Chagit's Electric Dance

By Rea Ash

Barbie Monroe is the American icon. With all her plastic surgeries, glamour makeovers, and seduction techniques, she is the epitome of perfection according to mass media standards. She is blonde, beautiful, and as plastic as a human Barbie Doll. Dreaming of the ideal romance, Barbie falls for a mysterious guy finding herself in a whirlwind romance that overwhelms her senses. When she realizes life is not like the movies, she sets out on a whole new path of greater fulfillment. She finds love in the most unexpected place and with the most unexpected man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rea Ash
• Release date: Apr 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311869401

Book preview

PREFACE

I am lying on a bed under the studio lights in a red sequined dance costume. Lights, camera, action, Juan Domingo says in Spanish to the commercial crew. The camera is rolling.

I sit up and a man walks onto the set beside me. He sits down on the edge of the bed and lowers the straps of my dance costume from my shoulders as he slides his hand over one of my breasts. Tears well up in my eyes, but I hold back.

Cut, Juan Domingo calls out. The camera stops rolling. "Muy bien, muy bien."

Very good. That’s a wrap, the American camera man says.

I wipe my eyes and pull up the straps of my dance costume.

***

The caterers are moving around tables and setting up food. I am standing beside the camera man with my head upside down as I brush my hair. The set lights shimmer upon my blonde locks. I can feel the heat. Brushing it like this… I say …makes it full and racy, like a supermodel or even a rock star. I love that windblown look. My voice is playful. Tilting my head to the side and looking up at his green eyes, I smile innocently. Try it.

Chuckling, the camera man shakes his head side to side like he is stunned as he looks at me. He steps away from the movie camera, running his fingers though his crew cut. I don’t think I have enough hair, Barbie Doll.

I suppress a grin. People call me Barbie Doll a lot. Actually, some people even call me Human Barbie Doll. I flip my head up. My hair falls like white rain glistening under the lights. Full and long, soft as silk. It ripples and waves like the sea just after a storm. Cool, pure elegance. The kind of hair everyone yearns to touch.

Don’t think I’m stuck up or full of myself or anything. Believe me I’ve worked hard to look good. Naturally I am horrid.

How do I know how my hair looks? Because I have brushed and flipped my head in this manner a million times standing before my full-length bedroom mirror. That mirror has gotten a lot of use. To look this perfect takes practice. You don’t become the ideal woman without painstaking effort.

I just finished acting in a television commercial for a Tijuana costume shop. To my utter shock, I was hired for the role at a dance contest in San Diego where I tripped on stage. Oh, what a nightmare! Mid pirouette, the feathers on my costume got tangled in my legs and I fell on my face. Who could figure? My face must have turned as red as a cherry tomato.

Apparently, Juan Domingo, the Mexican director who approached me backstage, must not have seen my pathetic fall and how the entire audience laughed at me like I was some sort of buffoon and not the Madonna, Like a Virgin, character I was going for. Anyway, Juan Domingo said the store wants a sexy blonde teenager about eighteen or nineteen (I’m almost fifteen) to say a few lines in Spanish. If I take the role, they will pay me a hundred bucks.

Great balls of fire! Of course I was thrilled to comply. I love acting and even though I’m embarrassed to admit it, being in the spotlight is what I am all about. It’s my dream to be famous.

So, here I am at the wrap-up of this commercial shoot. The rest of the crew are gathered around the refreshment tables filing their plates with the tasty, exotic, succulent, mouthwateringly delicious meal catered by Tijuana’s Caesar’s Palace, a classy restaurant located down the street. If only I could take just one bite, but I can’t because today I am trying to only eat carrots and non-fat yogurt. I am hoping to fit back in my child size 12 pants. Even though they will be too short for my long legs, I figure I can where them as knickers.

So, now that the shoot is over, I am just waiting to get paid. Like an idiot, I forgot my street clothes in the movie trailer which already left. I could just kick myself. So, to my complete dismay, I have to leave in the sequined French-cut dance costume and red high heels I wore for the commercial. Embarrassing to say the least!

