Whitney's Autumn: The Genesis Chronicles, #2

By Ms. Tery

What is more important— obeying the rules or doing what is right?

 

For fourteen-year-old Whitney Stone, the mayor's daughter, in pastoral Willow Ridge, the answer is obvious… Or is it?

 

After uncovering Cornelius Murdoch's dark desire to destroy the town, Whitney teams up with her best friends, Samaya Lewis and Chloe James, to unleash the Book of Osciron's powers. However, when Murdoch announces his bid for the city council, Whitney and the girls find themselves in a race against time to stop him from deepening his ties with the community while secretly plotting its demise.

 

Countless moral and legal questions threaten Whitney's plans to thwart Murdoch, including her father's shocking allegiance with the town's enemy.

 

Will Whitney's conscience allow her to gather evidence against Murdoch, even if it jeopardizes her relationship with her father? Can the girls harness Osciron's powers, attack the enemy, and tackle their first semester of high school?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ms.Tery
• Release date: Mar 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201655204

Ms. Tery

Wife, mother, daughter, sister, storyteller & esoteric hermit. Working at the nexus of art and purpose to craft strong, authentic, characters and evocative experiences that endure.  I am a writer and this is my story.

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Ms. Tery

Whitney’s Autumn

Book two of The Genesis Chronicles

Copyright © 2021 by Ms. Tery

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Ms. Tery asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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For all of my past and present proofreaders and editors:

Pat ‘The Comma Queen’ Baker, Kate Cox, and Pen of Adventure.

Thank you.

Chapter 1

I can’t believe it, I said, shaking my head. I still can’t believe everything worked out in our favor.

Samaya groaned. For the fifth and final time—believe it. If I were in Crimson Heights, I wouldn’t be wasting the last days of summer stuffing myself into this plaid napkin you call a skirt.

I settled onto the plush settee at Dorothea’s Darling Boutique and contemplated the auspiciousness of my reunion with my best friends. Though more of a clubhouse for trendy housewives than an upscale salon, Dorothea’s catered to the exacting tastes of Willow Ridge’s aspiring and flourishing fashion aficionadas.

A spirited string and flute melody filled the air as a frazzled yet contented Dorothea Dixon flitted among twenty clusters of women with children. Eager mother-daughter duos entered heavy negotiations to compile stylish fall wardrobes while the attentive shopkeeper rushed to serve each and every person. Despite the four dresses draped over each arm and the blouse-laden hangers in each hand, Dorothea didn’t miss a beat.

With the lithe cross of my legs, I waited for either of my friends to emerge from their stalls. In the furthest maroon-curtained booth, Chloe James hummed a cheery tune while Samaya Lewis grumbled what resembled profanities in the adjacent room. I clamped my lips together with the tenacity of a jeweler’s vise and fought to stop giggling at their divergent reactions to school shopping.

As I recaptured my weakening decorum, I leaned forward and reminded Samaya that we couldn’t leave until she selected and purchased three weeks’ worth of uniform attire for school. And, as I recall, your mother and aunt explicitly told us to make sure you bought five skirts.

Though Samaya didn’t reply, I took the rough jangle of hangers and the increase in her muttering as a receipt of my message. Returning to my comfortable seat against Dorothea’s inelegant lilac settee, I shook my head. Two months ago, none of this would have happened. I smoothed the hem of my twill skirt as memories from the summer, and the life-altering events that resulted in our unusual trio, took their place at the forefront of my thoughts.

Our journey began in June when Samaya and I unearthed a mysterious book at the old Baptist Church. Upon consulting Chloe about said book, we learned that it requested we undertake a precarious mission. Samaya and I had a disastrous fight over the book, the result of which estranged us for the majority of July. Thankfully, Chloe reunited us at the end of the month. We concluded the summer by spending the first two weeks of August deepening our original bonds and agreeing to work on the aforementioned book.

I know, I know. The whole ordeal sounded ridiculously melodramatic, riddled with perplexing girly complications. However, I suspect the mere task of accepting a quest to fight evil using a magical book would drive most people to behave more theatrically than normal.

Hey, Whit, Samaya called, poking her head through her curtain. Who wears jumpers, besides pixies and kindergarteners?

At that exact moment, Chloe burst from her fitting room to model her first outfit — the infamous skirted jumper.

Samaya and I glanced from Chloe to each other and tittered. Chloe whirled in front of Dorothea’s tri-panel mirror, admiring the puff-sleeve blouse she paired with the plaid jumper. Ignorant of our pending outburst, she did a pirouette.

Samaya smirked. I rest my case.

