End of Normal

By S. C. Arscott

After surviving an alien invasion, a group of teens desperately search for answers as their world collapses around them.

 

Sixteen-year-old Olivia Richards' last day of normal is just that, normal. She worries about impressing Sawyer Rising, the hottest guy in school, and argues with her mother. Everything seems fine except for that strange, glowing plant in the yard and her dad lying to her and deaf twin brother Charlie, which is the weirdest thing of all because their parents do not lie to them. Ever.

 

Normal ends as lights shoot out of the sky and turn into stinging drones, killing their parents. As he lay dying, their father gives them cryptic clues about coordinates and begs forgiveness before insisting they leave.

 

The twins join forces with Olivia's boyfriend Adam, her best friend Clara, and heartthrob Sawyer. Together they go in search of answers only to find conspiracy, death and an awful truth about their families.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jun 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781771550925

Book preview

Champagne Books Presents

End Of Normal

By

S.C. Arscott

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Champagne Books

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2014 by Susan Arscott

ISBN 9781771550925

October 2014

Cover Art by Ellie Smith

Produced in Canada

Champagne Book Group

19-3 Avenue SE

High River, AB T1V 1G3

Canada

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 Champagnebooks.com (or a retailer of your choice) and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To Mike.

One

On the last morning of normal, I wish I could say I did something important, something that mattered, something noble even, but I can’t. No, instead of spending my last normal morning doing something meaningful, I wasted an entire hour pulling on and tugging off jeans, shirts, and sweaters searching for that one combination that would make me look incredible.

Why was I so reckless with my time that morning? For a reason I no longer remember, it was the day I decided Sawyer Rising—hottest guy in school, goalie extraordinaire, and so gorgeous a mere hint of his crooked smile made me weak—was not only going to notice me, he was going to talk to me.

Now, in this new world where stuff like that doesn’t matter anymore, my face burns in shame when others reminisce over their final hours of normal. As they strain to remember every image, every touch, every word, I yearn to forget. In my weaker moments, when the guard I placed on my mind wavers, my thoughts drift back to that wasted hour and my insides shatter into bitter edges of hurt and sorrow and remorse.

In my dreams, I spend that final morning of normal sitting with my parents and my brother, Charlie, talking and laughing about nothing and everything. Maybe our cat Einstein’s latest caper, or one of Mom’s ridiculous historical tidbits, or one of Dad’s bad jokes. Then I wake up and regret washes over me, paralyzing me with a grief that, in time, releases my limbs but never my soul or my heart. For forever, I will carry my guilt over that precious hour I threw away.

Anyway, back to that final morning. When I was at last satisfied with how I looked, I wandered down to breakfast, pausing to check myself out in the dining room mirror. For once, I actually felt good about the reflection staring back at me. My shoulder-length blondish hair had kept its curl instead of hanging like shreds of silly string as it usually did. My skin was zit-free, and my skinny jeans were perfect with my new pink-striped sweater. The luscious material practically screamed, Touch me.

I hoped Sawyer spoke sweater.

Confident, I strolled into the kitchen to face my beautiful, perfectly put-together mother. To a person on the outside, my mom might look like some shallow beauty, always hitting the stores and piling on the makeup. They would be wrong. Mom was simply one of those women who always looked fantastic. I, on the other hand, was not so lucky. It took a lot of effort for me to look good.

As I entered the kitchen that final morning, Mom gave me one swift, reproving look. Olivia, we’ve been through this. I refuse to let you go to school in those jeans. It was impossible not to hear the sigh slipping in among her words.

Mom didn’t have to specify; I already knew. She thought they were too tight, which seemed stupid because wasn’t that the point of skinny jeans? Hoping she’d let me slide this once, I appealed to her sense of style. I know, but they’re so perfect with this sweater.

You can wear the sweater with another pair of jeans. After a glance at her watch, she added, You better hurry. It’s getting late.

On any other day, I would have exploded or imploded depending on my mood. Today, however, determined to do everything in my power to get Mom to let me wear these jeans, I forced myself to stay calm. It’s important I wear them today.

She looked up from pouring a cup of coffee. Why?

Okay, she was giving me a chance, if I could only come up with a solid, believable reason. Possible ideas, none of them convincing, stumbled all over each other inside my head, stopping behind my tongue. What justification could I give for needing to wear the jeans today? Except for something ridiculous such as today was Wear Pink Sweaters and Skinny Jeans Day, not one idea untangled itself enough to help me out.

It was pointless. You wouldn’t understand.

She stopped, her cup poised in mid-air, eyes meeting mine. Well, then, Olivia, help me understand.