The last thing I want to do is walk outside on the main strip in a foreign country looking like a scantily clad prostitute. Tijuana is close to San Diego where I am from, so I have a fair amount of experience across the border. Sorry to say, a lot of Tijuana men aren’t as physically polite as San Diegan men. To put it bluntly, in this part of town, the men feel you up on the street even when you are dressed. They grab and rub your ass as the walk by. Really! I can only imagine what they might do when I am clad like a whore. Excuse my language.

Earth to Barbie, the camera man says to me.

I look at the man a little perplexed. I feel dizzy from lack of food. Oh, I’m sorry, I manage to say. I think he is kind of cute, but not my type. He is probably at least fifteen years older than me.

What were you thinking about? His eyes narrow.

I get the feeling he is trying to figure me out. That makes me laugh. I’m not sure what there is to figure.

Now he also appears confused. I guess we are in the same club. What? he asks, drawing his eyebrows together.

I was just remembering how a fortune teller told me I am going to marry a man with an accent different than my own, I say to him. He is going to be really handsome and charming and even have mystical powers.

He smiles. I’m handsome and charming. His response is with a fake French accent. Can’t promise magic though.

Oh, but I just love magic! I spin around gaily. For whatever reason, I am always dancing around. For the life of me, I can’t even help it. I have so much energy inside that feels like it just has to burst out. Weird, huh?

I think about evil and black magic. Recently, I saw a documentary on pagan magic. It was creepy. Do you think mysticism is magic?

Yeah, I guess. His mouth twitches just slightly. Well, hell, I don’t know about that crap.

I stare at him, searching his eyes.

Sounds like you’ve read too many fairy tales, he says.

My life is a fairy tale… I realize I am still pondering the question of whether mysticism is magic, but then I think about how Mama is always telling me I ask too many questions and how I shouldn’t reveal how stupid I am. To distract myself, I continue talking. Prince Charming is going to come and sweep me off my feet and I am going to live happily ever after in a magic kingdom of sheer bliss, I say trying to steady my body. My mind feels so cloudy.

Just then the middle aged, heavy set director, Juan Domingo, waddles up to me. He is carrying a plate with a huge lobster and a saucer of melted butter. I bring you food. You take; you too skinny. He ogles my chest. "But, you chichis es muy grande—haha!" He laughs and laughs, so much so that he actually starts snorting as he stares at the sequined bodice covering my fake, ample c-cup boobs.

I take the plate from him. His hand brushes over my chest and lingers there before he turns and grabs a beer off a nearby side table. I turn away. A lump knots in my throat. Damn, don’t get all bent out of shape over this moron, I tell myself. Beyond my control, my eyes start to well up.

Jerk. What is wrong with me? I don’t know why, but for some reason I feel an aching pain where my heart is. I run my fingers through my blonde hair and remember how friggin’ ugly I used to be before all my plastic surgeries. Get in character. Play the part.

In my head I am always on stage. I turn back to my audience in an entirely new demeanor. Didn’t Shakespeare say something about life being a stage or something like that? I can’t eat a thing, I breathe, now suddenly speaking in my sultry Marilyn Monroe voice. I then escalate my act with a childlike giggle that makes most men approve of me.

Juan Domingo’s body twitches. Oh, hell! I jut my chin back in surprise. His nostrils flare. I didn’t expect this much response. The man appears as excited as a bull ready to mate. What a loon. I see a rise in his pants. Oh my gosh!

He is just not normal. As he reaches for me, the lobster falls off the plate I am holding. I stumble back. My cheeks are probably as red as a Valentine. Oh, my.

Hey! the camera man says. I’ll get that. Lucky for me, the camera man, who I never asked his name, steps between us and picks the crustacean off the floor.

Ooh. I glance at my designer watch. Mama’s probably waiting for me outside already. Gotta run. You can just mail me my paycheck. Why didn’t I think of that before?

