Trial By Fire: Every Soul Makes a Choice

By M. Scott Snelten

Fifteen-year-old Clara Dune has a secret. She suspects she’s adopted, but she’s afraid to discuss it with her father, who recently moved the family to St. Augustine, Florida to complete an archaeological dig that’s tied to secrets of his own. He distracts her by giving her an old book that tells the story of a saintly Augustine pitted against a wicked Faustus. Strangely, sparks fly from the book’s illustrated pages as a battle between good and evil comes to life. And Clara suddenly finds herself in the middle of an ancient feud.

Shortly after, a solar eclipse ominously cloaks her new hometown in darkness, and her father entrusts her with his greatest archaeological find ever: a powerful eighth-century Asturian relic from northern Spain. She confides only in her friend Jia Zhilan – and the boy she secretly loves, Mingo Santos – because her world quickly grows darker as malevolent forces conspire to burn her alive. Instead of relinquishing the artifact, Clara vows to protect it. Otherwise, St. Augustine will be destroyed.

During this fiery hero’s journey, Clara learns that she has a profound calling on her life that she can’t ignore. It’s one that places her at odds with a pyromaniac Spaniard – and his master, the diabolical Faustus, whose purpose is to take as many souls to hell with him as he can.

Will Clara Dune survive this trial by fire to save her city – and her own soul?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989317153

Book preview

eternity.

Chapter 1 – The Spark

Clara Dune held a bottle of Alma Dulce perfume in her hand, and if the tease from the television commercial were true, it promised that a mystery hid inside of every bottle. And maybe every person.

She shook the bottle, and bubbles spun through the golden-orange liquid like a spiraling galaxy. After another shake, she tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and sprayed a mist over her neck and wrists. With eyes closed, she inhaled deeply. When she slowly reopened her pale blue eyes, it was as if the aroma of orange blossom intoxicated her.

Bathing with your mom’s favorite perfume again? her father asked from the doorway, surprising her. Christopher Dune, dressed in a khaki shirt and pants that slacked over camel-colored boots, brushed dark blond hair from his forehead and plugged his nose lightheartedly. He tossed a crusty, old book on her bed and then fanned the air with his hat. Don’t overdo it with that stuff, he warned her. It might get you into trouble.

Did it get Mom into trouble? She used it lure you, didn’t she?

Exactly. That’s why I don’t want you showering in it. You’re only fourteen, and I don’t want any young guys getting the wrong idea.

Oh, come on, she said. I love it. She held the bottle tightly and kissed the cap, which was etched with a Spanish maiden holding a blossom. This is Mom’s last bottle … so I treasure it.

And you should. He hesitated slightly. You know, it would have been easier if we never had to move. The old house in Espanola is just one county away and …

Clara blurted out, "We moved because it’s my fault."

It’s nobody’s fault, Clara. You didn’t make her drive off.

If we didn’t argue before … I could have said ‘I love you’ one more time … If I could just erase that day. Clara felt a tug on her gut.

Christopher hugged his daughter. I told you before, don’t drown yourself in guilt. It’s only been a few months since she’s gone. I know she wouldn’t want you torturing yourself.

Clara clutched the bottle close to her heart. If her father only knew the truth that she kept bottled inside.

We’re going to make it through this. Living here in St. Augustine with Grandma will make it easier for all of us. Your new room is nicer than your old one.

And I don’t have to share it, she said, looking around the aqua-blue room with white doors and trim that contrasted with the wood floor. Her dresser stood centered in front of two large windows. Clara should have been thrilled, but instead she bit her lip and said, I just wish Mom was here. You know, still …

Alive? We all wish that, Clara, but nothing can bring her back.

True. Nothing could bring Frances Dune back. Clara closed her eyes for a few moments to return to Espanola in her mind, to relive the last moments with her mother earlier that summer.

Clara remembered entering the home office and laying down a family album. Her mother, Frances, was rushing to finish her presentation, Archaeology: The Path to Discovering Ourselves, for a speech that morning at Flagler College. A final tap, and the printer lights flickered. She stood and tucked her pink silk shirt into black dress slacks. As she looked for her shoes, Clara studied her auburn hair and the freckles that dotted her arms and face. Clara had not inherited a single freckle. And only with those black high heels could Frances look through her glasses and see eye-to-eye with Clara.

