PACIFIC PREP: BLOODLINES

By Brett Biaggio

PACIFIC PREP: BLOODLINES follows three teenagers as they learn what it means to put others above themselves. It is much more than a young adult paranormal novel, it touches upon the world's greatest topics, from the vaults of history to the complexities of love and the reaches of friendship. It argues whether being supe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writer Stain Publishing
• Release date: Sep 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734965216

Book preview

PART ONE

From Jackson’s Point of View

For Jessica

My butterfly in Heaven

I write because it is the only way I know how to show you my truth.

–Brett Biaggio

CHAPTER ONE

It was the most agonizing car ride I have ever experienced. Sitting in the backseat, peering out the passenger side window toward the crowd of onlookers, my stomach began to turn. Flashes of red and blue light slashed across the faces of my friends and the others who’d come to see what the commotion was. My friends’ eyes were flooded with tears of shock and confusion as they were being held tightly and consoled by their parents and by each other. My eyes ached from the tears. I have never experienced such a catastrophic event before; this moment has forever changed me.

Looking frontward to my mother as she turned the key in the ignition, her eyes met mine, the look on her face said it all; she was utterly heartbroken. I will never forget the pain or the emptiness in her bloodshot eyes; the sense of being lost—that I felt at that moment—has become a permanent part of me, a dark stain on my soul.

As we drove through town, everything was a sea of red and blue from the pulsing of the ambulance lights ahead of us. The buildings seemed to sway with the lights, which didn’t help the urge to throw up, but I resisted. We followed the ambulance to Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Hospital in the nearby town of Fenton, Missouri. What must have been no more than a 20-minute journey felt more like hours—the longest and most horrific hours my short life had yet experienced.

I kept waiting to be woken up, to be told I’d slept in and needed to hurry to get ready for the hunting trip I take with my father every year. We go right after my birthday, a weekend with just the two of us and the lush rolling hills of Mark Twain Forest—just the guys and nature, and with any luck, a few deer. I never got too much excitement from the kill, the rush that most of my hunter friends claim. For me, it was about the time spent in nature with my father and using survival techniques he learned while serving in the military. My dad never talked much about his time in the army; he only focused on what he felt would be an excellent lesson for me. That wake-up call for the hunting trip never came, no matter how hard I pinched myself. All hope was gone by the time we arrived at the hospital. The hospital’s large steel and glass façade seemed as cold and sterile as my entire world felt at that moment.

It might have been years ago—almost four to be exact—but that car ride happened yesterday, today, and will happen again tomorrow in my heart. When the haunting memory of that night replays in my mind, I usually read to help my mind escape into another world, but this particular night I decided to go workout—sometimes physical exhaustion works just as well as reading—a decision that has changed everything.

Exhausted from the intense workout I’d just fought through, I decided to take a quick nap before heading to one of the only places in the world that helps me to get a sense of calm: The Lookout. As I walked to my bedroom, I paused to look at a portrait of my family, taken when I was just 12. I wiped a tear from my cheek. The wooden floor creaked with each step as I continued to my room at the top of the stairs. I sprawled out on my bed to take a well-deserved nap.

I woke up feeling refreshed, so I went to sit at the edge of The Lookout. As I was sitting there at the edge—my legs dangling off—gazing out at the vastness of the world, my focus was pulled upward to the moon; its compelling draw was inescapable. My eyes fixated on it. It was as if my eyes were pulling the moon closer; it seemed to fill the sky—appearing to be ten times its normal size. For a moment, I could have sworn I felt the vibrations from its mutual tug with the earth.

The next thing I knew, I was screaming in desperation. Help…! I roared. The rush of air against my back as I plummeted toward the ground was, for a split second, like a hug from an old friend—it felt warm and comforting—but then the fear of death took over again. Every second I spent falling and reaching for a rope or branch that would never be there felt like an hour; everything was moving in slow motion. Other than the halo of light cast out from the moon, nothing was visible in the surrounding blackness of night, except red hair waving in the wind, at the edge of The Lookout where I had just been sitting. The red was as vibrant as rose petals. As I continued to plummet toward the earth, my eyes stayed fixed on the waving hair; it got further and further away until it became a faint red blur. I tried to clear my vision, blinking my eyes in vain. I could barely see the red as it too faded into the darkness.

Everything went black.

