Note: The following is
a character sketch/opening sequence I wrote for a project I’ve been
occasionally working on. It’s a contemporary YA fantasy very very
loosely based on “The Princess and the Frog”
(the fairy tale, not the Disney version), and I’m calling it Baubles
at the moment. As always, with works in
progress, pretty much everything is subject to change.
Shiny is bad. This is my mantra—I don’t like shiny, shiny is bad—but even as I lie to myself, I
know it won’t work. I can feel the pressure building. It’s been coming on for
the past few days, and while I try to convince myself that this time I can
ignore it, my control is slipping.
Everywhere I look, things sparkle. It’s like the hallways of
my high school were made to torture me, and not just in the usual school sort
of way. Huge windows let in sunlight that seems to reflect off every single
surface. There’s Lisa Emerson’s new diamond earrings, the latest gift from her
richy-rich parents. There’s a guy with a Texas-sized belt buckle that screams, “Stare
at me!” There’s even Boozy Benny sneaking his metallic “water bottle” into his
locker with a furtive glance.
Of course, it’s not just shiny that’s the problem. Other objects
catch my eye—the bright red scarf hanging from a girl’s coat pocket, the
occasional paperback peeping out of a partially zipped backpack. But it’s the
glisten, the shimmer, the gleam that’s hardest to resist.
“Hey, Si-Wai,” a voice calls. I turn my head. I know my mom
would be annoyed at the ultra-Americanized way he says my name, “See Why,” without
a whiff of what Mom calls “the melody of Mandarin.” But honestly, Dad was born
in the States, Mom is about as white as they come, and the only time I feel
Chinese is when I eat with chopsticks. Dad and I even joke that we don’t see why Mom cares so much when neither
of us—the ones with the actual Chinese blood—do.
Plus, right now I’m just grateful for anything to distract
me.
“Hey, Kent. How’s it going?”
He’s walking next to me now down the hall toward our next
classes. He’s also fishing through the junk in his backpack. I try to ignore
the luster of the fancy Cross pen he’s carrying. “Did you get the math homework
last night?”
Good old Kent, no small talk for him. “Yup. You have problems?”
He pulls out a paper and thrusts it at me. “I don’t get how
we were supposed to do number five.”
I glance at it. I resist calling him a moron. I also resist
the pull of that pen. We spend the next minute or two with him trying to
wheedle an answer out of me while I explain the problem.
“But what’s the answer?” he finally begs.
“Figure it out yourself.”
He scowls and flips me off as he runs down the hall to catch
his next class on time. But just like clockwork, he’ll be back tomorrow.
Now that he’s gone, there’s nothing to distract me—not that math
and Kent were sufficiently distracting in the first place. Not even the
knowledge that the bell’s going to ring soon is enough to keep me from scanning
the students ahead of me as I walk. Just as I’m hoping nothing will catch my
eye, I see it.
A little dangling keychain, no keys attached, about the size
and shape of a golf ball. It’s hanging from the zipper pull of a girl’s faded blue
backpack. It’s clear, with faceted sides, and the facets catch the light from
the windows. I can’t even blink, I’m so mesmerized by it. It is perfect, right
down to the convenient carabiner latch that hooks it to the zipper.
This will be ridiculously easy.
I speed up, just enough to pull even with her back, then stumble
a bit and brush against her. She turns, and I mumble a “sorry” but don’t make eye
contact. The classic klutz-in-a-hurry posture. My hand curls around the ball as
I pass her. By the time she notices the keychain is missing, she will have
forgotten me. She’ll probably assume the latch was faulty.
I turn down the final corridor to my class, no longer caring
if I’m a little bit late. A feeling of release floods through me, and I close
my eyes for a moment, reveling in the rush of pleasure.
The guilt will come soon enough.
I sneak a glance at the ball in my possession. Even in the hollow
of my hand, it feels like it gives off rainbows. Shiny is bad, I remind myself,
and it begins to sink in. At least this bauble is clearly cheap, probably some
dollar store purchase, hopefully without any sentimental value. Regardless, I’ll
make sure it gets to the Lost and Found box in the school office later today,
so if the girl thinks to look, she might even get it back. No harm done. At
least that’s what I tell myself.
Because otherwise all I can tell myself is that I’m a thief.
That it’s not shiny that’s bad.
It’s me.
