For Ever Read online

  For Ever

  The Ever Series, Book 1

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright © 2012 by C. J. Valles

  http://www.cjvalles.com

  http://cjvalles.blogspot.com/

  Follow C. J. on Twitter @CJValles_4ever

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work.

  Books and Reading Order of The Ever Series

  For Ever (The Ever Series, Book 1)

  Never (The Ever Series, Book 2)

  Sever (The Ever Series, Book 3)

  Ever (The Ever Series, Alternate Point-of-View Companion to For Ever)

  Dan, thank you for believing in For Ever.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1: Smile Like I Mean It

  2: This Is Nowhere

  3: Perfect

  4: Caring Is Creepy

  5: Blank Page

  6: Momentary Thing

  7: Run

  8: Tear Me Apart

  9: Space Boy

  10: Disappear Completely

  11: Love

  12: Unfinished Business

  13: My Friends

  14: The Silence

  15: Mirror

  A first look at Never

  Lonely I came, and I depart alone,

  And I know not where nor unto whom I go;

  But that thou canst not follow me I know.

  The Suicide, Edna St. Vincent Millay

  1: Smile Like I Mean It

  This time I can’t stop my eyes from rolling toward the ceiling. My mom is laughing too much—again—at one of his absurd jokes. And did he just wink at her? God! Is the universe punishing me for something? For almost thirty minutes now we’ve been sitting side by side in those squeaky chairs that are designed to make delinquent high school kids nervous. I’m not a delinquent, but the seating arrangement is still making me uneasy. I nudge my mom’s leg. She tears her eyes away from the vice principal of Springview High School and looks over at me.

  What? He’s kinda cute.

  The sound of her rhetorical response echoing in my head makes me sink even lower into my chair. I look back at Mr. Chernoff and seriously begin to wonder about my mom’s sanity. The man has a perpetual smirk, combined with a terrible mustache, and a head like a cue ball. And I know for a fact that my mom would have cracked up if she could have heard what he was thinking when we first walked into his office. But my mom’s taste has been suspect recently. She jokes that she needs the practice before she starts dating again. This is high on the list of things I don’t want to think about.

  The thermostat clicks on again, and I hug my arms as more cold air rushes through the vents … in January. Tuning out my mom’s nervous chattering, I look past Mr. Chernoff’s shiny cranium to the window, which comes complete with a metal mesh grate crushed between two layers of glass. From here, the parking lot looks monochromatic; or maybe it’s just how I’ve been seeing my life lately, distorted through the lens of my parents’ self-destruction. The steady rain is blurring everything beyond the window, making the scenery appear softer, faded, and almost dreamlike. In contrast, the vice principal’s office is stark and sharp under the fluorescent lighting—complete with a yellowish wooden desk, a dying fern, towering metal filing cabinets, and a poster, curling at the edges, that proclaims: Learning is fun! Drugs are not.

  I allow my mind to wander down the winding two-lane boulevard of Topanga Canyon, all the way to the smooth, liquid-metal waters of the Pacific Ocean in the early morning. Up until two weeks ago, this had been part of my daily commute to Palisades Charter High School, where I had attended for two and a half years. Seeing the ocean every day is something I already miss. Everything else about my life in California I left behind with frighteningly little regret. But after only three nights and two days, I’m not sold on the suburbs of Portland, Oregon, either.

  The sound of papers shuffling from the opposite side of the desk causes me to refocus. I catch Mr. Chernoff watching me. His voice in my head makes me flinch.

  These test scores. … And this kid’s creeping me out. Hasn’t said a word. Maybe she’s a little slow. What is the PC term? Learning disabled?

  I’m getting used to it, but sometimes I think it would be easier not to hear the things people are too embarrassed to say to your face. Still, it’s better to know upfront that the vice principal has written me off, thanks to a horrible math score that I got on a placement exam at the end of sixth grade. Well, that, and the fact that I spent junior high in adapted PE thanks to my coordination, which was declared “remedial” by the special education teacher.

  I know this for a fact: nothing makes you feel more special than your classmates asking, What’s wrong with you? Repeatedly. It got old fast. Mr. Chernoff glances at me again, only to find I’m already staring back at him. Jerk, I think. He reddens and sits up straighter. He’s wearing a tweed coat and a ridiculous clip-on bowtie, which only makes me like him less. He picks up where he left off, sifting aimlessly through my academic records like he’s hoping to find a winning lottery ticket hidden somewhere within them.

  I’ll admit that I’m awful at math—and my coordination is so bad that I can’t kick a soccer ball to save my life. But I’m not a slacker. I work hard for the A’s and B’s I get, and I ran on the cross country team for two seasons. I mostly did this to avoid two additional years of “special” PE when I got to high school. Luckily, it turned out that I liked running, even if I never won a race. Not even close.

  It’s a Monday morning two weeks into the spring semester. Today is supposed to be my first day at my new high school. But classes are impacted, and I’m transferring late. As a result, enrollment isn’t going smoothly. We would have waited until the end of my junior year, but my mom got a job offer she couldn’t pass up. Now, here we are. Nine hundred sixty-seven miles north.