Before I finish talking, the grip calls Juan Domingo over. The lascivious director waves him off and looks away from me before taking a swig of his beer.

I’ll walk you out, the camera man says.

Oh, no. Mama would be so mad seeing me with an older man. Then I think to myself: Actually, she probably wouldn’t even notice. But, it was an adequate excuse anyhow. That ache in my heart is bothering me so much that I feel I just need to get away from all of them.

Suddenly, I smell smoke. I hear a piercing scream. I look out the door and the most handsome BAD boy I have ever seen runs past. He smiles at me just as he tosses some sort of stick or something into the room. The long oblong shape rolls on the floor and makes a sizzling sound. It appears to be lit with fire! I gasp and run out onto the Mexican street. But once I am outside, my eyes widen in horror.

CHAPTER 1

Above Revolution Avenue, the setting sun was the color of blood. It looked like an open wound surrounded by scrapes and bruises set against the blue backdrop of sky. As the Tijuana tourist shops and street venders along the sidewalks closed for the night, the bars, nightclubs, and strip joints began to open and pound out their dance music onto the road. The pounding was entrancing and rhythmic. It could be felt beneath one’s feet, in the bones. There was no escaping it. A sense of desperation permeated the city.

Barbie glanced around, looking for the bad boy, but he wasn’t around. She wanted to feel relieved, but somehow she was not. He must have run away after throwing the lit object into the studio. Boy was he scary… and cute.

Most of the tourists departed for the night, leaving the promenade sidewalks relatively desolate, aside from a few locals and stragglers. Barbie watched some teenage boys roll a couple of trashcans out onto the middle of the road. What are they doing? She felt her heart rate speed up. The oldest of the boys looked at her and winked before he started lighting the cans on fire. A lump grew in Barbie’s throat as she gripped the wall. Was that the same guy who threw the lit object into the studio? The boys were probably around her age, fourteen, maybe fifteen, but this one seemed to be the ring leader and a little older than the rest.

Now the boys stood in the road with megaphones acting like police officers, directing traffic down a side street away from the blazing cans. They laughed and laughed at the absurdity of the situation they had created as they slapped their knees and hopped around like jumping beans to the rhythm of the pulsating discotheque music.

Barbie surveyed the scene, shifting just her eyes as she tried to look unaffected. She watched a man driving a hearse with a large florescent green cross propped up upon its roof and a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe painted on the door swerve around the blazing cans. Her body flinched as the old man nearly hit the boys. The oldest one rushed over to his car window and reached in. What is he doing? Barbie’s stomach knotted. The boy pulled the man by the shirt collar out through the window. He and the other boys rushed the man and started beating him before he scrambled back into his car and sped away down the side street.

Beside herself, Barbie, looked to some young girls in school uniforms. They were standing at the curb whispering to each other, watching the boys and the fires. One of them kept looking at her with mean eyes, so Barbie didn’t try to talk to them.

Then, catching her breath, Barbie’s attention shifted to a blind man with a tapping cane. Her mind whirling, she watched him wobble down the sidewalk. When he got to her he stopped and sniffed the air and smiled like he had just smelled the finest perfume. He shook his head and moved away from the scene.

This lawlessness felt like too much. Barbie wanted to find the police, but she heard much of the force was corrupt in TJ and she might just put herself in more danger. On edge, she heard a sort of rasping sound and looked over at a nearby store. Sneezing rapidly from the smoke in the air, a rabbi with a long beard, holding some leather bound books, stepped out of a closing shop. He stopped and looked at the fires for a moment, seeming to notice the rowdy boys with megaphones now screaming, "¡Viva Mejico!" At once, he hurried into the drugstore.

Barbie’s body stiffened as she wondered if he was afraid of the boys too. But to her relief, he stepped back out of the store. Together, he and the drugstore owner apparently rigged up some hoses to the back sinks. The two men were now pulling the hoses into the street, yelling at the boys while spraying the cans to no success.

