Splintered (32 page)

Chucking the roses to the floor, I step out onto the porch and catch her by the elbow.
She jerks free and twirls around.
With me on the step and her on the ground, we’re eye level. She starts to open her mouth. I shush her. “My turn to talk. And you’re going to listen. Then I never want to hear another word from you about Jeb or anything else again.”
Her jaw clenches, but she waits.
“I’d trust Jeb with my
life
. He’s everything his dad never was. And you know it, or you wouldn’t be so busted up over losing him. He treated you with respect . . . and he never wanted to hurt you. Why else do you think he put up with your attitude for so long?”
Her gaze intensifies behind a sheen of tears.
Jeb stands there in stunned awe.
“And you know what?” I continue, unable to stop what I’ve unleashed. “Neither one of us has a perfect family. We could’ve been friends or at least tried to get along. But you killed it. Things suck for you sometimes—I get it. But you can’t use that as an excuse to treat people any way you want.” My cheeks burn hot at the purging of emotions I’ve suppressed for too many years. “Tearing down the rest of the world won’t make you happy. Look inside yourself. Because finding who you were meant to be? What you were put into this world to do? That’s what fills the emptiness. It’s the only thing that can.”
It’s dead quiet all around other than a few chirping birds. Even the white noise has gone silent, as if the bugs and flowers stopped to listen to me for once.
Looking down at her feet, Taelor sniffs and runs the back of her hand across her cheeks. She turns her gaze up to mine, and in that moment, I see it. A connection. I got through to her. Thoughtful and quiet for once, she stumbles to her car and peels out of my driveway without so much as a wave.
“Holy wow,” Jeb mumbles.
I spin on my heel and we’re face-to-face. Alone . . . finally.
Staring at me with that same reverent expression as when he first saw my wings, he moves his lips to say something. A screen door opens across the street and interrupts him. Mr. Adams picks up his hose to water his yard. The old man scowls when he notices the empty spots on his rosebush.
“Jeb, you’re about to get busted.”
He gives me a sexy, sideways smile.
Grabbing his wrist, I tug him through the doorway before Mr. Adams looks in our direction. I close the door and press my back against the wood to hide my wing scars.
“Wait a minute.” Jeb catches one of my strands of red hair, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. “This isn’t a hairpiece. You actually dyed it. What’s gotten into you?”
“I guess I finally found my fiery side.”
“I like it.” He tilts his head, as if evaluating a painting. “So, this glittery stuff that looks like you’ve been swimming in pixie dust . . .” His knuckles graze my cheek. “Is it on every inch of your skin?” His intent appraisal of my pajamas heats me from my neck to my feet.
“Uhhh . . .” His touch is enough to make me stammer, but the pixie comment sends me over the edge. I almost groan when he pulls back.
“Thanks for saying that stuff out there, to Tae.”
“I meant every word.”
Because I love you.
I can’t bring myself to say it out loud yet, but it’s true. It’s not something that hit me from out of nowhere; it was a gradual awakening. Kind of like a metamorphosis . . .
“Well, looks like you can do okay on your own. After seeing the way you just took care of me.” He leans a shoulder against the wall, closing the space between us once more. “So weird. I had a dream about the same thing last night—you taking care of me.” The confession snaps me to attention. “Were we in Wonderland?”
He smirks. “Uh, no. We were in a house in the country, and you were sitting at a table playing chess while I painted pictures with a feather and some colored honey. A swarm of bees pounded on the window, yelling at me for stealing from their hive. I mean really yelling, like with people’s voices. Then you sprouted wings and flew outside to chase them all away. Strange, right?”
I stifle a cough. “Yeah, strange.”
“Yet somehow, it fits.” He picks up one of the cylinders Taelor threw at me earlier, removes the rubber band, then hands it over.
I unroll it and gasp to see myself in pencil lines and shading—an amazing rendition of a gothic fairy complete with gossamer wings and eye tattoos—exactly as I looked in Wonderland. Since technically he was never there, it can’t be a memory. So there’s only one explanation: This guy sees into the soul of me and always has.
I meet his gaze, speechless.
“There’s a hundred more like that. You’re my muse, Al. My inspiration. I was hoping . . . maybe . . . you might want to be—”
Before he can finish, I clench his T-shirt and drag him down for a kiss. His eyes widen at first, then close, arms wrapping around my hips to lift me to his height. He presses me into the wall with his body.
I smile against his lips, intoxicated.
How many girls get to have their first kiss twice? But this time, I’m not in shock. This time, I don’t forget to curl my arms around his neck and pull him closer. This time, I’m the one to nudge
his
lips open and find his tongue.
The sketch falls to the floor next to the scattered roses. Jeb moans, wraps my legs around his waist, and holds me tight. He breaks contact just long enough to whisper, “Where’d you learn to kiss like that?”
“You taught me.” I recover my senses and realize what I said. “In my dreams.”
“Oh, yeah?” He nudges the indentation on my chin with his nose. “Been dreaming of me, too, huh?”
“Ever since the day we met.” Finally, the truth.
He flashes his dimples. “Guess it’s time for us to make some dreams come true, skater girl.”
Little does he know we already have; we went to Wonderland and back, after all. I smile, then give him a kiss he’ll never forget, to replace all the ones he’ll never remember.