For a second, I almost told her how difficult it was to have a mother so much prettier, so much smarter, and just so much more than I’d ever be, but the words stayed unsaid and the moment passed.

Forget it, was all I could manage, before trudging back to my room.

Disgusted with myself for not fighting harder, I struggled to yank off the skin-tight pants, a tough enough task when I was happy, nearly impossible in my current frenzy to free myself of them and my mother’s strictness. Why couldn’t she let up once in a while, instead of always trying to mold me into her vision of a perfect daughter?

After a lot of squirming, I managed to slither out of my jeans and threw them into a corner. I stood in front of my closet and glowered at my boring clothes. Nothing would look half as good.

The clock on my nightstand showed me I was running out of time. I had to get going or I’d miss my best chance of accidentally bumping into Sawyer at our lockers before first period. I opened a dresser drawer and stopped for a second to admire the pair of Juicy Couture drawstring pants lying temptingly on top. Madison Montoya, the most gorgeous girl in high school, wore the exact same ones on Friday. She looked so spectacular guys drooled all over her.

As I remembered all that guy drool, it dawned on me that my mother had been her school’s Madison. That sealed it. No matter how much she might want to, my mom would never be able to understand what life was like for a regular-looking girl.

Rubbing the lush fabric, I wished for the millionth time for a body like Madison. She was skinny with curves while I was more solid—not fat, compact. I had the body of a jock, a girl jock without a skinny part anywhere, except, of course, for my chest, which I refused to think about.

Reluctantly, I moved my hand away from the velvety pants. I would never wear them in front of Sawyer. I wanted to attract him, not repulse him. I dug underneath the drawstring pants and came up with a pair of decent jeans. Not the total look I was going for, but passable.

Through my closed-door, my father asked, Olivia? What’s going on?

I zipped up my mom-approved jeans and opened the door. Dad stood in the hall, uncertain. Tall, lean, and shy, he looked exactly like what he was—a scientist, an astrophysicist to be precise.

He slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose and gave me his gentle smile. Mom must have sent him up to cool my temper. I hated when they tag-teamed.

Dad crossed my room and perched on the edge of my bed, reminding me so much of the long-legged Sandhill Cranes wandering the coast, I expected him to take flight at my slightest move.

From his perch, he stroked the sleeve of my sweater. Wow, this is soft. No wonder you want to wear it, he said, plucking a piece of lint from my shoulder and tossing it into the trashcan.

Right, that’s why I want to wear it with my best jeans. I don’t get her. I mean other kids wear jeans a lot tighter than mine.

He nodded sympathetically. I understand.

Despite knowing whatever I said would be wrong, I rushed on. Mom drives me crazy. Why can’t she let me dress the way I want?

Because she loves you.

So she makes me dress in mom-jeans because she loves me?

Strange as it seems, yes. It’s our job to make sure you grow up to be a good and decent person, and dressing appropriately is part of that.

Had he actually said that? "Where did you dig that gem up? A Parent’s Guide to Destroying Your Teenager’s Life?"

Now that you mention it, I need to review that particular chapter out of the parents’ handbook. If I remember the section correctly it states ‘In order to make your teens hate you, make them dress as hideously as possible as often as possible.’ He gave my shoulder a playful squeeze.

Ordinarily that would have made me laugh. Not today. Today was important, and Mom had blown my plan.

Dad must have sensed this. Come on, Olivia, it’s only a pair of jeans.

To you maybe, not to me, I snapped and was immediately sorry. I didn’t hate my dad or my mom, just all their stupid rules.

I plopped on the bed next to him. Sorry.

He patted my knee. Me too.

It’s… I paused, unsure if it was worth the trouble to try to explain.

My dad tried to understand what I was feeling. It wasn’t his fault he was completely clueless about important stuff like getting a certain popular guy to notice me. I was about to give him my usual answer—it doesn’t matter—when he gave me such a goofy, heart-melting, I love you look, I decided to give it a shot. I get tired of everybody telling me what to do. I want to make my own decisions.

He surprised me with his answer. I used to think the same way when I was your age.

And?

And now. He looked past me, beyond me, and said, I have to live with the decisions I’ve made, and that, I promise you, is not always easy. He gave my knee another pat and stood. Let’s get some breakfast.

We went downstairs and joined my mother and brother at the table. I poured milk onto my cereal and munched on a spoonful as I took my English essay out of my backpack. Meeting Mom’s stare, I said, This is due first period. I need to read it through one more time.

She was about to argue when Dad touched her arm, and they shared a look. With a soft Okay, she turned her attention to my brother Charlie, who was talking to my dad about a science project he was working on.

