like, “No thank you, I’m just browsing.”

  The rashy-faced kid, a pimply wraith with nearly oily hair, I expect him to try harder to converse with me because that’s what most boys have been doing since I became Savannah Van Duyn version 2.0. Or Abigail Swan, as it now seems. The boy appears self-conscious almost, like he’s aware of every single inflamed pimple on his face and is terrified one might burst on him and start leaking white stuff down his face. Or maybe that’s my overactive imagination at work. Either way, I feel immensely sorry for him.

  I suppose I have a soft spot for dorks. Not long ago yours truly was the Queen Bee in Dorkland and a skinny, sad sack of a guy like this, he would have been my equal. With my uninspiring looks and my super low self-esteem, me and this guy could have been semi-decent besties. The way misery loves company, this poor chump could use some. But thankfully the human disaster that used to be Savannah Van Duyn vers
ion 1.0 is gone. Okay, maybe not fully, but I have more than one identity, so I’m not so sure who I am anymore. I just know I’m not ugly and for that, I feel blessed.

  The kid wanders off, taking the long way around people, then heads to the bathroom. Perhaps that look on his face was him clenching his butt cheeks together while talking to a good looking girl. Gross, I know. This is my own dork mind at work. You can change the skin, even the DNA, but you can’t change the brain. Or can you? Given enough time, some world-famous lab coat will probably say, “You know, that’s now possible.”

  While Netty is still getting ready or clocking in or whatever, some older guy and a pair of snickering, staring boys circle me. I’m starting to get that this is what it’s like to be attractive. It’s going to take some getting used to. The idea of everyone becoming the cockroach paparazzi—hovering over you, trying to invade your privacy, your life—it’s different from before, but the same in all the bad ways. No privacy.

  The older guy, who looks maybe thirty or thirty-five, passes by me and casually says, “Find anything interesting?”

  Frowning, I glance up and say, “No, you?”

  He says, “I did just now.”

  “Oh God. Please tell me you’re talking about books.” My rolling eyes refuse to look at him. A low ache starts in the back of my head.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not. Are those your real eyes?”

  “No, I’m borrowing them for the weekend.”

  “They’re magnificent,” he says, making that face, giving me that grin.

  I look up and—on closer inspection—wonder if he’s more like late twenties than early thirties. Either way, he’s somewhat attractive for being that much older than me. What leaves my mouth next, however, it’s classic Brayden.

  “You’re one of those pedophiles my grandpa’s always bitching about, aren’t you?”

  “Not hardly,” he says, acting offended in an over-dramatized fashion. “Besides, that’s a terrible word with unpleasant connotations.”

  “Well I’m not even close to eighteen, Humbert Humbert.”

  “Who’s Humbert Humbert?”

  “From Lolita?” He gives me an odd look. He doesn’t understand. “Are you not well read? By your age, you should be well read, especially if you’re trolling for underage tail in a freaking bookstore.” I blow out my breath, not masking my irritation. Then I turn my entire body to him, stare right into his chocolate brown eyes and say, “Humbert Humbert is the pedophile narrator in the classic book Lolita who has a predilection for pre-teen girls and lusts after his wife’s twelve year old child, Dolores Haze.”

  “So that’s the reference,” he says, coolly, like he should go, but he really doesn’t want to give up so easily.

  “You have that look on your face like you think there’s more to this conversation. There isn’t. I’m a minor. A child in the state’s eyes. Now that you know this, if you keep trying to pick me up, this will make you a predator.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m just making conversation. And since when did a man’s compliment become ‘predatory?’”

  “I don’t like your vibe,” I say. He has a point. Actually, he’s right, but my body is starting to hurt again and I’m so nervous about Netty it’s left my nerves exposed. Not wanting any part of this guy, I huff out a sigh and say, “Go away already. I’m looking for a good mystery and you’re not it.”

  I feel terrible behaving this way, but the way men are paying attention to me has me sometimes wishing for the anonymity of both physical girth and butt-ugliness. He finally goes away right about the time Netty comes waltzing her skinny body out of the Employees door. Seeing me tell off the old guy, the two snickering boys do the right thing then by not trying to pick me up.

  4

  After like, a half an hour, Netty approaches me. I’m thinking, it’s about gosh damn time already! The distaste bleeding through every last feature of her lovely, pale face penetrates me like motion sickness. Am I now the type of girl Netty doesn’t want to approach?

  The thought depresses me instantly.

  Monotone, like she could care more about wrinkling her pleated skirt than talking with me, she says, “Is there something I can help you find?” Her gaze is chillier than an Aspen winter, and not just because she’s Slavic.

  “I’m home for Christmas break,” I say, trying to be genuinely friendly in spite of the fact that no matter what I say, it won’t really matter, “and I’m desperate for a good read.”

