Time's Daughter

By Anya Breton

In this sweet young adult love story, sixteen-year-old art nerd Aeon Still is the unwilling subject of a documentary about average American teenagers. She must quickly come to terms with the identity of her mystery parent, Chronos, the god of time, the realization that she wields extraordinary power, and the trials of keeping the town safe all while hiding her secret from a camera crew. Her life is further complicated by the interest of the enchanting new guy in town, Alex, who harbors a secret of his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anya Breton
• Release date: Apr 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476136035

Anya Breton

Anya Breton is an author and web monkey with an obsession for nail polish and rubber chickens. Her fears include Peeps and people who hate clowns. She lives in the Midwest with her significant other.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2012 by Anya Breton

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contact information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Anya Breton

See Cover Art Acknowledgments for information about free stock photography, free images and free fonts used in this and other covers.

Publishing History

First Edition, May 2011

Second Edition, May 2013

Third Edition, December 2014

Fourth Edition, May 2015

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

I stretched out my limbs with a ragged yawn, wiped the drool from my chin, and then recalled that I was being filmed. Wonderful. My nation-wide film debut was going to be made with sleep-filled eyes and a crusty mouth. Could I hope the documentary my mom had forced me into would only be shown at small-time film festivals, and then go direct to the dumpster instead of DVD?

I considered my next move. My afghan and little twin bed were warm and comfy. But school started soon. Staying wasn’t an option.

Get out of bed now or wait until my pillow had dried a little so the cameras wouldn’t show the dark stain on the burgundy fabric? What would a normal person do?

Pretending to stretch, I flipped the pillow over, hiding the drool track. I eased myself into a seated position — a barely veiled attempt to appear as if I hadn’t been awake for several minutes already. A black object above my door caught my attention. The camera was out of place in my little haven. My gaze shifted to the one in the corner to my right, and then to the last gleaming device in its spot over the sole window. Nothing could escape the digital eyes’ notice.

Shambling like a zombie, I headed for the one camera-free room in our five-room apartment was our bathroom. My safe zone now. Yeah, my safe-zone had morphed from the entirety of our eight-hundred-square-foot apartment into one ten-foot by ten-foot room.

I gazed at the nondescript female in the mirror and told myself that it was only for six months. Not long when one took into account the average life span of an American female.

Today marked the beginning of my stint as one of six sideshow freaks. That was how my classmates would view us when we showed up at school with a team of filmmakers in tow. It really would be a circus. Already the whole town was in a tizzy about the documentary: Young America: The average teenager in small-town USA.

My mother had seen the advertisements for casting hanging on the bulletin board of our local grocery store and insisted I go. I’d hoped somehow the Hollywood hotshots would sense I’d been forced to meet with them and that I didn’t want to be a part of the project. Maybe they had. I was certain the fact the casting director wanted a date with my mother was the only reason they’d picked me.

With a defiant glance at the door, I ignored the director’s standing order that we do our hair outside the bathroom. If I ignored enough of the orders early on, maybe they’d replace me. It would be the only way I could get out of this insanity.

Aeon. My mother’s soprano voice echoed from the kitchen on the opposite side of the small apartment.

Hands down I had the weirdest name at school. Most of my classmates’ parents thought I’d been named after an old MTV cartoon. In reality I’d been given my father’s name, but I would never dare tell them that.

I craned my neck in an effort to hear her additional mumble. Had she sounded cheery just now? Tiffany Still was rarely cheery in the morning. Something was up.

The camera mounted on the hallway wall and videographer in black pointing a lens at us reminded me what that was. She’s putting on a show for the filmmakers. Great.

For the first time since I was ten, my mother was making actual breakfast instead of sleeping past her alarm and rushing out the door with a fruit bar in hand. She wasn’t a bad mom. She had a lot on her mind. Between working two jobs, taking care of me all by her lonesome and fending off cancer, she had more important things to do than make me bacon.

You’re going to be late. She set a plate of newly flipped eggs over-easy and two bacon strips on the small round table that didn’t really fit in the cramped kitchen.

If one of the two of us were going to be late today it would be her. I wanted to say it, but I held my tongue.

The barely-there make-up on her downturned eyelids was obvious to me, but I doubted anyone else would have noticed it. Wavy dark brown hair that usually fell past her shoulders was pulled back into a jaw clip in such a way that it looked un-styled. Anyone who knew my mother knew that she was always styled in one way or another. Today was no exception.

Her manicured fingernails glistened over the fork she handed me, using the utensil to wave me into my seat. Hard to believe she’d had two tumors removed from those fingers a year earlier. Even stranger was that she’d used those fingers to cut hair four days a week nearly non-stop for five years.

She dropped into the chair across from me and pulled her fuzzy green robe tighter around her size ten body. So what’s going on today?

I gestured to our left. You mean besides the guy standing right there with a camera in my face?