As the printer spit out the pages, Clara collected them. Before handing them over, she told her mother they had to talk. Something had been tugging at her soul since childhood. Her intuition told her something wasn’t right in the family–specifically her. Although she knew she was part of the Dune clan, her family felt more like an arranged portrait, and she was Photoshopped in.

Frances explained that all teenagers experience growing pains, and she reached out to hug her. Clara backed away, refusing to be dismissed.

Clara lifted the family album and opened it to a family portrait. Christopher and Frances were seated, while Clara’s younger sister, Zandra, a miniature-copy of her mother, sat on Frances’ lap. Clara stood to the side with a slight space between them. It wasn’t just that portrait. Other pictures made her uncomfortable too.

Frances shuddered then babbled about the pride of raising two beautiful girls.

Clara accused her of withholding a secret. She got in her mother’s face and blurted out what she had really felt since she was a child. Her heart was filled with a weird, unexplainable trauma, a deep loss. Clara flipped through the album pages of her mother’s pregnancy with Zandra. Why wasn’t there at least one photo of Frances proudly showing off her pregnancy with Clara?

Clara demanded to know her true identity.

Her mother shook her head in slow motion, and her mouth hung open, silent.

What about her birth certificate? The original?

Frances’ hands shook as she stuffed files into her briefcase, wiped tears from her eyes, and hurried out of the house, declaring she had always loved Clara.

Her mother’s car sped away. Hours later, hearing a car in the driveway, Clara ran to the window hoping to see her. Instead, her father entered the house and called her into the living room. She expected to be reprimanded. It was worse. Red-eyed, he told there had been a horrible car accident. Her mother was dead.

Now Clara had to live with the guilt. All alone. Nothing could replace her mother. She could tell no one what led to her mother’s death and would never raise the issue of adoption again. Not at the risk of distancing her father, the only parent she had left.

Hey, you okay? Christopher’s voice woke Clara from her memories.

Her eyes opened, and she nodded, forcing a smile. She gently placed the bottle on the dresser. Anytime I wear this, I always think of Mom.

He flashed her a warm smile. She wouldn’t want it any other way. As he backed up to leave, he tripped over a moving box. Clara quickly caught one hand, and his other hand grabbed the bookshelf, saving him from falling on the sword handles protruding from the box. Whoaaaa!

Clara gasped. Sorry. I should’ve packed them more carefully.

Just promise to finish unpacking and put those in a safe place, so they don’t skewer anyone. He tugged on his shirt. Promise? Okay, I have to get going.

Got it, Clara said. Don’t forget to give Indiana Jones back his hat.

Hey, don’t disrespect the outfit. It’s my job. Besides, you have one just like it.

You’re the archaeologist, not me.

Christopher pointed at her. Yes, but you have natural instincts.

Clara looked him in the eye. I’m taking a break. Indefinitely. Even if we do live in America’s oldest city where God-knows-what is buried beneath our feet.

Clara’s attention turned to the book on the bed. She lifted it, and her fingers tingled upon touching the cold leather. Light bounced off the gold lettering as she read the title. "The Ancient Book of Saint Augustine. Seriously? I have a hundred books in these boxes, and you’re giving me this old, musty thing? It’ll probably trigger an allergy attack. You’re trying to kill me with history lessons, right?"

"Por suerte no está escrito en español."

Don’t try being all tricky telling me ‘I’m lucky it’s not written in Spanish.’

With crossed arms, he said, So you understood me?

"Sí, te entendí. Yes, I understood you, Clara answered as she inspected the book’s weather-beaten cover. This thing’s been through a battle. You dig this up too?"

No, but I am close to something big. Anyway, when I saw this at the bookstore, it called out to me. I think it needs to be a part of your collection.

"Called … out … to you? Okay. Clara’s eyebrows rose. You’re so weird."

You have time to read it before the new school year begins. Christopher nudged a cardboard box and added, After you unpack these medieval weapons and your library, just flip through a couple pages. Let me know what you think. In three steps, he was passing through the doorway, saying goodbye.