  My mom looks over at me again and smiles nervously. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up, but I can tell that my face doesn’t feel like being in on the lie this morning. I keep telling her that I didn’t mind moving, and it’s true. I wanted to start over as much as she did, maybe more. But she still feels guilty. Like it’s her fault that Thomas Sullivan, her ex-husband—my father—is a cheating liar.

  Turning back to the window, I study the giant evergreens surrounding the parking lot. People who have never lived there might think that the place where I grew up and Portland, Oregon are interchangeable. Both have trees and hills, but that’s about where the similarity ends as far as I can tell. The green here is brighter than the high desert chaparral of the Santa Monica Mountains which form Topanga Canyon.

  The starkest difference is the unending rain, delivered by the permanent layer of gray that makes up Oregon’s skies. In Southern California, it had been rare when the rain lasted past noon. In fact, if the rain happened to stubbornly overstay its welcome, the local weather people would have an absolute fit like it was the end of the world. At the moment, I don’t mind the grayness. It’s a relief in a strange way. In the months before we moved, there had been something about blue skies and eighty-degree weather in the middle of winter that had started to make me feel wrong, like something about me was wrong. Then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt right.

  According to the clock on the wall, it’s almost ten-thirty. We’re operating on my mom’s schedule, which is later than the rest of the world’s. At this rate, it’s completely possible that I’ll miss the entire school day, and I’m okay with that. I look back when Mr. Chernoff clears his throat again, apparently a nervous tic of his.

  “Well, Mrs. Sullivan—”

  “Caroline, please,” my mom says.

  My mouth twitches.

  “Given your dau
ghter’s IEP scores for physical education,” he sighs, addressing her like I’m not in the room, “I would recommend another year of adapted PE. With average English second period, I think we can fit in the other requirements to finish up her junior year.”

  Let’s just see if she can handle it.

  My cheeks redden despite the frigid temperature in the office. There is absolutely no way I’m going to sacrifice everything my junior year because of one apathetic high school administrator. I sit up straight and lean forward.

  “Is PE required for juniors?”

  Mr. Chernoff looks over at me, his expression startled, bordering on annoyed.

  “It is recommended,” he says sanctimoniously.

  … for someone with your deficits, he finishes in his head.

  I watch him, picking through his thoughts for the real answer. The school’s administration needs another body in its second section of special PE to justify a full-time teacher. I smirk.

  “If it isn’t a requirement to graduate, I’m not taking it. And I want Honors English Lit and advanced placement U.S. History—”

  “An AP class?” he sputters. “Well, our curriculum … We usually offer priority to our seniors, and a few exceptional juniors.”

  “I was enrolled in AP U.S. History with an A average,” I point out since he managed to ignore any part of my transcript that didn’t fit in with his assumption that I wasn’t all there.

  My blood boils when he looks at my mom, like he’s searching for assistance in handling her weirdo daughter.

  “You heard her,” she says mildly with a smile.

  Caroline Sullivan to the rescue. Finally. I exhale. The vice principal goes back to reviewing the master schedule of classes, muttering under his breath. He looks up and then back down as he scribbles in my file. He’s writing a memo about my math score, and that I’m opting out of PE, a class that I consider an exercise in torture for people like me. He’s also writing a note about my attitude.

  “You can pick up your schedule from Mrs. Heinz in the front office.”

  “Thank you.” I smile sweetly with the hope that I never have to deal with him again.

  Standing, I feel my sense of triumph fade. The thought of walking into a strange classroom mid-period makes my palms sweat. I have a flashback to the first day of first grade, the year we moved to Topanga. I still remember the pressure of my mom’s hand, cool and smooth, on mine as she walked me to the playground. And the fear as she nudged me toward a group of unfamiliar children. Now I’m older, and I should be less afraid of starting a new school. Unfortunately, I’m not.

  As I cross the vice principal’s office, an unseen ripple in the flecked linoleum trips me. I catch myself, turning just in time to see Mr. Chernoff look over at me while exchanging the requisite pleasantries with my mom.

  Kid’s a pill, but the mom’s hot. And no wedding band.

  Gross. That’s it. If my mom gives him her number, I’m going to wretch. I jerk open the door and stalk toward the outer office, which consists of a pod of four desks. A girl about my age is hunched over a box of files. She looks over at me, but doesn’t stop what she’s doing. Across from her, a plump, grandmotherly looking woman with short, silver hair peers over her bifocals.

  Another California transplant. What was her name? Something peculiar—I swear, parents these days.

  I bite my lip, wondering for the millionth time why my mom had felt the urge to join the Parents-Who-Give-Their-Kids-Strange-Names Club.

  “Wren Sullivan?” she asks, looking down at a sheet of paper.

  I nod. When she looks up at me, I say, “Yes.” My throat is dry, so I nod again for emphasis.

  “I’m Mrs. Heinz.”

  Poor thing looks terrified.

  Strangers have always assumed a lot about me—that I’m worried, frightened, or surprised—even when I’m not thinking anything at all. I get “Are you okay?” a lot. Without any effort on my part, my olive-green eyes are always a little too wide, and my eyebrows are permanently arched in a way that makes people uneasy. My pale, bordering on ghostly, complexion doesn’t help.