To some people it’s important I add that my twin brother, Charlie, younger than me by ten whole minutes and taller than me by ten whole inches, was deaf. He’d always been that way, so I didn't ever think about it. He simply talked with his hands instead of his mouth. No big deal, at least not to my parents, or friends, or me. We signed as we talked with him, and he read lips and signed back. Like I said, no big deal.

I skimmed my paper and found a huge typo. How could I have missed it? Grinding my teeth, a horrible habit that drove Mom crazy, I set my paper on the table and searched my backpack for a pen. At the same time, Charlie, signing excitedly, elbowed his glass and toppled it over, splashing my essay with orange juice.

Charlie. Saving my paper from drowning, I jumped up.

Dad took it out of my hands.

Mom wiped it with her napkin and looked it over before handing it to me. It’s fine, you can barely see it.

Perfect. Just perfect. I snatched the paper and crammed it into my backpack.

Charlie traced a small circle over his heart, signing, Sorry. He then thumped the left side of his chest twice, his special sign for me, Livvie.

I closed my eyes. He could break my heart without even trying. I squeezed his hand and smiled, signing, It’s not your fault, Charlie. It’s mine.

We stood together for a second or two before I said, We better get going or we’ll be late. We put our bowls in the sink, and I said, Bye, see you after practice, to our parents and Charlie waved.

I wish I’d taken the time to give them each a kiss.

I imagine Charlie does too.

Two

We lived on Orion, an island in Galveston Bay a couple miles off the coast of Texas, which was cool because most everything we needed was nearby, including our high school. There weren’t a lot of cars on the island; most people walked, biked, or took the bus. Why add to the pollution if you don’t have to?

Most mornings Charlie, Clara Patel, and I walked the few blocks to school together. Clara and I’ve been best friends since her family moved into a house on our street when we were little. Our dads worked together at the Orion International Space Research Center until Clara’s father died two years ago.

This morning, she had to go early for a meeting with other brainiacs to figure out how to solve world peace or world hunger or some other world problem, so Charlie and I set out without her.

We’d walked a couple of feet when something, a blaze of light, a burst of color, or perhaps even the reflection of a sunbeam, flashed beside me. I turned. Everything appeared normal. Still, something felt wrong. I took a step toward the spot, and there, a few feet in front of me, stood a glowing azalea.

How odd. I bent to get a better look. The plant pulsed, like a heartbeat, growing brighter and more florescent with each thump until the leaves shimmered bright neon green. It was so startling my breath caught in my throat. Before I had a chance to call out to Charlie, the plant gave out a soft whoosh and the leaves returned to their familiar shade of deep green.

Was that real or had I imagined the whole thing? Unsure, I willed the plant to do whatever it had done one more time. I probably would have stood there most of the morning if Charlie hadn’t tapped my shoulder, reminding me that we needed to get to school.

Come on.

Okay. I gave the azalea a final look before heading down the driveway.

At the end of our block, Axel Cortez rode up on his bicycle. Despite my insistence to the contrary, some of the kids at school thought we were a couple. We weren’t. We just spent a lot of time together, and I liked him a lot, just not in a boyfriend-girlfriend way. I wasn’t sure how he felt about me. I never asked.

As he pedaled toward us, his dark brown eyes met mine, and an unexpected and wholly confusing twinge knocked under my ribs. Not an I love you twinge, more of an I like you more than a friend twinge. Till five seconds ago, I’d been team Sawyer all the way. Now my insides were so tangled, I felt like a human pretzel. I wish my stupid heart would make up its mind.

Unaware of my inner angst, Charlie gave a short salute, Hi Axel.

Hey Charlie, Livvie. Axel got off his bike.

I didn’t know you were meeting us this morning, I said, keeping my words innocent and my tone flat. It was best to stay neutral until I figured things out.

I got going a little early this morning and thought I’d walk with you. He pushed his bike between us. At the end of the next block, he gave me a sideways look. You okay? You seem kind of grouchy.

In an attempt to keep my confused emotions to myself, I almost didn’t answer and then realized it for the stupid idea it was because Axel and I tended to talk to each other nonstop. Deciding I’d better say something so he wouldn’t think I was mad at him, I went with a common complaint. It’s my mom and all her rules. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with yours.

Axel’s parents were working on a special project on the Space Station. They left Axel’s older brother, Randy, in charge, but since he was a graduate student with a fiancée, Axel was on his own most of the time.

Yeah, I guess, he said. The weird thing is I miss them a lot more than I expected I would. Not having them around has been lonely. He slid his bike into a bike rack and clicked the lock. I mean it, Livvie, your mom’s all right. I don’t know why you’re always mad at her.

I’m not always mad at her. Needing to escape him and my yo-yoing feelings, I pretended to be in a hurry to get to my locker. Charlie hovered next to Axel, neither of them moving. You coming?