The moving boxes along the wall still awaited Clara’s attention. She ignored them, choosing to scan the book instead. She sat on the bed with her back against the headboard and opened the so-called ancient book.

A business card, which clung to the first page, read, The Binding Word Bookstore. St. Augustine, Florida. Dedicated to bringing fine books back to life … because a good book never dies. If you ask me, some should, she thought.

Clara scanned the pages for pictures first. Instead of finding an illustration of the old city, there was a drawing of Augustine, the saint, dressed like a prophet and holding a tall staff. As she traced her finger over the staff, a squiggly blue electric shock shot through the center of her finger tip. Zap!

The spark traveled through her finger, up her arm, and jolted both her heart and her brain with an electric punch that knocked her off the bed. She sat dazed.

Her sister burst in to see Clara on the floor with her feet spread apart and staring at her hands. One half of Zandra’s long, red hair hung in a braid, and the other half hung loose and untamed. An explosion of freckles surrounded her blue eyes and wide-open mouth as she gasped, Clara, what happened?

Clara snapped out of her trance, saying, Huh?

Zandra spread her hands in front of her. "You just screamed."

Clara felt the hard, wood floor beneath her and saw half the sheets by her side. The open book hung off the edge. A quick tug, and the book fell and closed on the floor.

I didn’t scream, Clara said defending herself.

Sure did, darlin’, Grandma Ellie said, entering into the room like an old flamingo in her loud pink dress and black and white striped apron. Hurt yourself?

Just … got … shocked, Clara said.

Ellie looked around. Which socket? What were you plugging in? Show me.

No outlets, Grandma. Clara fibbed. Seriously, I’m just a klutz. I can’t even get out of bed without drama. What else can I say? she asked, shrugging her shoulders.

Well, Miss Drama, Ellie said pointing to the moving boxes in the corner. It’s been two weeks since you’ve been here, and school starts in less …

Than a week. I know. Ninth grade, new school, Miss Unknown.

Clara, your father agonized about selling the house, knowing you girls would feel torn away from Espanola, not to mention that’s where your mama … Ellie’s voice trailed off. I’m real sorry, darlin’. There was no way he could take care of you both all the way out there. I’m here to help.

Zandra asked, When are you going to clean up this mess?

Her sister looked just like their mother, and that compounded Clara’s guilt. She would forever see her mother’s likeness. She would forever be asking for forgiveness—in silence—because she could never tell anyone what really happened.

Are you okay? Ellie wrapped her arm around her.

With a swipe of her wrist, Clara wiped the running tears off her cheek. She nodded her head, The new school will probably be a good distraction anyway.

Clara suspected her grandmother, a widow for ten years, was probably tired of living alone in her yellow, two-story house on north Riberia Street. She wanted company.

Ellie smiled with pride and said, Livin’ here will be like livin’ in a history book.

I thought I learned everything about St. Augustine in fourth grade, Clara said as she rose to her feet. Spanish settlers, established in 1565, historic, blah, blah, blah, but now I have to make new friends, a new life, in the oldest city.

Clara, you’re fourteen, Grandma said. New friends–no problem.

What about me? Zandra asked. I’m smart for nine. I’ll be your friend.

Faster than a traffic cop, Clara raised her hand like a stop sign in her sister’s face.

Clara, Ellie tried to correct her, she’s simply trying to …

Be annoying? I think I feel like unpacking, like right now.

Okay, but when you’re done, no hiding out the rest of the day in your cave, Ellie picked up the Ancient Book and asked, Where did you get this?

Clara tried to take it back. Daddy gave it to me. For my collection.

Grandmother and granddaughter held the book tightly in a tug of war. Ellie felt Clara’s resistance and insisted. Mind if I take a look?

I don’t think that would be a good idea. An image flashed through Clara’s mind of the book zapping her grandmother. What if it sparked again? Gave her a heart attack?

Darlin’, history books aren’t dangerous. Ellie laughed as she casually leafed through the pages–but didn’t touch the drawings. I’ll tell you what. Unpack by the time I finish breakfast, and I’ll give you the book back.

Zandra smiled and crossed her arms. Never gonna happen.