I felt cold, followed by intense heat. I opened my eyes, trying to catch my breath. Beads of sweat ran from my brow and forehead down to my neck and onto my white sheets, soaking them and making them cling to my skin. My heart rate was sky high. All my muscles were bulging, my veins about to burst. I realized I wasn’t falling; I was safe in my bed. Holy shit! I looked around, thankful to be in my room, alive. It was just a dream, just a dream…

The sudden sound of birds cawing outside my bedroom window echoed in my head; it was deafening. They were going absolutely nuts. I tilted my head up and glanced out the window to see what was causing all the fuss. It was like a scene out of a horror film, but even Hitchcock’s The Birds had nothing on the frightening scene I was witnessing; it was an unkindness of ravens perched on the trees, gutters, and roofline of my mother’s medical office across the street. There had to be a few hundred menacing solid-black birds. They seemed to be aware of something as they sang their ominous symphony of chaos. What had them so frayed? I wondered as I looked at the sky to see if the weather could be the cause of their eerie behavior.

The sky was overcast, and the wind was causing the trees to whip back and forth. The giant willow tree that drapes over the sidewalk looked like a headbanger at a death metal concert, giving it all he has. But, even with all of that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary for a September morning in Pacific, Missouri. There were a few darker—almost black— clouds in the distance with lightning giving them a pulse. Something in me knew the weather was not the reason for the ravens’ creepy behavior.

Are they trying to warn me of something, or perhaps frighten me? I considered, wondering if I was still sleeping or if this was happening. I mean, I did think I was at The Lookout after my nap and had fallen from it, but that was just a dream. I slapped myself in the face; I was awake.

I plugged my ears with my fingers in a failed attempt to block out the birds’ piercing cries and rested my head back on my pillow. The ravens suddenly went silent. I leaned up and looked out the window. The hair on my neck stood on end. What I was seeing was startling, frightening, the birds were all looking right back at me, staring me dead in the eyes, with an unflinching gaze. It felt as if Death was lurking about in my soul, searching for something to feed on.

Beep, beep, beep, beep! The alarm clock began to blast its exasperatingly harsh ring. Without skipping a beat, I quickly grabbed the pillow from beneath my elbow and threw it full force at the clock. Yeah, I should have thought that decision through. The clock broke as it hit the floor. Damn it!

"Time to get ready for school, I groaned, trying to ignore whatever craziness had just happened—at least long enough to focus on getting ready for school. I ran my hands from my forehead down my jaw, to my pecs and then to my abs, wiping away the sweat. I combed my jawline. What the hell? I just shaved yesterday," I murmured to myself.

Time for school, get up, sweetheart! my mother shouted from down the hall.

I sat up, placed my feet on the cold hardwood floor, stood, and popped my neck. My white bed sheets were soaked with sweat, so I threw them in the laundry basket next to my bathroom door.

What a freaky ass morning, I said before I looked over at my bookshelves. Glancing at the hundreds of books that fill the shelves, I noticed my collection of yearbooks located on the top shelf. Senior year already…I can’t believe it. The corner of my mouth curled slightly with delight as I thought about how great my experience had been in high school. I know that for some—or most—high school can be a horrible experience, but for me, nothing had gone wrong. It had been close to perfect. I needed it to be, especially after what happened four years ago.

Looking back out the window, I noticed the ravens, silent and still as death, had not deviated from their pose, facing me. It was eerie. I walked over to my window and gave it a hard knock, almost breaking it. Creepy ass birds! I shouted at them. The ravens finally flew away, disappearing into the distance like a fading black cloud.

Did you say something, dear? my mother asked from down the hallway.

No, I was just getting ready, I replied, looking to the hallway and then back out the window, And shouting at those birds.

What birds, honey? she asked.

How did she not hear or notice them? I wondered while retrieving a towel from the linen closet across from my bedroom. I headed to my bathroom to shower. I couldn’t believe how sweaty I was.

Walking to the bathroom, I nearly slipped on a half-dried clump of mud. I looked around to see if I had left tracks when I came in last night. My mom would kill me if I tracked mud through the house and just left it. It must have fallen from my gear or shoes yesterday, and I hadn’t noticed it. The clump of mud had an imprint of a small boot pressed into it. Weird; maybe my mother tracked it in and had overlooked it, but that was not like her. I cleaned it up and continued to the bathroom.