A bumbling guffaw escaped my clenched lips. I clapped one hand over my mouth and the other across my torso to camouflage my giggles. Suddenly aware of our explosive laughter, Chloe stopped spinning.

What’s so funny? Chloe asked as Samaya hunched over in her dressing room, and my shoulders convulsed with laughter.

Unable to contain our amusement any longer, Samaya and I fell deep into our pit of relentless giggles. Two of the women shopping for their daughters shook their heads, and another shushed us, but we could not contain our laughter. With her brow furrowed, Chloe left her place at the mirror to solicit our opinion on the jumper. While Samaya and I fought to suppress our mirth, Chloe’s smile faltered at the thought of us mocking her.

To salvage her confidence, I dabbed at my eyes and drew myself into a rigid, upright position. You look great.

Returning my attention to our other companion, I ordered Samaya to exit her stall. The raucous clatter of her bronze-ringed curtain sliding across its pole replaced her snickers.

Samaya, come out. Show us one outfit.

Her reply: silence.

Once we are certain of your sizes, you can re-dress. We’ll order uniforms without you trying on anything else. I promise.

Hmmph, Samaya scoffed. "And why should I believe your promises?"

I’m going to let that slide since shopping isn’t her favorite activity.

Pretty please, Samaya, Chloe begged. With a cherry on top!

I’m not letting you or anyone else see me in a skirt. Especially not these tiny things….

I’m sure you look fine, I maintained. Stop letting your low self-esteem get the best of you.

Says the girl with two sticks for legs, Samaya grumbled.

Besides, Chloe interjected. You were wearing a dress when we first met. We’ve already seen you in a skirt-type item.

More silence.

Soon, we heard the smooth buzz of a sliding zipper. Peeking around the curtain to ensure no one besides Chloe and me saw, Samaya departed her dressing room. My eyes rolled upward. The long-sleeved blouse Samaya wore with her navy plaid skirt appeared as normal as any schoolgirls’.

Now, I said. Was that so difficult?

Part of me died inside.

Chloe applauded Samaya’s bravery. Could we be any more different? Glancing at Chloe, who sat on the arm of the sofa swinging her legs, and Samaya, who abruptly switched from toying with her tie to tugging at the skirt hanging above her thighs, I smiled. Most likely not.

Samaya, our eternal tomboy, was an unassuming beauty. Wearing her leather-black hair in back-grazing cornrows, she had an urban, street-smart style that existed in stark contrast to her excessive timidity. Samaya possessed a conspicuous shyness, a marked hesitation that stained her entire existence.

From the natural softness of her voice to her perpetually clasped elbows, shyness ruled her. Despite her countless assets, she remained ignorant of her beauty. Shunning any form of attention, Samaya even went as far as keeping her back to the windows and mirrors at Dorothea’s. My friend’s debilitating introversion was such a dominant trait that it almost kept people from understanding the real her. Almost.

Five inches taller than Chloe, and three inches taller than me, Samaya bore more development than any of us. Though she likened her skirt to a linen napkin, it covered the spread of her full posterior and skimmed her trembling thighs with ease. Still, she insisted that she didn’t need a mirror to magnify her ‘hideous’ appearance.

However, I refuted the validity of her argument. Ever her worst critic, Samaya, failed to accept the way her flawless bronze skin glazed a body most co-eds envied.Samaya also had the most anomalous eyes I had ever encountered. Slate blue with ever-present flashes of brown and green; Samaya’s eyes reminded me of the harsh ice storms that struck Willow Ridge every winter. Though constantly shifting color depending on the light, the color of her clothes, and her infrequent use of cosmetics, Samaya’s eyes always conveyed an enduring passion and strength. And at that exact moment, they could have pierced marble, undoubtedly fueled by her intense hatred of her ensemble.

Reveling in the diversity of my unconventional trio, I turned to Chloe, the effervescent one. An unremitting source of joy, Chloe always had a smile and the encouraging words necessary to keep us together. As she bounced on the arm of Dorothea’s sofa, she kicked the air, her bare feet clearing the floor by several inches. A mystical blend of resinous amber, spicy ginger, and citrusy bergamot filled the air. While not as sophisticated as my Coco Mademoiselle, I didn’t find Chloe’s fragrance offensive.

Shiny, springy, and comparable to Maui’s Red Sand Beach, Chloe’s voluminous spirals tumbled down her neck and danced around her dimpled cheeks. Her complexion bore a marked semblance to Entrada Sandstone and not only alluded to her multiracial pedigree but also intensified her beauty. Weighing no more than a large child, Chloe passed for eleven with ease, even though the three of us were the same age.Regardless of her burgeoning curvature, which enviably eclipsed mine, people often overlooked her or mislabeled her cute. Still, all fifty-nine inches of Chloe James projected from a crowd with the intensity of the Brobdingnagian robot in a 3D film.