  “What are you looking for?” she says, maintaining the frosty exterior. “Let me guess, Twilight? Hunger Games?”

  I pretend to stifle a laugh, then say, “No way. Not this girl. What I’m looking for is something eclectic, perhaps a teensy bit irreverent. Or a lot irreverent, if it’s well written.”

  With that, Netty brightens. Her tone changes. She loves eclectic, and she loves irreverent.

  “I have a few books in mind.” She walks me over to Chuck Palahniuk’s book Choke. She’s about to say something when two good looking boys our age interrupt us and I’m like OMFG! For real?

  “Hey, I haven’t seen you around here,” the cute one says. With all the hot boys approaching me lately, they’re all sort of blending together. Like an annoying freaking boy band, all their hair is perfect and irritating, and they all dress alike. Who ever thought I would feel this way?

  In Netty’s company, I realize these are the exactly boys we used to hate together. I think Netty is pretty (even though some guys might not find her pretty pretty), and I was super ugly, so guys like those two standing before us, we dreamt of telling them to piss off but never got the chance. Sometimes we’d role play when we were together. We’d tell each other off as if one of us was the hot boy and the other was…our self. Now, I’m realizing, this is that chance.

  “That pickup line has mold on it,” I say, matter-of-fact.

  The boy has that clean Zac Efron look that hits my stomach like e-coli poisoning.

  “Excuse me?” he says. The color in his face goes from spray tanned to a bright red.

  “And what’s with the whole High School Musical thing? Didn’t anyone ever tell you ‘originality’ is currently trending?”

  His friend’s face burns with embarrassment, too. So far neither of them has even bothered to acknowledge Netty.

  I say, “If you want to talk to a girl, start by introducing yourself.”

  He nods, clearly losing face, then half-heartedly sticks his hand out and says, “I’m—”

  “Start with my friend here. She’s not a statue. This is Anetka. Be polite and say hello.”

  The two boys introduce themselves to Netty. She shakes their hands in utter disbelief, surprise illuminating her lovely eyes. She smiles, and to me it’s her best feature. If you’re a boy, you can say what you want about my friend, but to me, she’s beautiful.

  “Good, now go away, both of you. Can’t you see I’m trying to get a book here?”

  They stand there for a second, not sure what to do because they never got my name or my attention, and it’s a feeble reaction I’m learning to despise.

  “Go, boys,” I say, clapping my hands at them like they’re children. “Now.”

  They turn and go, and Netty says, “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Brushing off the compliment, as if I’ve always been this way, I gracefully say, “So, tell me about this book, Choke.”

  Her smile sits weighted and uncertain. Something passes through her shiny, ice colored eyes, confusion perhaps. “How did you know my name was Anetka?”

  My stomach drops. Damn. “It’s on your name tag,” I say, but her name tag says Netty. Double damn! Then: “I have friends from St. Petersburg. One of them is Anetka and we all called her Netty, or Nettles, although she hates Nettles because she says it’s a dog’s name. She’s not pretty, not like you.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Netty says.

  From this point on, the frost melts. Netty opens up like her old
self and we start having fun together. It’s almost like old times. But not. She still has no idea who I am, and I have no idea how I’m going to break it to her.

  5

  It’s just after ten o’clock when Netty calls. I pick up the phone and before I can say hello, Netty says, “Thanks for stopping by.” She tries to pull it off as sounding playful, but I’ve known her long enough to recognize real hurt in her voice.

  I take a deep, nervous breath, my stomach rolling and threatening to charge up my throat, and say, “I did. You sold me a book.”

  “What? You suck as a liar and maybe as a friend, too. And trust me, I don’t say that lightly, since you’ve been home how many days now?”

  Okay, that stung.

  “Choke,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “I love it, by the way. I’m at the point where Victor first shoves steak down his throat and starts choking for real in the restaurant.”

  It takes only a moment for either clarity or confusion to thoroughly disrupt Netty’s chi. She says, “WTF?” but not in the acronym form.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That was me.”

  “No the fuck it wasn’t.”

  “Hey, trucker mouth, it was me. I told the Zac Efron clone to get his own style. We talked about my non-existent friend in St. Petersburg, Nettles. I swear, I thought I blew it right there!”

  There’s a mountain of silence. It’s a silence as big as God. Then, in the softest most disbelieving voice, she says, “How is this possible? You don’t even look like you.”

  “Come over, I’ll tell you everything. It’s right next door to the Facebook Sniper’s house if you can believe that.”

  “No!”

  “Swear to Jesus. Rover’s in the driveway.”

  A few minutes later I open the door and Netty just stands there looking me over, stricken with total disbelief.

  “I’m totally in love with you,” she says, mesmerized. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “I’m in love with myself, right now. Swear on a stack of Bibles. Fat Savannah, that bridge troll, she’s a freaking thing of the past.”