Deal! Clara pulled the boxes to the center of the room.

Just as Ellie and Zandra left, Clara went into operation overdrive. First she unpacked all the popular fantasy, adventure, and even a couple of junior archaeology books, which her father had given her, and organized them on the white bookcase. From another box, she unwrapped black-framed pictures of family and friends. She hugged her mother’s photo and placed it on the dresser, next to the bottle of orange blossom perfume. Now it was hers. Then she pulled out two signs. One was a warning sign for her nosy sister: Clara’s room—Stay out! The other sign she placed above her headboard. It was a simple, green road sign pointing back to Espanola.

Clara nearly tumbled over the last box, which rattled with the swords. Maybe it was un-girly, but Clara liked swords. Her father had encouraged her to take fencing classes for culture, and to her surprise she liked them. With one hand she lifted a trophy and with the other, she grabbed her saber. After placing the trophy on the desk next to her laptop, she swung the saber, making a quick swoosh through the air. Next, she pulled out an antique sword, with a spiraling hilt, that she bought at a neighbor’s garage sale. It simply appealed to her. She sliced the air with it. This girl’s got skills.

At last, Clara pulled out a puzzle box, opened it, and flicked the pieces around. Her mother had turned a family photo into a jigsaw puzzle, courtesy of a local photo shop. It was a crazy gift for her fourteenth birthday that Clara had neglected to assemble.

Zandra knocked. Clara, can I come in?

Quickly swinging the door open, she said, "Read the sign. Mi casa no es tu casa. Stay out." Clara exited and slammed the door to prove her point. Making a quick escape downstairs to the kitchen, she thought, I better make some new friends quick because she is going to drive me crazy!

The smell of fresh bread hit her before she entered her grandmother’s big country kitchen. Eggshell-colored cabinetry flanked an old gas stove.

Clara rattled a cluster of hanging pots, and informed her grandmother, My room’s unpacked. She scanned the counters for her book.

That’s a shocker, Ellie said. It’s late now, so breakfast just became lunch.

What did Clara care? Lunch had been her breakfast all summer long because she was a late-riser. Clara made herself a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, and added twice the legal limit of bacon, according to her sister. She inhaled lunch, grabbed the book lying in the wicker mail bin, and snuck away to the next room.

Sitting in the living room was like relaxing in an inviting library with its green walls. The leather sofas and chairs had permanent depressions on every cushion. Clara plopped down in the sunken spot that used to be her mother’s favorite and slung her feet atop the coffee table. She glanced at her parent’s beach photo on the mantelpiece, and noticed how the two were always inseparable. Christopher held Frances, who stared right at Clara without judgment. It was Clara who judged herself. She wiped a stray tear. She shook her head and held the book in both hands.

Her fingers slid over the aged, brown leather, like she was touching an old man’s wrinkles. Faded gold letters spelled The Ancient Book of Saint Augustine, yet the binding remained as strong and unbroken as ever. When she lifted the cover, five words greeted her on the first page. Deus, noverim te, noverim me.

She thought, Probably Latin. If it were Spanish, I could probably understand some. Now where was that picture? Found it. She looked to the doorway. Nobody’s coming. She covered her mouth and touched the page. Zap! I wasn’t dreaming.

Clara began reading. The inspiration for the name of St. Augustine goes back centuries, so far back that most people would be surprised. Long, long ago, a boy named Augustine was born in Tagaste, North Africa, an outpost of the fading Roman Empire.

She leaned in to look at an ancient map. South of Italy. And the island of Sicily.

Augustine was rowdy and troubling to his mother.

I can so relate.

His father, however, let him be wild as long as he got a good education. Over time, Augustine grew up and became an expert public speaker, a maestro of words, and a philosopher. One day, Augustine heard about a famous teacher named Faustus, who spoke powerfully and mesmerized his listeners. So Augustine, always interested in more wisdom, set out to meet this wise man.

Clara looked closely at a drawing of ancient Carthage. Hundreds of people circled the towering Faustus, who wore a crown of black hair that framed his black eyes. A long, black robe hung to his sandaled feet, and snake-straps circled his ankles. He climbed atop a pillar like a god and lifted his arms to the heavens.

