Eruption: Yellowblown™, #1

By J. Hughey

A BTS eMag 2014 Red Carpet Finalist

I’m in the middle of the perfect college semester, hundreds of miles from Mom, with an awesome roomie and my freshman crush finally becoming a sophomore reality—Hotness! I’m figuring out calculus, I’ve got both hands on the handlebars and the wind of freedom in my hair. What on earth could slow my roll?

How about if the Yellowstone volcano erupts for the first time in 630,000 years, spewing a continuous load of ash (crap) all over North America? Think that’ll put a kink in my bicycle chain?

Make that kinks, plural, because here’s a scientific fact I’ll bet you didn’t know. Nothing ruins the perfect semester like a super caldera. Now that I’ve made you smarter today, maybe you can tell me how to keep my life cruising in the right direction—no to Mom, yes to roomie, double yes to Hotness!—during a global disaster?

My lame name is Violet and, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m not hanging from the side of a cinder cone on the last page of this trauma, but there’s definitely more to come. Unless, of course, humans become extinct and then there’s not. Duh.

Eruption is book one in the Yellowblown™ Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Hughey
• Release date: Sep 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9780996208109

Book preview

Eruption: Yellowblown Series Book One

J. Hughey

Eruption

Copyright © 2014 by Jill Hughey

ISBN 978-0-9962081-0-9

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August 24

My heart thudded like a subwoofer while I drove the last mile up the hill to Western Case College, known by its students and alums as Head Case U. Today, my life resumed. The bane of my summer, Mom, tucked her ebook reader into her black and white geometric fabric tote bag that begged everyone to see her as trendy instead of the rural, part-time journalist housewife she was. Begged and failed.

My fingers tapped the steering wheel, alive with the anticipation of arriving at my sophomore dorm room where I planned to live unhindered for the next nine months. I hoped to skip Thanksgiving this year, unbeknownst to my parents, though I’d probably have to go home for the longer winter break. I’d miss Dad, I had to admit. The fact Mom had landed and kept him for twenty-one years gave me faith some sort of hidden awesomeness lay underneath her nosy mom-ness.

I cruised through the off-campus area of run-down student apartments, coffee houses and pizza joints into the chaos of upperclassmen move-in day. The freshmen had been here since Thursday. They stood out like Christian rock groupies who’d accidentally stumbled on a rave, their eyes wide, stunned as the experienced Head Cases screamed greetings at friends and unloaded duffel bags and mini-fridges out of everything from SUVs (my mom’s—gag) to cute little foreign convertibles (Twyla Blakelock—sorority girl—double gag).

Mom smiled over at me, each lock of her super-short dark hair in perfect order, the way she wanted everything. Her eyes sparkled. She loved my life. She fed on the details of my existence, parasitic as the tapeworms our scooting dog had rubbed out of its butt years ago after Dad forgot to take it to the vet.

I’d been reduced this summer, when not at my babysitting job, to retreating into the woods around our house for a break from her constant monitoring. I’d sit within a circle of laurel where no one bothered me, like I’d found the force field the daughter in The Incredibles—also named Violet, poor girl—made to keep the bad guys away. Mom wasn’t exactly a villain, but she sure could push my buttons.

When I’d told her I wanted to leave at 5:00 AM today so we could get here by the middle of the afternoon, she’d been all for it, eager to set the timer on her coffeepot. Crazy. Her willingness gave me guilt. I was motivated by selfish impatience, and I didn’t want Mom to have an excuse to spend the night in town. She needed to start for home in Indiana the second I got my crap out of her car.

The campus looks great, she gushed. Look at those banners on the light poles. Are they new?

Yeah, they always spruce up when parents or alums are coming. I eased past the double-parked cars on the one-way road through campus. I was lucky to have such supportive parents. In my head, I knew this, but found it hard to remember as we wrestled to stay on the tolerable side of the line between support and suffocate. Supportocation, I thought to myself.

A girl in a yellow sari dashed from between parked cars. I tapped the brakes though she’d already reached the safety of the grassy quad. She leaped into the arms of a stocky, freckled, redheaded boy. The brightly ornamented fabric of her outfit reflected the pure joy of reunion.

Mom wore an indulgent smile as she rubbernecked.

I explained the clinging embrace. That’s Diya—she’s from India—and her boyfriend Bruce. Her parents don’t approve.

Is she a good friend of yours?

Not really. We did a French paper together last semester. I shrugged. She was upset the night we worked on it. Her parents had picked out her future husband back home, but she loves Bruce. They’ve been together two years, practically since the first day of their freshman year.

Poor thing, Mom said.

A land yacht pulled out of a prime spot near the dorm. Thank goodness for the backup camera, I said as I jockeyed into the space, challenged by the extra length of my bike rack on the back.