Barbie felt her heart pattering fast against her ribcage. Would the boys beat up the rabbi and the storekeeper as they did the driver of the hearse?

But to her surprise, the boys stopped laughing. The cute, bad one’s face even seemed to pale. And, even further stunning her, he looked over at her and raised a dark eyebrow, grinning somewhat mysteriously. Heat rose up through her neck, burning her cheeks. Without further interaction, he took off with the others running away down an alley.

Some younger kids hurried out of a nearby taco shop with fire extinguishers, which they sprayed onto the flames, putting the fires out. The kids rolled the cans out of the street where they laid, burnt and smoking at the curb. A gentle breeze blew through her hair and Barbie felt alone as she watched the rabbi get into his brown Pinto that was parked down the avenue in the Woolworth parking lot and drive away.

With most everyone gone, the approaching darkness descended upon Barbie’s bare tan shoulders, upon her silky blonde hair, and upon her long legs covered in fishnet tights. Now that the fires were out, a tiny malnourished girl walked up and down the sidewalk. As she paced, she shook a tin can of coins making a fair amount of noise. The dance music hammered in Barbie’s ears and the clanking coins rattled her nerves further. She noticed that a neon Elvis tied to the top of a parked car along the street was lighting up the pink sequins on her French cut dance costume causing it to sparkle and flash. The fringe around her hips fluttered in the summer wind.

Sometimes she had strange considerations. She wondered for a flash of an instant if Ghandi was really an angel instead of a man and if aliens were real, but then her mind switched to her usual thoughts of yearning to become a famous model, professional cheerleader, or a movie star one day. Her thoughts were all mixed up. She wondered what was taking Mama so long to pick her up and take her back to their home in El Cajon, a suburb across the border in San Diego County.

Barbie Monroe loved popular media. She didn’t care if the media was a blockbuster film, a racy TV show, a romantic fairy tale, or even a fashion magazine. She just loved popular media. While she was watching a movie or looking at pictures in a fashion magazine, her imagination would reel with all sorts of ideas on how she could make herself out to be like the characters or models that mesmerized her imagination. It was not uncommon to go to a party and see her dressed like the latest supermodel, or to hear her talking in a low, raspy voice like the popular actress of the time, Demi Moore, or even to see her suddenly break into song and dance like the tough, sassy Michelle Pfieffer in Grease 2. She was always acting out the roles of her favorite characters in real life. But even though Barbie liked dramas, she didn’t like real life thrillers of the type she was watching right there on Revolution Avenue. Being stuck in Mexico with wild boys, fires, and pounding music all by herself, dressed like a prostitute, was a drama she’d rather watch on the big screen.

Just then, a well-dressed American couple, pushing a lace bassinet stroller with a piñata and a bag of leather sandals strapped to the side, stopped along the curb. The husband waved his manicured hand in the wind, trying to hail a cab. He looked over at the smoking cans along the side of the road, glanced at Barbie, his eyes catching hers, and turned away, appearing rather annoyed. Anxiously, the little Mexican girl approached them, shaking her can of coins. Tears began to pour forth from the girl’s dirty, smudged face, as she pleaded in an almost breathy desperation, the words catching in her dry throat, "Necesito ayuda, necesito ayuda—I need help." Flustered, the woman unfastened a small, ornate coin purse and dropped a quarter into her can. The girl trembled in gratitude as she took the shiny quarter into her hand and held it to her lips.

The man smiled at the girl.

The woman patted her on the back.

Then they put the bassinet and souvenirs into the trunk of the taxi and climbed in. They fastened their seatbelts. The woman passed the cooing baby to the husband.

He kissed the baby’s fat red cheeks.

She kissed the baby’s fat red cheeks.

The cab moved onward, the gravel on the road crunching under the tires and in Barbie’s mind. She couldn’t help but wonder why some people lacked while others had so much. If only she could help this little girl in a real way.