Thank you first and foremost to my family. My husband, children, brother and brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Both sets of my parents, the ones who brought me into this world and the ones I inherited through marriage. My aunts and uncles on all sides of the family, and my grandparents, who are no longer with us. And, lest we forget, the red Solo cup crew in Kansas. You believed in me through the ups and downs and never once questioned that I would find my way. Your faith carried me through the toughest times.

Thank you to the prestigious Abrams/Amulet family (including but not limited to): Maggie Lehrman, my brilliant editor, who saw into the heart of this book and gave it not only a pulse but also direction; Maria Middleton, book cover designer extraordinaire, who, with the help of the mystical artistry of Nathalia Suellen, captured the story’s essence in one gorgeously twisted and fairytale-esque picture; Laura Mihalick, my in-house publicist and stomper of grassfires; copyeditors; marketing advisors; printing press specialists, who oversaw the pages and special effects for the jacket; and many, many more. There is not enough space to thank everyone for their contributions in seeing the final product come to fruition, or for making the realization of my dream a lovely reality.

A debt of gratitude to my crit group, the Divas: Linda Castillo, Jennifer Archer, Marcy McKay, and April Redmon. I might be a lowly Kumquat, but because of your Wednesday night wisdom, I’m a published one.

A high five to my online critters and beta readers: My POM (aka Jessica Nelson), for always seeing the good in my bad boys; Rookie (aka Bethany Crandell), for talking me down, holding me back, and helping me find my inner Melvin; Katie Lovett, for reading even my earliest stories and still believing I had something akin to talent; Marlene Ruggles, for finding those typos I just couldn’t see; Chris Johnson, my number-one fan; and finally, Kim Dickerson, for giving a whole new meaning to Godiva sweetness. Yes, words can be chocolate, indeed.

If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a posse to write a book. Undying gratitude to my #goatposse for your support, advice, and witty repartee throughout this journey to the shelves. Also, a hollah to the WrAHM girls and to the folks at Crockett Middle School, with special mention to Cara Clopton, Christen Reighter, and the Vault Crew (you know who you are!).

Cyber hugs to my online support group: twitter friends, QueryTracker.net pals, and the many bloggers who lit my footsteps on my sometimes dark and lonely seven-year-road road to publishing.

A very special thanks to Lewis Carroll and Tim Burton. Without their artistic geniuses, vivid characters, and warped dreamscapes, I would never have been inspired to write
Splintered.

A. G. Howard wrote
Splintered
while working at a school library. She always wondered what would’ve happened if Alice had grown up and the subtle creepiness of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
had taken center stage in her story, and she hopes her darker and funkier tribute to Carroll will inspire readers to seek out the stories that won her heart as a child. She lives in Amarillo, Texas.
This book was designed by Maria T. Middleton. The text is set in 10.5-point Adobe Caslon, a revival of the mid-eighteenth-century classic created by the legendary engraver and type designer William Caslon. Designed in 1990 by Carol Twombly, Adobe Caslon is based on William Caslon’s original type specimen drawings. The display font is Yana Swash Caps I, designed by Laura Worthington for Umbrella Type.

This book was printed and bound by R.R. Donnelley in Crawfordsville, Indiana. Its production was overseen by Alison Gervais.