Caples Hall, Mom chirped, looking out at the utilitarian, three-story, red brick building. At least you’re only on the second floor this year. You and I are in shape. We won’t need the elevator.

Moving in last year had, admittedly, been brutal, with the temperature at like 150 degrees and those of us assigned to the fourth floor of North Hall waiting for the same elevator. My dad’s face had been the color of sloe gin by the time we finished, and don’t ask me how I know what color that is.

Dad’s absence today bummed me out more than I expected. Somebody had to take my sister, Sara, to a cheerleading tournament, and my sophomore move-in didn’t justify a family event, especially if said family would delay my escape an extra day. Besides, Sara begged me to leave on Saturday so she could spend Sunday with her boyfriend instead of driving to Pennsylvania. The two of us tried to help each other out like that when we could.

I opened the car door to the face smack of humidity. Most of the sweaty students I saw unpacking cars or talking in clusters outside the dorm were familiar, but no one I knew well, so I bent down to tug on the clip that held the rear wheel of my bike to the rack. The black plastic burned my fingers.

Mom lifted her arms to stretch as I tackled the tall clamp over the front tire. Had to give my parents credit for one good thing—they knew how to choose Christmas presents. This lightweight bike could chew up some road miles but also handled gravel roads and dirt trails. The slick charcoal gray paint with a few purple designs said girl, but not too girly.

I’d lowered the bike to the sidewalk when a familiar voice screeched my name. Mia Carbone, my best friend and new roomie, strutted across the lawn, her smiling lips coated in her trademark 1950s red lipstick, black hair glossy as patent leather, the long side of her asymmetrical cut held back with a daisy clip. Tomorrow it might be a skull barrette or a lace ribbon. You just never knew with Mia.

Her brisk hug made some of the stress leak down my body and out through my feet into the perfectly trimmed grass. I’d missed having a friend an arm’s reach away.

Hey, Mrs. Perch, she said to Mom. They talked generically about our road trip as she eyed the bike. I dunno, Violet, you may have to sleep with that bike in your bed, she finally said, cocking a hip clad in skin-tight polka dot leggings. You’d think sophomores would rate a bigger crib.

Two freshman boys sauntered by, their freshman-ness given away by the brand new Western Case Copperheads T-shirts they both wore. Those boys’ tongues almost dragged on the cement as they ogled the slammin’ great body Mia did nothing to hide. She slid white-rimmed sunglasses down her nose and fluttered lashes coated in about five layers of mascara at them, drawing attention to her amazingly clear blue eyes. I say, my fine fellows, wanna carry some of my roomie’s stuff?

Fifteen minutes later, I interrupted Mom from unpacking the new purple and blue bed linens. Hey, Mom, do you want to get a coffee or something before you start the trip home?

Mia and I knew how we wanted things, and I wanted to do it myself.

She consulted her cell phone. Wow, only three o’clock. I guess if I leave now I could make it all the way home tonight.

When we got to the sidewalk, I handed her the car keys. Don’t drive tired, I said. My mom made me nuts, but I didn’t want her to die in a fiery crash or anything.

I won’t. Her eyes looked weepy as she enveloped me in a mom hug. She rubbed my back.

Oh, hell no, I thought.

’kay, Mom, you be careful, I said, pulling away and pretending her tears weren’t making my eyes get a little wet in sympathy.

I know. I get it, she said, laughing. She slid into the driver’s seat. You be careful too, girlfriend. Don’t break too many freshmen boys’ hearts.

I won’t, I said. She needn’t worry. Freshmen were not on the menu this year.

When I got back to the room, Mia was wrestling her purple pillowcase onto a fat pillow. I danced through the mess to hug her again, giddy with freedom. She patted me bracingly.

Methinks I must hie myself to the bookstore before all the used volumes are gone. Wanna come?

Mia had gone through her grandmother’s collection of dog-eared regency romances this summer. She now fancied things and talked about some book called Debrett’s and used exclamations like La! The Jane Austen novel on her bedside crate worried me more than a little.

Sure, I said. My fingers itched to make order out of this chaos, what with all my stuff in a pile by the narrow closet and my bike standing right where we needed to walk. How do you even know what books to buy?

I checked with the profs last spring and found a few in the Rutgers store over the summer, but these Head Case teachers have some bizarre choices.

My pulse raced again as we set out, urged on by the familiar buildings, the smell of campus. Palpable anticipation pressurized the atmosphere, like a balloon expanding before your eyes with the hiss of a helium tank.

Creative in her greetings, Mia called to one of the school’s best wrestlers, Hey, Mr. Bodacious. You been workin’ out this summer or what? His head jutted up as a continuation of his freakishly thick neck, and his arm seemed reluctant to lift above his shoulder when he waved.