The jingling of the coins began to rattle again. The tiny girl stood before Barbie now, gazing up at her sparkling dance costume. Her brown ink drop eyes were lit in wonder as she stared into Barbie’s movie star violet eyes, seemingly mesmerized by her Barbie Doll appearance. Barbie Monroe was beautiful—as long-legged and stunning as a plastic doll—an unusual spectacle for the weary girl’s vision.

Barbie leaned uncomfortably against the nightclub wall. She unzipped the fanny pack around her waist, took out ten dollars, and dropped it in the little girl’s can. The girl danced around in excitement saying, "Gracias, gracias, thank you! Then she took Barbie’s hand, stood beside her, and said in English, I love you." The girl simply stood there holding her hand silently. Barbie’s hand began to sweat from the awkward feelings she felt holding this girl’s hand, but she felt a little relieved nonetheless, because she was scared being in Mexico all alone. After a few minutes, the girl dropped her hand gently and sat against the wall next to Barbie’s feet.

The more she thought about it, the more she was embarrassed to be standing on Revolution Avenue in a skimpy dance costume. She wished she had borrowed a coat or some sort of covering from one of the crew members before leaving, but she wasn’t thinking and just wanted to get away from the director. He frightened her. Now, she had to wait for her ride in this risqué dance costume for the whole world to ogle over.

At least she had kept her fanny pack around her waist. She had been careful to not let the pack out of her sight the entire shoot because she had a can of pepper spray tucked inside. Although naive about most everything in life, she had always been a little nervous and at times, according to her mother, paranoid. So, she wasn’t about to go to Mexico by herself without protection.

Her mother was supposed to pick Barbie up after the shoot, but it was not unusual for her to get distracted with work or a charity function, and forget her daughter. Barbie felt about a hundred nervous twitches course through her body whenever she thought of being stranded alone in Tijuana. She had been edgy lately since seeing The Accused, a film starring Jodie Foster playing the part of Sarah Tobias, a young woman who had been gang-raped in a local bar. That film terrified her. But Mama always says, Don’t worry unless there’s a reason to worry. If you do, you only bring on the bad stuff yourself through your thoughts about it. She couldn’t stand Mama’s ridiculous philosophies.

As she looked up, she noticed two drunken American teenage guys step out of the strip bar across the street, the neon lights overhead flashing in their lustful eyes. Embarrassed, she turned away from them, as they eyed her up and down, discussing amongst themselves whether or not to approach her. She walked over to the painted black and white striped donkey made to look like a zebra and rigged up to a photo backdrop that was tied with sombreros for tourists to have their pictures taken with.

She felt the guys’ eyes burning into her. When she looked up at them, from a distance, she noticed one looked a little like James Dean, but his hair was blonder. The other one was African American and looked to her like a muscular version of the television character, Willis, on Different Strokes played by Todd Bridges. She wondered where the donkey’s owner was.

Barbie sighed. "I wish I could set you free, Gordito. Earlier in the day, she had asked the owner what the donkey’s name was. It must be so painful standing here all day long, day after day." She wrapped her arms around the animal’s neck, her hair falling forward over her tan shoulders. The little girl walked over beside her and began petting the donkey’s ruff, painted hair.

Just then, Barbie heard the shrill voice of a woman cry out in terror from the alley across the street near the strip bar. A sickened feeling came over her being, blanketing her in darkness. She was afraid. The woman’s pleas for help enveloped her.

The little girl cried out, Mama! Mama! and ran into the street toward the alley.

Barbie didn’t know what to do, so she chased after the girl in desperation across the street into the alley, her high heels clicking and clacking against the pavement, looking much like Wonder Woman in her scantily clad costume. She knew it was stupid to go alone, but she felt she had no choice. She couldn’t let this little girl fall into danger, and someone had to help the screaming woman.