Aeon. Her blue eyes were censorious.

Had I ever looked like that when scolding would-be shoplifters at work? It was possible. My mother and I shared the same eyes, hair, and body-type but my softer nose and fleshy lips were from my mystery parent. Maybe I looked sterner than she did.

Appearances were important to her so I gave her the answer she’d sought. I don’t know. Probably a pop quiz in history. There’s always a pop quiz in history on Mondays.

Always? She pulled back her head as though the wider view would provide an explanation. You’ve only been in school for three weeks.

I shoved a chunk of egg into my mouth and chewed it until I could swallow. And each Monday we’ve had a pop quiz in history.

School started on a Wednesday. The first Monday was Labor Day.

Okay, so we’ve had one pop quiz. With a wagging of my fork I added, But being prepared for the worst is always good.

She made a sound of disgust. You’re such a pessimist. I don’t know where you got that from.

Maybe my father.

My mother’s nostrils flared in that annoyed way she did so well as we faced off over identical strips of bacon. I had mentioned my father. He was an unmentionable. The topic of my parentage was right up there with the birds and the bees and where we were going to get the money for my college education.

Your father wasn’t a pessimist, she said.

Good to know. I drawled the final word and pushed back from the chair.

I rinsed my plate in the sink, and then stuck it in the dishwasher. Without thinking I grabbed the frying pan from the puke green colored stove and started scrubbing it.

She hovered behind me with her dish in hand. Aren’t you going to be late?

I glanced at the bargain black clock on the wall. There were thirty minutes to finish up and get to school. The walk took twenty-minutes.

No. I reached for her dirty plate.

She huffed after handing it over, but shuffled back to her room, probably to ready for work.

I finished the dishes with time to spare despite her worries I’d be late. After grabbing the backpack laden with the thickest books in the history of man, I headed out the door with the cameraman trailing close behind me.

Perhaps a little optimism was in order — for my mom. I’d look on this Monday as a new start. Maybe I’d have a better chance this time around than I’d had the first. Maybe.

Three weeks into September in northern New England meant the temperature was chilly in the morning. I had to wear my blue pullover — the hand-me-down from my mother when she’d bought her trench coat at the outlet store last month. The fleece barely kept the chill from my bones, but the next step up in my outerwear collection would have me decked out like an Inuit. The air wasn’t that cold yet. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and drew into myself to stave off the chill.

Today was week four of my junior year of high school. When I should be worrying about studying for college entrance exams and essays, I’d be avoiding cameras and strange looks. At least I wasn’t alone. Five others had been picked along with me.

We were a mixed bunch by intent. There was me as well as a role-playing nerd, a tomboy who was rumored to be a lesbian, a football star, the well-off county prosecutor’s daughter who happened to be a cheerleader, and a mystery student. The only thing we knew about the sixth person was that it was someone who had recently moved to Junction Hill. The director had said it was an amazing opportunity to document the trials and tribulations of the new kid in town, but he’d had refused to give a name.

I hoped the interest in the new kid would trump the interest in the hovering cameramen and the discovery of who had been chosen to feature in the documentary. More than likely it would be a toss up because of the hard feelings involved in those who hadn’t made the cut. Many had tried for a part. I knew my friends would be particularly bitter because it was no secret I hadn’t wanted this.

The school’s granite walls came into view. My trepidation over what was to come grew. I was treated to my first looks of shock in the student parking lot. Loud whispers followed the stunned expressions.

Aeon Still? Seriously? They picked her over us? You have got to be joking. She’s so weird! If the disdainful female meant to hide her insults, she’d certainly failed. "I thought this was supposed to be a documentary about average teenagers."

Average is another way of saying mediocre, her companion said. "Maybe we were too extraordinary for them."

The griping continued even after I’d walked out of earshot. In the distance I spotted another person trailed by a camera walking into the entrance. My lips curved slightly.

No, I wasn’t alone in this. Some of the other choices were going to get harsher reactions than I had.

I eyed the building, considering how my school would look to external audiences. Originally built in the late eighteen hundreds, the stone and brick structure held the auditorium, principal’s offices, and three floors of classrooms. Everything was freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer thanks to the oversized and badly insulated windows. Tacked onto the end of the original building was a new wing that held the gymnasium, art classrooms, and two new science labs. Unfortunately my first period science class wasn’t in those labs. Chemistry was in a room that made me wish I’d remembered to wear a sweater because the old windows let in a serious draft.

I walked around the stone steps that were primarily for show. A cement sidewalk parallel brought me to a pair of glass doors. From there it was a quick jog down the broad corridor toward the center of the building.

Act normal, the director had said. I think what he’d meant to say was, act as you normally would. That was only thing that made sense when applied to me. Normally I’d meet my group of friends outside the chemistry room. That’s exactly what I planned on doing.