  My mom is my polar opposite. She is uniformly tan with almond-shaped blue eyes. And she wears her naturally wavy golden hair short. She looks like she belongs in Southern California. I don’t. My unrelentingly straight chocolate-colored hair that hangs halfway down my back is from my father’s side. That and the light spray of freckles across my nose. The shape of my face and small, heart-shaped lips are what make me look unmistakably related to my mom.

  When Mrs. Heinz smiles and beckons me to join her behind the counter, I relax a little. Usually school office employees hate me on sight. My theory is it’s because they can smell fear.

  “Here, I’ll show you where your classes are, dear. You only have about twenty minutes left of second period.”

  She pushes up her glasses and begins drawing tiny numbers on the map to indicate where each class is.

  “Remember, you’ll have to get your schedule signed by your teachers before you bring it back to the office.” She looks up. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Realizing—again—that I have to leave the office for an unfamiliar classroom, I smile weakly, and Mrs. Heinz reaches up to squeeze my arm. When Mr. Chernoff’s door thumps closed behind him, we both look up. Resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at the faux wood, I thank Mrs. Heinz again and walk over to join my mom, who pokes me in the ribs as soon as we reach the hallway. She raises an eyebrow.

  “What was that about? You looked like someone was sticking hot pokers under your fingernails the whole time we were in there.”

  “Um, A, you were flirting—”

  “I was not!” she laughs in a breathy way that tells me she’s lying.

  “You totally were! And, B, you can do a lot better.”

  “Well, honey, I can always use—”

  I hold up my hand.

  “Yeah, the practice. Ugh. Please don’t remind me,” I say, poking her back.

  I used to have a sense of humor. I think. The past week, or year, has sort of drained it out of me. I keep telling myself that things could be worse. A lot worse. And they could be. I know that. This just doesn’t make me feel any better. It actually makes me feel like a whiny brat for feeling as miserable as I have for the past several months.

  “Ready for your first day?” my mom says brightly.

  “No.” Only one corner of my mouth turns up.

  “Don’t give me that,” she says, still smiling. “It’ll be great. You’re going to meet lots of nice people.”

  Sometimes my mom’s tendency to look at everything through rose-colored glasses drives me crazy.

  “You just have to stop being so shy, baby,” she continues.

  “Sorry, I think it’s a permanent setting.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “No, it’s not. Try to have fun. Act your age for once.”

  I’ll be seventeen in June, but in the past year I’ve felt less like sixteen and more like thirty-five. A boy, probably a freshman, walks by, smirking at my mom’s last comment. He must have thought I was getting raked over the coals for getting sent to the office.

  “All right. I’ll start yelling at you, sneaking out at night, and dating guys with a million piercings,” I say dryly.

  She doesn’t look too worried, which makes sense. It’s not like I’ve been on a single date. No one had ever asked me at Pali, and I certainly hadn’t asked anyone. Most guys at my old school had been the same ones who had teased me mercilessly in junior high. Now they’re just older. Still jerks, though.

  “You win,” my mom says, patting me on the arm.

  I throw my arm around her shoulder. When we reach the school entrance, I’m still secretly hoping that I can just go back to the house and deal with a new school tomorrow. But bringing this up feels way too pathetic, so I don’t. Stopping on concrete stairs, I see my mom’s copper two-door in the faculty lot. She kisses me on the fo
rehead. Her expression is preoccupied as she rummages around her giant black purse. Suddenly her eyes widen in a panic. She loses her keys every five minutes, so I wait patiently until she pats down her jacket pocket and pulls out an enormous key ring.

  “Be friendly, Wren,” she says, staring at me like I’m going to go around snarling at people. “This is going to be good for us.”

  I’m not sure which one of us she’s trying to convince. I hug her a little longer than necessary. Then I watch as she starts off through the rain. She looks up at the sky every few seconds before stopping and spinning around like she forgot something. She holds a hand over her forehead to shield her face from the rain.

  “I’ll come pick you up after school. Three o’clock, ’kay?”

  She’ll be home all day since she doesn’t start work at the hospital until next week. Lucky her. I shake my head and point to the bus stop at the corner, trying to look more self-reliant than I’m feeling. We both know how easily she loses track of time. Finally she nods and waves again before rushing toward the parking lot.

  Thinking of the bus, I feel a sharp stab of longing for my old car, the same vehicle that I had cursed only weeks ago for taking up almost all my after-school income in repairs. But that dented Ford Mustang—ten years my senior—had been the best thing to happen to me. I got a job. And, more importantly, I escaped the house when things got really bad with my parents. It’s too bad the car never would have survived the trip north.

  I stand and watch the rain sheeting against the asphalt long after my mom has pulled out of the parking lot. I’m cold and soaked, but I don’t bother moving until I press my fingernails into my palms without any feeling. Resigned, I walk inside and pull out my schedule. Second period: BELLARMINE, G: ALG 2. Ugh, math. Forget it. I’m not officially enrolled yet, so I decide that it’s not technically ditching if I skip the last few minutes.