Augustine envied Faustus’ eloquence—until he told the audience that the origins of true power did not come from good. Instead, it flowed from darkness and evil. Everyone in the audience fell into a trance—except Augustine.

Clara turned the page and studied another illustration. Uh-oh, these guys are getting ready to beat up on each other.

Zandra stuck her head in the doorway. What are you reading?

Clara raised her hand. "Above your grade level. Adios."

Augustine broke through the crowd and interrupted Faustus. His white robe swung as he shook a wooden staff in his hand and bellowed, You contracted with evil! Sold your soul to the dark side, didn’t you? You’re a deathtrap!

Heckler, what is your name?

Augustine!

Faustus jumped off the pillar, and hovered over him. He lifted his hand and an ominous black cloud covered the sun. Evil is without beginning or end. Follow me.

Never. Augustine backed away.

Faustus pushed his staff in Augustine’s face. I have power and prestige.

Augustine aggressively crossed his staff against Faustus. Evil will consume you, flesh and all.

Faustus taunted him. If you don’t join me—then I will crush you.

Never. Augustine lifted his staff, and the sunlight burned through the cloud and descended in a pillar of light, surrounding only him. We are destined to meet again, Faustus … and I will triumph.

Clara shook her head. Augustine, good saint, and Faustus, bad wizard.

She thought, If Augustine’s staff shocks me, I wonder if Faustus’ will?

Faustus’ staff emitted a red bolt that shot quivers of guilt, shame, and darkness into her mind. The book fell, and she grabbed her head, and leaned over, feeling a sudden urge to vomit. Bile rose in her throat like mercury, but then it receded minutes later. Clara thought, What is going on? With this book? With me?

Clara returned to the kitchen for a can of ginger ale to calm her stomach. She asked her grandma, Do you know much about the guy they named this city after?

Augustine? Not really, but the church downtown is dedicated to him, you know. The one with the huge rusty doors, by the plaza. Why the interest? That book?

Just wondering, that’s all, Clara said, sipping her soda and looking out the window. Nice day. I’m going for a walk. Just want to check out the neighborhood.

Zandra overheard. I wanna go!

Clara hesitated. I’m going right now. Meet me at the front door. Thirty seconds!

Zandra ran upstairs for her sneakers but yelled she couldn’t find them.

Clara never counted down the seconds. She was already on her way running past quaint picket-fenced streets with overhanging trees dripping with Spanish moss. On the way, she heard a boy call out. She was on a mission and didn’t acknowledge him except for glancing at his ruddy hair. He called out again, saying she smelled great.

She remembered her father’s advice. Don’t overdo it with the perfume, or it might get you into trouble. The boy continued calling after her, but she ignored him. He reminded her of a past boyfriend who was on her D-list: dump the jerk and move on. She rushed off in an attempt to outrun his curses.

She finally arrived at the centuries-old Plaza de la Constitución and spotted the Cathedral-Basilica. However, by the time Clara reached the doors, she found they were locked. And for the first time, even for all the time spent at her grandmother’s in St. Augustine, she realized she had never been inside this place.

It was funny how a musty, old book about good versus evil compelled her to be standing in front of these doors. Especially since she wasn’t a member of God’s fan club after her mother died.

She stood back and looked up the building’s façade. There were four large pillars that flanked imposing rust-colored doors. Above the doors hung two huge crisscrossing keys. Above them was a heart. Higher yet were the emblems of the American eagle, and a crest representing Spain. And towering above that was a pure white statue of Augustine.

Clara studied the statue. The same white robe. The same tall staff.

*****

Clara returned home just as her father’s Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway. Before he opened his door, she was tapping on the glass.

Happy to see you too. Want to let me out?

Zandra’s yelling from the porch interrupted them. She resented being ditched by her sister, and slammed the front door to prove her point.

Clara thumbed over her shoulder. Don’t mind her. Hey, you didn’t tell me.

He tilted his head and wrinkled his eyebrows. Tell you what?

She stuck her head forward. About the book!

What are you talking about?

Clara backed up so he could get out.

Dad, that book you gave me … it zapped me with little lightning bolts.

You’re kidding. Sure it wasn’t a spark of your imagination?