In comparison, and in a spectacular display of my relative lack of social coolness, I barely managed a chipper, Hi, Christine, to a girl I’d aced a World Studies project with last year.

Mia’s surgically precise shopping rolled us through the bookstore in less than thirty minutes, in spite of checkout lines daunting enough to make a discount store proud. Yellow shopping bags sporting the black Copperhead snake logo threatened to snap our fingers right off. Luckily, we made frequent stops while Mia figured out where to find the best parties.

She plotted as we climbed the stairs in Caples. I think the one at Deek sounds good, she said, referring to the fraternity Delta Kappa Epsilon. But they’re usually late-night, right? The Foamy Head could be fun first.

We can’t get in there, I said. They card.

I know, but there will be people outside on the sidewalk.

Which means the cops will come.

She stuck her tongue out at me as she flung her new-to-her used books on her bed.

Before I go anywhere, I’m unpacking my crap, I said. With my books in a neat stack on the desk, I pulled Gloria, the hippo from Madagascar, out of her undignified crumple in my suitcase. I’d inexplicably jammed the stuffed animal, a gift from Sara when she’d been barely more than a baby and Madagascar her favorite movie, in my bag during my last survey of my bedroom at home, both last year and this year.

You go girl, but that bike isn’t going to fit. And at nine o’clock, I’m going to the wrestling party Bodacious told us about, with or without you.

I couldn’t stop looking out the window as I unpacked. Hard as I’d tried to talk myself out of the crazy this summer, there was only one person besides Mia I wanted to see.

August 26

Text to Mia:

Description: Macintosh HD:Users:jill:Documents:Yellowblown:Eruption:Texts:Text5.jpg

My shaking fingers barely managed to switch my phone to silent as Dr. Potter hoisted his computer bag onto the table at the front of the classroom. Geology 101 at 9AM on MWF. First class of the first semester of my sophomore year, and one of the larger courses at Western Case for a couple of reasons. Number one, it was considered the least painful choice to fulfill a science requirement, and number two, since last spring Dr. Potter’s Teaching Assistant had been Boone Ramer, giving a whole new meaning to the class’s nickname Rocks for Jocks.

There were a lot of girls who would do anything for a closer look at Boone Ramer, including get up for a nine o’clock class.

Boone had been the first student I’d met last year. He worked as an RA—a Residential Advisor—meaning he lived in a dorm and helped the guys on his floor with whatever. I’d wrongly viewed his assignment to a men’s floor in my freshman dorm as a blessing. Over the course of the year I’d realized it was a total, total curse.

Anyway, on that first day of my college career, he’d greeted me and Sara and our parents right at the door of North Hall. Mom tried to play it cool, but she’d nudged my arm, thinking exactly what I was. Hotness! Only she probably thought in old-person lingo, like Oh, isn’t he a sight for sore eyes.

Hi, I’m Boone Ramer, he’d said. He shook hands with all four of us as Dad introduced us.

I wasn’t real big on makeup or fashion, but I’d at least glossed my lips and slid the clasp of my medallion necklace to the back of my neck before I’d gotten out of the car. Of course, Hotness treated me like every other noob passing through his assigned door.

Greet.

Directions to room.

Deliver printed schedule.

Move on to the next.

All the girls watched him during freshman orientation. I tried to figure out why as I stalked him myself. Despite my mom’s nudge, movie star handsomeness didn’t quite capture his aura. He had greenish eyes, a solid six-foot body, and dark blond hair in an athlete’s clipper cut with the front spiked. At the hamburger and hotdog cookout on the quad the first night—with a vegan alternative meal for those who wanted it—he wore a short-sleeved collared plaid shirt that would have been totally uncool on anybody but him. He stood to one side talking to his RA comrades while us kiddies got our food and sat in folding chairs, eight to a table. The other guys wore T-shirts and polos blaring high-end mall store logos while Boone Ramer slammed it out of the park in blue and yellow plaid his mother had probably bought him at...well, I didn’t even know where you’d go to buy a shirt like that.

Now, a year later, I saw him holding Hoag Hall’s front door open for some girls who’d dressed for success the first day of class. My armpits got really sweaty, like they did every time I’d thought about him this summer, which had been pretty often.

Pathetic, since I’d intended to forget him after realizing his words in February had been kindness, not truth.

Six months of rejection didn’t stop me from smoothing my hands down the legs of my shorts when Boone, irresistible as always in a dark green T-shirt with a little V at the neck and faded plaid shorts, walked in the classroom carrying a stack of stapled papers. My first syllabus of the year, no doubt. Why geology, why, why, why, with him as TA and Mom’s college degree in it? And why did I sit in the second row like a geek? No one sat in the front row so I was a total, total geek.