Why don’t you find pieces that feel like you? Chloe urged as she jangled the six bangle bracelets that curled around her wrist.

Pieces that feel like her… I chuckled. Only Chloe. Unlike the rest of us, she refused to live within society’s narrow, fabricated boxes.I honestly believed that her brain didn’t run in collinear patterns. Instead, she freely pursued any and every whim she pleased, which included donning a pair of white knee socks with glittery crows embroidered on them

Rejoining the conversation on Samaya’s wardrobe, I recorded her sizes in my cellphone and offered her some advice. You should focus on items you can mix and match to maximize efficiency in the morning.

Samaya exchanged a shrewd glance with Chloe.

What? I glanced from Chloe to Samaya. Am I the only one concerned with being on time?

No, Samaya scoffed. But…

You are the only person I know who chooses their clothes based on efficiency, Chloe added.

And still manages to arrive everywhere fifteen minutes late, finished Samaya.

My gaze flicked toward the lights. Anyway, I have your sizes. You can re-dress, and we’ll finish ordering uniforms without you trying on more clothes.

Yes! Samaya cried, ducking back into her dressing room.

Once she traded her skirt and blouse for saggy black sweatpants and a gray Under Armour T-shirt, she resumed shopping without complaint. Though we wasted ten minutes explaining to Chloe why the knee socks were inappropriate for school, we still left Dorothea’s with the exact number of lavender bags necessary to complete the process of school shopping, minus the gaudy hosiery.

***

I loved the mall. Especially during the early weeks of autumn. The way people maneuvered through the lengthy corridors reminded me of traffic on the bustling highways of Willow Ridge’s neighboring metropoles, Pinnacle Pointe and Crimson Heights. Oftentimes people were so invested in their chatting and browsing that they caused unintended traffic jams.

Some people, like Chloe, appeared to skip, the sheer joy of visiting the various shops manifest in their steps. Others resembled Samaya. Their quick, nervous gait and pinched expressions tightened with every stride. Personally, I preferred to let the current carry me. I enjoyed allowing the overflowing walkways to send my friends and me coursing down the rushing river of people to our destination at the heart of the mall.

Upon our arrival at the Willow Ridge Towne Center Dining Pavilion (also known as the food court), Samaya, Chloe, and I stacked boxes and bags on one side of our octagonal table and seated ourselves opposite our bounty. For a moment, we sat in silence, still reeling from the previous week’s excitement.

Thirty seconds later, elated giggles escaped us. Though our excited babbling blended in with the din of the food court, our unbridled joy made the rowdy teenage boys at the table next to ours and the piercing cries of unhappy toddlers resemble the whisper of prayers in a high-ceilinged cathedral.

A week earlier, we experienced the scare of a lifetime when Samaya’s parents arrived to take her back to Crimson Heights. The Lewis’ later revealed that their true motivation for Samaya’s summer in Willow Ridge was preparation for their impending relocation, to our surprise and immediate delight. Thrilled that our trio would remain intact, we planned to reconvene immediately. However, with only sixteen days until the start of school, purchasing uniforms and school supplies became our first order of business.

Well, I said, drumming my nails on the gray melamine table. Now that we’re finished with Dorothea’s, does everyone have everything they need for school?

Chloe arched her back into a feline-esque stretch and wiggled in her hard plastic chair until she folded her right leg underneath her and placed her left ankle on her right thigh. Once she achieved her serene yet painful-looking pose, she nodded.

Mom had ordered uniforms for Lucas and me months ago. Our uniforms had arrived on the first of the month, making the trip to Dorothea’s solely for Chloe and Samaya. Turning to the third member of our trio, Chloe and I giggled as Samaya resumed tugging the ends of her cornrows. What did that list say again?

I sat upright in my chair and recited, "According to the Crestwood Academy Student Handbook, all students are to wear a neat combination of uniform pieces bearing the school coat of arms. All shirts must have a collar. Undergarments and hosiery must be neutral and remain unseen, and only black footwear covering the entire foot is allowed on campus."

Samaya’s eyes bulged. Did you seriously memorize the student handbook?

Chloe’s shoulders jerked with laughter, and for a split second, my eyes narrowed. I refused to dignify Samaya’s question with a response, electing instead to ask if she felt confident about her purchases.