Charlie moved his index fingers back and forth in front of his mouth, Talk with Axel.

What about?

Livvie, go, why don’t you? Let Charlie and me talk, Axel said, annoyance creeping into his voice.

Fine. A painful jab poked a particularly sensitive part of my heart, the part Charlie took up. He and I were really close. At least, I thought we were. What could he tell Axel he couldn’t tell me?

Trying my best to appear blasé about Charlie’s rejection, I straightened my five-ton backpack and headed to the entrance. Halfway to the door, Sophie, the goalie for our soccer team, called out to me. As I waited for her to catch up, I decided to forget about Axel, Charlie, and their private conversation. It was probably about some dumb computer game anyway.

Sophie and I entered the building and we walked down the hall, talking about our upcoming game on Thursday. It was against our archrivals, the Spartans, and was going to be a tough match.

I heard coach say she was starting you, Sophie said, bumping my hip with hers. Soccer players needed to act cool and she was cool to the max.

I jammed to a halt, nearly bursting with excitement. I was so ready for this. Really?

She grinned.

Are you sure?

Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t.

Finally. I hugged her. You made my day.

Figured it might, she replied. Got to get to class. See you later.

I watched her weave through the crowd, letting the thrill of her words settle into my brain. Me, a starting forward for Orion High’s soccer team, I’ve been waiting all my life for this to happen.

Clara was going to freak, I thought, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and digging into the front pocket for my phone. I sent a text to Clara, Charlie, Axel, Mom, and Dad before the first bell rang.

Stuffing the phone into my backpack, I twirled the combination on my locker and leaned in the opposite direction. This maneuver was essential to avoid getting whacked by the avalanche of books waiting to burst out of the locker once the door opened. I thumbed up the handle, my body prepared to dodge the assault of hard-bounds.

Nothing happened. No books tumbled to the floor. No locker creaked on rusty hinges. The stupid thing was jammed shut, again. Marginally pissed off, I slid my fingers along the edge of the door, slicing one on a jagged corner. Of course, it had to be my middle finger. I’d probably get gangrene and have to get my finger amputated, or worse, have to wear some enormous bandage, causing the offending finger to stick straight out. A vision of me racing across the soccer field shooting the finger at everybody in the stands flashed in front of me and I shuddered. It would be the most embarrassing thing ever.

Anxious to get inside the locker while keeping my fingers intact, I swirled the combination and pushed up the latch. Still nothing. No reassuring click of the lock or squeak of the door. This had happened before, and the quickest method to get it open was a sharp kick right below the lock.

After checking to make sure no adults lurked in the hall, I struck the door’s sweet spot with my foot. It didn’t budge.

Why won’t you open? I pleaded, careful to keep my voice quiet, so no one would hear me talking to my locker and think I was crazy or pitiful or both.

Determined to get my books before the final bell rang for first period, I angled sideways, ready to release one of my super strong soccer moves, when a delicious smelling hand brushed past my shoulder and thumped my locker with an expert whack.

My nose knew that enticing mix of citrus and ocean breezes—Sawyer Rising. Cheeks flaming, palms sweating, I turned, and there he stood, dazzling as ever.

I had this locker last year. It always sticks in October. It must be haunted. Smoldering blue eyes shone through shaggy dark hair. His lips curved into his killer crooked smile.

Despite my best efforts not to sigh, one managed to escape. I leaned against the wall to keep myself from passing out from the sheer ecstasy of him noticing me. Way to go, sweater. You were worth every penny.

I attempted a casual smile and said in a relatively normal sounding voice, Thanks. Good to know.

His gaze flicked across my face then stopped as if suddenly overwhelmed by my great beauty, which was impossible. I mean I’m not a beast or anything, but I’m no supermodel either. I’m average. Average height, average weight, average face. Not one physical detail about me would stop him in his tracks except for my eyes. All my life, or at least as long as I could remember, people complimented me on my eyes. A guy last year called their unusual shade of blue-green spectacular.

With luck, they were hypnotizing him. I decided to go with that, opening my eyes wide so he could get their full effect, silently cursing myself for not wearing eye makeup. Fighting the urge to blink, I managed a confident, Is something wrong?

No. He tilted his head slightly as if shaking away an unwanted image. After giving me a blinding smile, revealing perfect teeth, he backed away, leaving me to collect myself while he strolled down the hall.

As the bell rang, I leaned against the locker, amazed at the perfectness of the day. Even hearing the dreaded click of my locker shutting didn’t mar my bliss. The world wouldn’t end if I went bookless to class this one time.

Three

I have absolutely no idea what