With his papers delivered to the lecturer’s table up front, he walked directly to me, as if he’d known I was there. Like, maybe, he’d been watching for me like I’d been for him. My face felt hot as I sat up in my seat.

Hi Violet, he said with the awesome smile that showed off his blunt jaw.

Hey, I managed.

How was your summer?

It sucked, I blurted.

He laughed, and I thought I heard some chick behind me sigh at the throaty sound.

Whoa, he said. There must be a story there.

Not much of one. My mom. Remind me to never spend another summer at home, I said, quickly rediscovering the easy banter that always made me want to spend more time with him.

Maybe I’ll do that. His eyes flicked down the front of my sleeveless floral blouse, feminine and flowy over the form-fitting tank top beneath it. His glance wasn’t sex-predator freaky, but appreciative, like a guy checking out a girl he wants to know better.

Dr. Potter cleared his throat. Duty calls, Boone said, turning away.

Doesn’t it always?

He stopped mid-stride to look over his shoulder at me, mouth lifted in a half smile. I’d struck the mark with my little barb, and I lifted my eyebrows to acknowledge the hit.

When Boone handed out the syllabuses or syllabi—or whatever the plural form was—he made a point to give me the bottom one.

A Western Case Copperheads football sticky note fluttered on it. Blocky handwriting, from a pen about to run out of ink said, Pregame party on Saturday? Text me. And his cell number.

I tried to act like senior guys I’d been crushing on asked me out every day, while inside, July 4th fireworks zinged through me until my fingers went numb. With my best whatever expression, I fumbled to move the sticky from the first page to the fourth page of the syllabus (four pages!).

I hardly heard a word the prof said.

Mia lounged back on her bed. She applied black eyeliner with one hand while she held a cracked magnifying mirror with the other. Her first class started at eleven, probably for the better. I didn’t mind getting up in the morning. She couldn’t handle it. At all.

So, you saw Hotness? she said as she perfected the swooping line coming off the outside of her right eye.

Oh, man. I flopped into the round red chair we’d found on a curb last spring when the seniors were getting rid of everything not matching their new lives.

Did you talk to him? she asked.

Better. So much better. I showed her the note.

La! She grinned. Smitten. Simply smitten. She flapped the yellow paper in my face. You oughta knock the bottom out of that, she said, reverting to the profane and hilarious Mia I loved.

Mia, we’ve never even held hands. I can’t jump him in the stadium.

Who said anything about making it to the stadium? She rolled her eyes at me then planted a kiss on her mirror, leaving a bright red smooch. Hey, is breakfast still open?

By breakfast, she meant the cafeteria in the Snokes Student Center.

Only ’til 10:30, I said.

She tucked her phone into the pocket of her long fitted shorts and grabbed her thermal cup. We strolled across the quad like we had all the time in the world. At 10:29, Mia grabbed an egg sandwich and filled her cup to the brim with coffee, black. Mia not only didn’t do cream and sugar, she abhorred the lattes and macchiatos our entire generation craved. I’d already eaten so I picked up a banana for a snack.

Down in the Case Study, the world’s most stupidly named student lounge ever, the huge TV showed a satellite image of the Gulf of Mexico, where a white swirl the size of a pizza pan dominated the home theater screen.

I hope that S.O.B. doesn’t hit land. Mia stared at the screen, her foil-wrapped sandwich in one hand and her ‘Good Morning Beautiful’ cup in the other. I saw what Hurricane Sandy did to Jersey, and I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. Hold this a sec. She shoved her cup of unadulterated bitter reality at me so she could unwrap her food.

She ate without losing a smudge of red lipstick to the soggy English muffin. I chewed my banana, more interested in the clusters of people in the room than the weather. Twyla, with her gaggy preppy friends, dominated the area between the TV and the bathrooms, the most travelled path of the room, not by coincidence, I’m sure. The five junior girls wore matching sorority shirts. Each head sprouted sleek hair straightened to glossy perfection in dyed, highlighted colors ranging from sunny blonde to auburn. They strived to suck

Reviews for Eruption

[643cade · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'll admit, I'm a sucker for disaster novels and there's not enough of them out there to my taste. While this one does take a bit to get going (hence the 4 stars), I thoroughly enjoyed it and found myself searching for the sequel; eager to see where Violet and Boone end up. Give this one a chance. It may be slow going at first, but it's truly a decent one and one that will have you looking for more. The writing style is more young adult, but it reminded me of a book I read many years ago called Gingerbread - and that's one of the reasons I gave it a chance because I wanted to see where it led me. I'm glad I did so. The second book is quite good as well - so get through the slow start and appreciate the buildup of characters and the story. It's worth it, in my opinion.