Samaya tossed her braid over her shoulder and shrugged. If I ain’t got it now, I guess I won’t have it.

With the preliminaries out of the way, I scanned the ten feet around us for eavesdroppers. Now that we have settled school preparations, what are we going to do about the book?

Samaya’s greenish-grey eyes sparkled with amusement. For starters, she said with a chuckle. I don’t think we need to whisper since we’re the only ones who know about the book.

And as long as we don’t discuss Sci’s more… unusual qualities, we should be fine, Chloe agreed.

Well, we need to devise a schedule, I said, loading my Outlook calendar. Otherwise, we may have trouble fitting it into our routines between homework and extracurriculars.

Chloe and Samaya exchanged their third amused glance of the day, and my jaw clenched. So I’m detailed, sue me. Previously, we had planned to devote the two weeks before school started to working on the book, but given Samaya’s expected departure, Chloe and I declined the mission and reburied it.

However, upon learning the Lewises were moving to Willow Ridge, I sneaked back to the church to unearth it. After a brief debate over potential next steps, Chloe suggested meeting at her house to consult with the book about accepting the mission. Since everything started at Chloe’s, we agreed the James house would be the best place to resume work on the extraordinary task that brought us together.

Chapter 2

Later that afternoon, I waved to Samaya and Mrs. Lewis as they pulled out of the driveway. When I stepped into the foyer, I paused for any audible indications of anyone at home. No music from upstairs. No muffled voices from Dad’s office. Not even the sounds or scents of Mom preparing to meet Dad for dinner. Greeted by silence, I hung my purse on the curved wooden banister and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Unsurprisingly, a purple Post-it note adorned the refrigerator door. Steaks, salad, and potatoes for dinner. Love, Mom. I checked the microwave clock. Hmm… I’ve got thirty minutes to an hour before Lucas gets home. That left me enough time to check the local news and two of my online media outlets before dinner.

Before heading upstairs, I got a glass of water and peeked inside the fridge. On the top shelf, three plastic containers held six marinating steaks and a bag of pre-washed greens. The potatoes proved more challenging to find. It took five minutes of rummaging for me to locate the six foil-wrapped root veggies hidden among my brother’s sports drinks and Dad’s orange juice on a crowded shelf.

As I closed the refrigerator, an upstairs door creaked open and shut with a bang. Thunderous rumbling followed as someone rushed down the stairs.

Dang it!Lucas is home, and of course, he’s hungry.

Forgoing my plans to catch up on current events, I returned to the refrigerator to prepare the ingredients for dinner. Lucas hopped onto a barstool across from me as I placed the steak and salad containers on the kitchen island. Stone, party of two?

Without waiting for my response, Lucas took the potatoes and the steaks and headed for the lanai. My brother and I knew our roles for our unsupervised dinners well. He grilled, and I prepared the sides. While I raked a blend of spinach, arugula, and romaine lettuce into a crystal bowl, Lucas fired up Dad’s grill.

After mixing the bagged salad with a bag of almond and cranberry salad topping, I returned it to the fridge and joined Lucas outside. Stretching out on one of the cobalt and white chaise lounges circling our pool and outdoor kitchen, I relaxed as Lucas grilled dinner. The moment our steaks were medium-well, we set the island with the navy-trimmed everyday china and fixed our plates.

How was your day? I asked, watching my brother make a mile-high salad and wedge both a porterhouse and a New York strip on his plate alongside two of the potatoes.

Fine, Mother.

"Excuse me for taking an interest in your day," I snapped.

Lucas rested his knife and fork on his plate and dragged a thickset hand over his face. My day was fine, but let’s take it down a notch. It’s just us, so don’t be formal.

I fanned out my napkin and spread it over my crossed legs without acknowledging his discourteousness. Lucas snickered but regained his composure in time to bless the food. As he took his first few bites, I awaited his tales from the country club.

Painful would be the most accurate way to summarize the day, Lucas said as he devoured his heap of lettuce. Dad insisted on playing tennis with Mr. Murdoch, Mr. Brown, and Dr. Adams, even though none of them is skilled at the game.

Lucas sawed into his steak with the gusto of a homicidal maniac and forked up three large chunks of meat before continuing. I hate tennis. We spent the whole morning chasing a stupid neon ball around. Twenty minutes in, the four of them doubled over, gasping for air.

I sputtered and coughed. A romaine leaf caught in my throat as I imagined Daddy and his wealthy colleagues chasing a tennis ball across an indoor tennis court. Picturing my brother, the gifted student-athlete, wasting the golden days of summer on a tennis match with four middle-aged men drove me