When I leaned in to turn the shower on—from no apparent cause—the soap flew off the soap tray. I quickly caught it, surprised by how fast my reflexes were. The hair on my neck stood on end, again, from the feeling that I was being watched. I looked behind me, but no one was there. I turned back toward the antique copper shower faucet and felt to see if the water was warm enough; it was, so I entered the shower. The hot water felt so good. I wished I could’ve just stood there for an hour and let the water rush over my skin, but I was running late. Picking up my pace, I quickly slathered on the organic shampoo that my mother had specially made for my hair. I had to be cautious about which hair products I used. Having naturally light blonde—almost platinum—hair, well, it’s easy to stain; that’s happened a few times. The shampoo smelled of fresh squeezed lemons and honey; my stomach began growling from hunger.

As I finished rinsing my hair, I noticed a long, curled strand of red hair between my fingers. What the hell? I questioned as I brought my hand closer to my face for a better look. That’s nasty! I quickly put my hand under the running water to get rid of the hair; it took a minute to wash down the drain. Where could it have come from? The hair lingered—whipping back and forth under in the running water like a snake slithering against the flow of a raging river—before finally washing down the drain.

The quick five-minute shower did the trick; I felt refreshed and ready to go. It was the first day of school, and I wanted to be on my A-game, so to pump myself up, I began singing my favorite Wallows songs. They had been stuck in my head since the concert I had gone to a couple of weeks earlier.

Buzz! My phone alerted me that a text had been received. I grabbed the metallic blue phone from the top of my dresser, where I had plugged in to charge. I read the text message, which stated: Don’t talk to me today, JERK! It was sent from an unfamiliar phone number, but I knew exactly who it was.

I guess blocking her didn’t do the trick. God, she is toxic!

I returned to the bathroom and brushed my teeth; they looked different: whiter and slightly larger. What is going on? I asked my reflection. I spat the toothpaste into the sink and combed the scruff on my cheeks with my fingers. Yeah, this needs to go, I mumbled. I slathered my jaw with shaving cream and began to shave. Removing the facial hair made me look a few years younger, more like my age, seventeen. Not paying attention as I should’ve, I cut my chin. The cut felt deep, and blood quickly poured out and covered my neck. I dropped the razor into the sink and promptly filled my hands with water to rinse away the blood and shaving cream to assess how bad the cut was. There was nothing; it was barely a scratch. Wow, that didn’t take long to clot, I said softly as I picked the razor back up to finish my shave. How did so much blood? I shook my head in disbelief. This morning couldn’t get any fucking weirder.

I walked over, sat down on the black trunk at the end of my bed, and leaned over to get the clothes I had placed on the chair next to me. On the floor next to my right foot, there was another long strand of red hair. Okay, first the red hair in the shower, now this one? Looking at the strand of hair, the image of the red hair waving in the wind in my dream, or nightmare I should say, flashed through in my mind. Overwhelmed with confusion, I tried to concentrate and remember more, not sure if it was a dream at all. Nothing came to me; the red hair and falling into blackness were all I could remember of the dream. That was a dream? But these strands of hair are real?

Honey, try to hurry or you’re going to be late for school! my mother shouted from the kitchen where I could hear her preparing her essential first cup of coffee.

I picked up my cell phone to check the time since I had just broken my alarm clock. It was 6:45. I was running five minutes behind schedule. I needed to be on time today if I was going to be there for the ritual—a must for seniors. I grabbed the broken alarm clock and threw it into the trash bin next to my bookshelves.

The robust and concentrated scent of lavender smacked me in the face. I yelled to my mother, asking if she had sprayed the scent in my room or possibly spilled a bottle of something. She replied she had not and again urged me to hurry, so I’d have time to eat breakfast.

I rushed to finish putting on my outfit: a gray V-neck, boot cut jeans, and a charcoal leather jacket. I struggled a bit to pull my jeans over my calves, and they seemed even tighter as I pulled them over my butt. Really...? I asked my reflection. I just got these. Baffled, I slipped on my brand-new sneakers, and I rushed downstairs.

My mother is seriously awesome. She placed a breakfast burrito she had cooked me next to my backpack, on the table in the foyer, next to the front door. Thanks for the grub, Mom! I shouted as I headed for the front door.

Have a great day at school, honey! she replied as she entered the foyer, I noticed she was still using the coffee mug I had made her in shop class my freshman year. I hand painted the phrase, Mothering is an art, and you are my favorite artist on it with her favorite shade of purple.

Have a great day, love you, she said.

I smiled at her, You’re the best, love you more!