Not funny. It shocked me right here. She tapped her finger.

He inspected her hand. Don’t see anything.

You don’t believe me, do you? You never do.

Here we go again. Hold on. Prove … I mean, show me the book.

They entered the house and saw Ellie taking bread out of the oven and Zandra setting the table. Clara and her father went upstairs.

Clara pulled the book out and cautiously opened it to the page. Okay, watch this. Her fingers slid across the lines of Saint Augustine’s staff, and she paused.

Her father shook his head. I don’t see anything. No shock.

Because I have to do this. She held her finger one inch above the staff–and a small blue lighting bolt zapped her finger. She covered her mouth and winced. And when I touch Faustus’ staff, there’s a red shock, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Yow-ouch! No way! I scanned the entire book before you did. No shocks.

And this picture here is the same as the statue on the front of the church in the plaza, Clara said boldly. How do you explain that?

I’m at a loss for words, Clara, her father said. The bookstore owner couldn’t have known about this. If he had, he certainly would have kept it.

"But now it’s mine," Clara said.

I have a theory about books. It’s not the owner who finds the book. He tapped the cover. A book seeks its owner. It’s the same for me with archaeology. The artifacts often find me. People have sought me out to give me maps or clues because they trusted my reputation. I used to think I was lucky, but now I realize it must be my destiny.

It’s a weird destiny, Clara said, rubbing her fingers. For me to get shocked.

He paused. Well, I bought this book for you. There must be a lesson in it.

As soon as he left, she wondered what the lesson might be, so she read on.

Man’s philosophy of good versus evil did not cease with the death of Augustine or Faustus. Both men died long ago, but their powerful spirits lived on. Faustus whispered into evil men’s dreams and promised them power if they signed over their souls to him. So many fell under his spell of corruption that he had to be stopped.

Augustine’s philosophy of good led him to be recognized by the Catholic Church, which eventually appointed him a saint. The heavens became his home. However, when he learned that a spiritual contagion was spreading throughout heaven and earth, he became enraged. Enlisting the help of other saints, he tracked down Faustus, who was poisoning the heavens over Hispania, ancient Spain.

Your time is up! Augustine shouted, aided by Santiago and Isidore.

Faustus hissed. A treasure resides in the Asturian mountains, and when I get it, I will ride to the highest heavens and establish my throne. With that treasure, I will rule!

The story sucked Clara into the pages. Her imagination took her above the clouds.

Augustine raised his staff. You will never enter through the Empyreal Gates! The Author of the Universe has not written your name within the walls of Heaven.

Faustus sneered. With that Asturian treasure, I will write my own future, and all mankind will read it. With a crown of gold and a scepter of pain, I will robe myself with shadows and misery. I will create a world of woe. His countenance morphed hideously, and he roared a devilish laugh. He rose in the air and spun with black wings in flight.

Your unbridled obsession and envy against the sovereign Architect will never be fulfilled … for today we have received our orders. Evict you from the heavens, to the far side of the earth, below the earth, to a place of utter darkness.

Clara looked out the window at the falling night sky, imagining the heavens.

Augustine continued. That treasure which you seek, even more than the Philosopher’s stone, would give you unparalleled power.

Philosophers have sought the stone, Faustus clenched his fist, but what is hidden in Asturias is stronger. With it, I will un-write your existence. He raised his glowing red staff to fight. When it clashed with Augustine’s blue staff, sparks flew. Faustus’ weapon shattered for he was outnumbered. Augustine, Santiago, and Isidore grabbed Faustus and spun him violently down, like a comet that had lost its way. Like a fireball, he plummeted south of the Equator, deep within a far, southern land, a land of many tribes. The prideful, falling star crashed into the earth, and there was a huge explosion. The earth opened its throat, and Faustus was driven deep within the earth’s belly, to its pit. They cast him in chains into the abyss, with its faintest glow of red.

Augustine spoke. Here in Chaos, the heart is torn, and the soul finds no rest.

Faustus howled, I have fallen, but I shall rise again! No one will conquer me!

Clara closed the book and rubbed her fingertips together. Her head nodded as if in a trance. What if this is more than a legend?