I turned the corner that would bring me to my first class. Four loud gasps bounced against the red metal lockers. Ashley, the de facto ringleader of our group, shoved out her left hip settled her weight onto it — her most intimidating pose. I ignored her lifted chestnut eyebrow, bug eyes, and thinned lips by focusing on Melissa, the easy-going member I identified with most.

Melissa feigned surprise with wide eyes and a slack jaw that barely hid a smile. I hadn’t been able to keep the news about the documentary from her. The remaining girls, Jenn and Jenny, both variations of blonde, were in identical states of gape-mouthed shock that remained until our friend Ryan barreled around the corner in a speed walk.

He skittered to a halt feet from us and held his hands in mock surrender. Holy cameras, Batman! Who got picked?

Ashley’s reddened finger pointed at me as I drew near the group. I took my spot next to Jenny against the pressed cement wall outside my science class. Ryan joined us despite the presence of the camera and his obvious distaste for it.

Aeon? He pointed a look at me. Seriously?

I nodded, dropping my gaze to the floor. Being shy didn’t exactly make for great video, but that was the director’s problem. Not mine.

That’s gotta suck. Ryan chuckled — a ragged sound that might have been nervous.

Did he look as nervous as he seemed?

Suck? Jenny’s forehead knit as she addressed him. You didn’t try for a part?

Ryan shook his head. His mop of wild brown hair shook a second longer than the rest of him. Nah. I’m too freaky for a documentary on average kids.

So is she. Ashley snorted as if I weren’t standing three feet away. The arms crossed tightly over her trim chest further illustrated her opinion.

Why did I hang around? A glance at Melissa reminded me. Melissa enjoyed Ash’s company, and for Melissa’s sake I stomached her. But if the shrew continued insulting me like that, I’d have to reevaluate how much I was willing to do for that friendship.

Ryan, Melissa, and the Jens scattered at two minutes until the bell. Ashley stalked past me into the chemistry room. She then proceeded to ignore my existence despite the fact that I had the seat directly beside her.

Did she realize the cameraman trailing me would be filming her as well?

My attention switched to our teacher at the front of the room. A momentary spark of life came into her usually dull eyes upon finding the cameraman in her classroom. She froze, staring as though star struck. After two beats she cleared her throat and began watching someone in the front row. Clearly she’d recalled the directive to pretend the filmmakers weren’t there.

The lecture started. I dropped my attention to my wide-rule notebook. Time to start my daylong doodle session — an activity I hoped would help me avoid seeing the glares from all around. Today’s theme was harpy in honor of Ashley. I drew one of the mythological creatures with pale skin and stubby eyelashes. The image took shape over the course of the class period. The bell rang, cutting short the details in the wings. I glanced over and checked if Ash had noticed my portrait of her. I was treated to her cold shoulder.

History class and the inevitable pop quiz were next. In a last ditch effort not to fail, I scanned the bullet points in the chapter we were supposed to read over the weekend. Classmates filled in the desks around me. Loud whispers interrupted my skimming midway through page seventy-two. I glanced back and discovered a cameraman passing through the door behind an unfamiliar black-clad guy.

Neatly cropped, short raven hair covered his head. What skin I could see over the kids in the back row seemed to be a nice bronzed color, perhaps from a summer spent beneath the sun’s rays. But it was the pair of the most startling steel blue eyes that snagged my attention for a moment too long.

I never would have forgotten those eyes on any classmate. This had to be the new kid.

Before he could catch me gawking, I faced forward and concentrated on my textbook. What I’d seen hinted he was handsome. No doubt his good looks combined with the fact that he was one of the students picked for the documentary would propel him straight into the popular clique’s inner circle.

Take out a piece of paper, Mr. Zimmerman said from the desk up front. Your name is worth ten points.

I scribbled Aeon Still next to the heading Name, and then wrote the numbers one through five down the paper.

Question number one: the hundred years’ war lasted how long?

Trick question. I knew that much but I couldn’t remember exactly how long the war had lasted. I picked a number between eighty and ninety and hoped it was close enough.

Two: Who were the primary players?

I panicked, brain going fifteen different directions and none of them historical. One of the bullet points I’d skimmed minutes ago had covered the players but I couldn’t for the life of me recall the answer. I made an educated guess only to find that questions three through five were similar failures. If I’d learned anything from the pop quiz it was that I really ought to study more on the weekends.

Pass them forward. Mr. Zimmerman stepped to the white board. He scrawled notes in barely legible blue dry-erase streaks.

I turned, taking hold of the stack of quizzes handed up from behind me.

The new kid … he was seated in my row. That meant one of the quizzes in my hand had his name on it. I set the papers atop mine, peeling up the edges to peek at the names. His quiz was on the bottom of the stack. The name was written in chicken scratch that might have said Alex Chattan, but with penmanship as awful as his I couldn’t be certain. He didn’t really look like an Alex. I’d have pegged him as a something strong