She really is the best mother I could ask for. My mother, Dr. Eve Green, is the primary care physician for practically the whole town, a ranking member of the town’s leadership council, and, as you can tell, an amazing mother. With my father gone, I feel bad that she had to take the place of both parents, but I suppose nowadays many parents do this. She took the time to cook breakfast for me when she will be tending to patients all day. I should surprise her with breakfast, or better yet, buy her breakfast. I am not the best cook.

I waved and shut the door behind me. Walking down the brick pathway, which runs from the front porch to the driveway, I had to step over six dead ravens—evenly spaced—in a straight line from the front door toward the street. Something about their positioning seemed too intentional to be mere coincidence. I looked to the overcast, gray sky, the black clouds were still pulsating in the distance, and then to where the ravens had been perched with their ominous gaze, goosebumps erupted all over my arms. Next, without a second thought, I turned and quickly gathered the dead ravens from the pathway and threw each one into the garbage bin on the side of the house.

Something was happening all around me, but I had no clue what. It was like all the strange events of the morning were only precursors to something much more significant.

CHAPTER TWO

Driving to school, I took the opportunity to admire our picturesque little town. Everyone knows everyone; people leave their doors unlocked and having team spirit for the local high school might as well be a law. My favorite part of living here is all the trees. There are lush tree covered hills stretching as far as the eye can see. Even the streets are lined with trees, which provide shade to the mixture of modern and old homes (lined behind them). I really like that each home is different from the next, showing off each occupant’s diverse tastes. My friend Jake Thornberry’s family just built a two-story home using eight shipping containers; it is amazingly modern with windows that give a 360-degree view of the rolling hills. Decorative iron streetlamps cast a warm glow on this rural community, lining the streets, all of which meet at Main Street, which runs parallel to the railroad tracks that run through the center of town. It is like a postcard.

The streetlamps running along First Street on the way to school displayed welcome signs and school spirit posters. Each poster leading up to school depicted a different athlete’s surname and number. Mine is number one, of course. The decorations were not subtle this year; that was for sure. The cheerleaders had spent hours each day over the past week setting everything up. They went all out: balloons, streamers, bows, cutouts of our mascot, etc.…a river of white, blue, and black spirit had flooded the town.

I pulled up to school and parked in my unofficial spot which some cheerleaders made a sign, designating it for me, and I took a minute to admire the architecture of the school. It’s amazing; resembling smaller, older universities that grace New England. The gray overcast sky gave contrast to the deep red brickwork of the structure. I’m going to miss this place after I graduate, I whispered with a big smile, while glancing at the bronze sign fixed over the front entrance that reads: Pacific Preparatory High School.

Those ravens crapped all over my car, and I drove to school without noticing. You’ve got be kidding me, I thought. Thankfully, my car is white. As if the weather could read my mind, a few drops hit my face. I looked up to see that dark clouds, pulsing with lightning, were rolling in quickly. I checked my phone, and the forecast called for—storms in the morning and sunny skies by lunch—typical Missouri weather. Cool, the rain will wash most of the birds’ shit off of my car, I said as I walked to the entrance to the school, with my face tilted slightly up toward the sky, allowing the rain to hit my face along the way. I love the feeling of rain against my flesh; sometimes, I stand on my back patio during rainstorms in nothing more than my boxer briefs.

I took the side entrance into school so I could greet my friends on the way to class. Before I reached my locker, I stopped for a quick drink from the water fountain, and when I did, as I was glancing down the hall to the right of me, I caught Mrs. Thornberry checking me out. She tried to pretend that she was looking over me when she realized that I noticed her. That was awkward.

I hope I do as well after high school, I whispered to my reflection in the glass of the trophy case, looking at all the awards my team and I have won as I passed it. What I was going to miss most was how easily I could wear my mask at Pacific Prep, using my physical beauty to hide my shattered and tortured heart.

As I approached my locker, just a few feet away, a small, scrawny guy, was shoved by David Schneider who is a much larger junior. I have never been fond of David. He liked to bully people that were smaller than him, and I had yet to see him pick on someone his own size. Phoebe Haul, a girl I’ve known since I was in diapers, jumped in to stop David’s pathetic bullying, but he just ignored her. You’re an asshole, Dave! she said harshly. David continued his pathetic and unfair assault on the much smaller freshman.

Hey, David, leave him be! I demanded.

With a stutter of palpable fear in his voice, David replied, I was just joking with him.

Well, from what I can see, he isn’t laughing. In fact, no one is. Leave him the fuck alone!