Chapter 2 – St. Augustine Prep

A good night’s sleep was all Clara wanted, but it was interrupted when she felt her grandmother tug her toasty blanket off her body. She felt stripped and cranky.

Come on now, her grandmother said. I told you that you and that alarm clock better make friends. I know you’ll hate hearing this, but you need to be more responsible. School buses wait for no one. Now let’s get going.

Where? Clara asked.

Today we’re checking out St. Augustine Prep, darlin’. Grandma Ellie opened the curtains, and the sunlight blinded Clara. You check out your classrooms, make new friends. Your father told me all about your concerns. Trust me, you’ll be Miss Popular in no time.

I’d be happy with Miss Not-Invisible or Miss-Have-A-Couple-Friends. Clara stretched out. That way maybe I can survive the school year.

An hour later, Clara’s nerves mingled with excitement as she rode in her grandmother’s orange Volkswagen Beetle, underneath the huge wrought-iron sign that read St. Augustine Preparatory School. They drove up to a series of white Spanish colonial buildings with red-tiled roofs that made up the campus.

Grandma, this looks like a small college, Zandra said.

You saw the sign just like I did, Ellie said, pulling into the parking spot. Look at all of these students and their parents. Clara, do you need help finding your classes?

I’ll do my own thing. Thanks. Clara exited the car fast enough to lose her sister.

She ran up the sidewalk, past the big doors, entering her new world of big classrooms, tall ceilings, and long halls with glossy floors waiting to be scuffed.

Welcome.

Clara heard a voice to the side of her. It startled her.

The woman repeated herself. Welcome.

Is this really St. Augustine Prep? It’s so …

So overwhelming? You must be new here, said the woman with bouncy, chestnut hair. The older you get, the smaller this place gets, I promise. I’m Señorita Avila, one of the Spanish teachers, and you are?

Clara … Dune. She peeked at her schedule. Nice to meet you, I …

Another girl stumbled in, dropping an abnormally large backpack on the floor.

Welcome back, Jia, said Señorita Avila. Are you all right?

Jia’s perfect black, Asian hair hung alongside her flushed cheeks. Bookish glasses gave her a geek-chic style that framed her smiling almond eyes. As sweat beaded on her forehead, it was debatable whether the cause was the backpack she lugged around or the fact that her buttoned-up collar clamped her neck like a conservative noose. With a huff, she said, "Hola. Just me and my backpack."

Hi, I’m Clara. You know, school doesn’t start today, right?

"Hello. Right. I’m Jia. Jia Zhilan. Just trying to get used to my new gear."

What team are you on? asked Clara.

No team. Just school books. My father’s Chinese. Studied hard to become a doctor, so I can’t change his mind about this sack. Besides, it’s a trial run for when classes start. My brother graduated from here the top of his class. My teachers expect the same from me. Try comparing yourself to a walking brain. She nudged the lifeless lump. You know, my mom could climb the Andes Mountains back in Peru with this thing.

"Jia, we want your best, not your brother’s best," said Señorita Avila.

Jia’s head dropped, and her glasses slid down. Tell that to my parents.

Both of you are in my new classroom, so follow me, the teacher said.

The inside of Señorita Avila’s room looked like a gigantic world map with every Spanish-speaking country painted in red. Bienvenidos was spelled across the chalkboard.

Clara said, Wow, my father’s been to almost all of those red countries.

And he speaks Spanish? Señorita Avila asked.

Uh-yep, she said, turning her head around the room.

"¿Clara, hablas español?"

"Si, Clara said with slight embarrassment. She fidgeted and crossed her arms. Trato … de hablar pero no soy … ¿fluido? I try, but I’m not fluent."

"Muy bien. Don’t be nervous, Señorita Avila smiled. Stick with Jia, and you’ll have no problem."

Jia said, "Had to learn it. No habla the español, no new jeans or cell phone."

Clara looked at the designer clothes and latest cell phone and figured that Jia’s Spanish must be excellent to gain her parent’s rewards.

More students entered, looking for Señorita Avila. "I know you two will do well together. Jia can show you around. Hasta luego."

The girls walked out into the hall and were nearly sideswiped by a boy. Clara dropped