When she got to the alley she saw the American guys, who had been standing before the strip bar minutes prior. They had an attractive Mexican woman pinned to the ground as she struggled to get away. The blonde guy punched the woman in the face several times. Blood poured from her nostrils and lips as she choked and gasped for air. The little girl jumped on top of him, trying to pull him off the woman. Violently, he knocked the girl off his back, sending her frail body flying across the alley. The black muscular guy pulled at the woman’s dress, trying to tear it off her thin body, but it had several ties and thick material. The woman wiggled and kicked aggressively, trying to get away, scratching the African American guy in the face several times.

Barbie’s heart slammed against her chest. She thought about running away. Oh, no! What should I do? The little girl was lying on the ground across the alley crying hysterically. Images of Jodie Foster being raped in The Accused flashed through her mind and mixed with the present images of the woman’s mutilated face and torn clothing. Rage enveloped her. Everything was happening so fast.

She fumbled at the can of pepper spray in her fanny pack. Her hands shook excessively and her breath quickened heavy and rapid. But, once she got a semi-steady grip on the can, she pointed it at the boys. Stop! she cried out finally, her voice scratchy and hardly audible through the woman’s screams and child’s cries.

The guys didn’t appear to notice her. The blonde guy unzipped his jeans and shoved his hand under the woman’s dress. She moved violently and he was unable to get a firm grip on her.

Barbie felt strangled by her own breath. It occurred to her that the pepper spray may have dried out from lack of use. If she moved in closer to the men to get a more proficient aim, they could easily abduct her as well and even more so if the can rendered defective. These thoughts escalated her anxiety causing her hands to sweat profusely. In turn, she began to lose her grip on the can.

Luckily, she had an idea—she tried to calm her nerves by pretending she was the TV character, Jill Munroe, played by Farrah Faucet on Charlie’s Angels, stopping a horrific crime. Barbie had played the role hundreds of times, standing before the mirror in her bedroom. With this thought, suddenly her demeanor changed, I’ll burn your eyes out with acid! she warned, her voice stern and confident.

The guys looked up in surprise, eyes wide, filled with the violent energy of their passions. The little girl started to scream uncontrollably from across the alley where she stood. Barbie noticed her arm was broken and bent backward in the shape of a U. The blonde guy got off the ground, smirking as he walked toward Barbie.

Barbie pressed the button on the can, but he wasn’t close enough to suffer the effects of the debilitating liquid. Let the woman go! she demanded, her long legs spread squarely in fighter’s stance, arms out straight before her. Her violet eyes switched back and forth from the blonde guy to the black guy in icy determination.

The blonde guy swiftly reached for the can, but as he was in motion, she managed to mist his eyes slightly. In his accelerated rage, he flinched for a moment, yet grabbed Barbie by the wrists and expeditiously knocked the pepper spray to the ground. She was bewildered by his great strength. Never before had she experienced a physical confrontation with a man. He punched her in the gut and then in the face. Her mind filled with the kind of unexpected terror, shock, and pain of a naive girl who misunderstood the overwhelming strength and force of the male race. Somebody help me—please, she thought as she struggled desperately for her life, the scenery swirling before her eyes.

Just then, a mysterious dark haired teenage boy pointed a gun at the blonde guy. Let her go or I’ll shoot, he commanded.

The blonde guy was consumed with rage as he tried to overpower the relentless, struggling girl and appeared oblivious to his pursuer. His friend took notice though. The African American guy released the Mexican woman, pulled up his zipper, a look of utter terror in his eyes, perspiration trickling down his face, and ran away, out of the alley.

Without further hesitation, the boy shot the blonde in the foot. A scream of horror sounded through the alley, the agonizing wail overlapped in echoes as he dropped Barbie to the street at once.

Get out of here… the boy said sternly, …or I’ll kill you this time.

He threw his hands in the air and said in a strained voice, Hey, we were just messing around. Let me go. We won’t bother you.

I said go. The young man with the gun responded in a low, confident tone.

Looking around quickly, perhaps searching for his friend, he took off at once, running down the alley and turned down another side street.