Whatever…I was just messing with him, David said before he walked away with his face down.

Dave is a loser, man, I said to the small freshman.

Yeah, he replied with a chuckle, but I could tell he was embarrassed.

Okay, man? We should hang out soon, I said loud enough that the people standing around us could hear. I was hoping that would help alleviate some of the embarrassment. It must have worked because as he walked down the hallway, his classmates were greeting him and trying to get his attention. He looked back and smiled at me with gratitude. I nodded, signaling that it was no problem, and I continued to my locker.

Thanks, Jackson, Phoebe said with a smile before she picked up her backpack and continued to her locker.

Of course, I replied.

After placing my bag and jacket in my locker, I headed into Mr. Willis’ English Composition IV class, which I’d been looking forward to since registration. Mr. Willis, Coach rather, is my favorite teacher and one hell of a soccer coach. The man is brilliant, a real mentor. I cannot think of a better teacher to start the morning. I entered the class and sitting in the front row with his head resting on a white three-person desk as if it was a comfortable goose-down pillow, was my best friend, Tom. I could pick his jet-black wavy hair out of a lineup. I walked over to sit next to him.

Tom Frost is my closest friend; he has been since we were little kids. We first bonded in the second grade, when we attended Camp Colt together. His father ran the program, a cool program designed to give children from rural areas a chance to ride horses and ATVs, hike, camp, and do things like that. Tom and I have been through the best and worst together. I might be the Alpha around here, but he is easily the second in command; he’s like a brother to me.

Tommy Boy, what’s up? I asked as I sat beside him.

Not too much, man. I’m just looking forward to this school year. The girls are blossoming nicely, he said with his signature expression: one eyebrow raised, and his grin just wide enough to show his dimples—his trademark around here. One of them asked if I realized how ‘ridiculously blue my eyes are’ and said she wishes she had long thick eyelashes like mine.

They are rather pretty, man.

Tom smiled and sat back in his seat. Dude, did you eat your Wheat Crunch this morning? Tom asked me. He looked puzzled. I just saw you Saturday. Are you on steroids? he laughed.

No, of course not, I replied, unsure if he was joking or serious. Being my best friend, I hoped he knew me well enough to know I would never touch that crap, but I couldn’t blame him entirely with how much bigger I was just since yesterday.

Well, don’t get too big. You don’t want your size to become a problem in the pool, Tom said, obviously concerned. I guessed he wasn’t joking, which was disappointing.

Hey, not everyone can be a dolphin in the water like you; I do just fine in the pool, I replied, and Tom nodded in agreement.

I finally hit six feet tall as of my physical yesterday. It was Hella awkward getting checked for hernias by your mom’s nurse, Brittany, Tom said, acting out the moment that he was bent over with her finger up his butt. Tom’s ability to offer vivid—and often disturbing—descriptions is unmatched at Pacific Prep. Of course, Tom’s medical tales always end up with him sharing updates regarding other areas of growth. Anyone that knows Tom or has attended Pacific Prep knows this isn’t necessary.

Well, I’m at six foot, three inches as of Friday, I smiled and sat up straight, giving height to my posture.

Show off, he coughed. The steroids are going to shrink you in more important areas, so think about that, tall guy.

Luckily, wanting to change the topic, I happened to see Dr. Kennedy briskly walking past the classroom door. It was perfect timing because I needed to see him before soccer practice. He was walking in the direction of Principle Watts’ office, muttering about the sprinkler system and the incompetent, newly outsourced maintenance staff.

Tommy, I’ll be right back, I said before I ran out of the classroom.

Okay, man, he said as he rested his head back on the table.

Dr. Kennedy! I called out as I ran down the hall, attempting to get his attention, almost knocking over a couple of guys that happened to dart out from their lockers at the same moment. Watch where you’re going, I demanded in a deep tone.

Sorry, the shorter, skinny, blond-haired boy apologized with a tremble in his voice while looking up at me.

I remembered the kid that David had treated like shit earlier; I felt terrible. I looked back at him and said, in a kinder tone, It’s cool, but you guys really watch where you’re going. I chuckled to downplay the incident and continued toward Dr. Kennedy.

That’s Jackson Green, I heard one of them say. I looked back and saw the two walking into the restroom; the taller of the two was speaking to the shorter one, He’s the one I was telling you about. I forced myself to keep going and ignore the urge to ask why they were talking about me.

As I caught up to Dr. Kennedy, I could see that he was soaked from the waist down. I pulled a