Holding her torn dress together, the woman got up off the ground, her daughter whimpering and hugging her legs. She spoke quickly in Spanish with the boy and hurried away with her child.

Frightened, Barbie jumped to her feet, her lip gushing blood and her nose broken. She backed away from the boy, wide-eyed, panting heavily. What happened to the woman and her daughter? she managed to choke out of her raw throat.

The mysterious boy brushed his hair out of his blue eyes. He was exotically handsome and reserved. She asked me not call police. She say it bring shame to her family. He looked at her fixedly for a moment. You are hurt, he said. He spoke in a Mexican accent. His voice was now soft and rhythmic. "I will help you—bezrat Hashem."

At that moment, he closed his eyes for some time. Confused, she wondered what he was doing. It occurred to her that maybe she should run away. His serene behavior was so odd. But, she was surprisingly drawn to him. He seemed to have the air of a guru or mystic. G. I. Gurdjieff came to mind. Yet in some ways this boy was so normal like a regular teenager. This wasn’t like one of those cliché paranormal TV series or supernatural fiction novels where the guy turns out to be a vampire or some other paranormal creature like an angel or an alien. He was a real person.

Then she noticed his dressy attire. He was clad in black dress pants and a white dress shirt. She wasn’t used to seeing teenage boys dressed this formally. Maybe he was returning from a formal event or maybe he was some sort of Mexican royalty. The thoughts caused her to laugh as she imagined him to be Prince Charming.

With his eyes still shut, he seemed entirely in his own world, as if he had entered some other dimension she was not privy to. He reminded her of spiritual leaders she had seen on television who entered meditative states, levitating their bodies, walking on water, turning staffs into snakes. Then, at once, light exuded from his body. Barbie blinked, unsure of this vision before her eyes.

The blood stopped rushing from her lip. Her nose swelled, took shape and then healed entirely. It was as if the natural healing process occurred in speed time.

He opened his eyes serenely. "Baruch Hashem—you good now." he whispered this melodically, the words sounding like a heavenly lullaby in Barbie’s mind.

Just then Mama drove into the alley, waving animatedly at her from inside her Mercedes Benz. Barbie felt healthy and light, completely rejuvenated. When she turned back to thank the mysterious boy for saving her, he was gone.

CHAPTER 2

The high granite mountains etched in horse and all-terrain vehicle trails formed a jagged box around El Cajon Valley. As the sun blared down overhead, the hot June wind blew dust up from the dirt valleys along the sides of the roads through the brush, up through the dry swaying palm trees, and over the rooftops of the randomly dispersed ranch houses set on one to two acre plots with riding rings, old barns, and swimming pools. Deeper within the valley, past the track homes, past apartment row, and past the strip mall, but right beside a park, set El Cajon High School, blue and yellow flags blowing in the wind. In front of the parking lot, upon a huge marquis that read: Dance Time Now’s Children’s Competition—main auditorium, a bronze alma mater eagle with a piercing, ominous gaze perched with its claws and wings spread as if preparing to swoop down upon an unsuspecting victim.

School just let out for summer last week. Next year Barbie would be a sophomore. Off to the side of the picnic tables on the lawn, Barbie lounged around with her best friend, Mandy Withers, wasting time until it was her turn to compete in the dance competition. It was a bright sunny day. She noticed the grass and bushes looked very green and lush especially compared to the dull gray and dry, cracked cement of the quad where many of the cheerleaders and football players stood around in clusters gossiping as they waited for pre-season summer practice to start. Barbie had an odd feeling that someone was staring at her, but when she looked around the quad, she didn’t see anyone even seeming to notice her.

I’m sure that boy that saved you in TJ didn’t heal you with his mind, Barbie! Mandy was a plain, yet pretty girl with shoulder-length, straight book-brown hair, big brown eyes, and a small button nose. And she was usually kind, considerate, and philanthropic enough to snap Barbie’s rubber head back in the neck socket whenever it happened to pop out. "That’s just