This is a second experiment of mine. As I learned more about Fanfiction and writing it, it was slowly beginning to flow more and more easily—and then it struck me! Writing fanfic truly is so similar to writing and publishing a book—it is simply using preconceived ideas and getting so creative with them…and I could never publish it, but it is very good practice for that "someday" when I do enroll in the NaNo competition.
When I finish my 50,000 words.
I can do this!
It is so much fun, truly. I hope that my readers (will grow in number)will like my stories even though they don't always make the most sense every second; I hope those parts will be suspenseful and mysterious…enough to leave you hanging.
So, with that goal in mind—go ahead and read!
Disclaimer- NONE. NONE of the Marvel Universe characters are mine. The canons belong to Marvel. Canon locations also belong to Marvel. Only the ideas I've grown from my own brain are mine.
"Oh my god, oh my god, omigoood!"
I laughed almost uncontrollably, clutching at my heaving sides in the backseat of my mother's SUV. Emma was sitting next to me, and I could just tell that poor Mom was trying to drown her feverish yelps out. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, a little more than a little frustrated with the heavy traffic. San Diego was an awesome city—I loved the beach, the winding streets, and the people that were just everywhere.
Normally she wouldn't consent to a trip like this. Not only were we far from home, but it was just the three of us. Just me, Mom, and Emma.
By the way, my name is Danielle Karmina Swanson. Lots of people, like my bug-eyed, blue-haired friend over here, think it's funny to call me Karma. So that's what they call me.
"Look, look! It's a…" I giggled and pointed at the long-haired man driving a beat-up old Volkswagen.
"Wow, look at his shirt…" Emma scrunched up her nose. "Cool, I like his guitar." He pulled up alongside us. Mom was probably cringing as her daughter and her daughter's best friend ogled the hippy driving next to us.
"He's like a Beatles wannabe or something. Oh, you know who he looks like?"
"What?" I asked Emma.
"Alice EFFING Cooper."
I snorted. I could totally see the resemblance. That beat-up old orange van he was driving looked big enough to host a few snake cages in the back.
"Pssht. Hippies, right?"
Mom turned into the hotel lot and cautiously evaded the other vehicles. I practically drooled at the notion of sleep, once I figured out that we were parked. I punched Emma's shoulder and she, squealing, jumped out of the car with me. When she let out a huge groan suddenly, I became afraid she was going to vomit, and recalled the horror stories she'd told me about her dad's awful driving that left her puking after some of their family's long road trips.
She knelt and bent over, giving the pavement a big, smacking kiss. "Thank you, Jesus!"
Emma was mock-praying to the god of asphalt as Mom and I unloaded what few bags we'd packed.
I pulled my friend up and said, "Here, you weakling, take your things in," and she did. Reluctantly.
"Love your bag!" I shouted after her. She jogged ahead, obviously excited at the prospect of experiencing air-conditioning, her short hair bouncing in cobalt blue curls on her shoulders as she ran.
Mom and I walked in together. I was freaking excited. I think she was a bit on the leery side of the whole ordeal, though. This would be our family's first-ever trip to Comic-Con. I think she was actually a bit frazzled. She wasn't a big fan of West Coast crowds, even though every time we'd argued about this (more than just once or twice before she gave up) I reminded her that, yes, she used to live in California, too. She used to love it, until she finished school and decided enough was enough of the hype and action.
I bet you can already tell—my mom and I are, well, pretty different people.
God knows why she moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma. But she did. She's lived there for twenty five years. Ever since before she married, and then had me. And I'm sixteen, but I wasn't actually born there, either. Mom was away on a business trip—a really long business trip—with my dad in Maryland. So I was born in Annapolis.
God knows why she left Annapolis.
Anyway.
I was definitely going to make the most of this vacation. It was mid-July, and really hot outside—it was a very good thing that Emma and I didn't care how hot it was, because it was never too hot to swim.
So thank God we were staying in a Marriott hotel. Most Marriott hotels have pools, you know. Nice pools.
Big pools.
Emma was totally wiped, and I could tell. So could most of the hotel's visitors, who gave her some really funny looks when they walked by. Passed out in an armchair, with her mouth scarily wide-open, she looked pretty comical.
We had booked one room on the eleventh floor. Mom and I threw our bags onto the two double beds, and Emma took the couch.
"Are you sure you don't want to take this bed, sweetheart?" Mom was asking Emma. But Emma slept on the couch every time she came to a sleepover, even though there was a spare bed in our house.
Granted, Mom wouldn't allow her to sleep over very often.
Pretty soon, Mom was conked out on the double by the window. The curtains were pulled, so the room was a bit dark. I could still hear the noise from the first floor, where lots of Con-goers like us were gathered restlessly, though the din was more like a low rumble. So, it wasn't very loud, but then again…we were eleven floors up.
I watched something on the Discovery channel for half an hour, determined not to sleep. In the meantime, I received a very interesting text from one of my friends back home.
It was from Zoey, and it read: where r u now? Hows the beach? see any celebs there?
Me: Nothing yet. Promise I'll let you know when Mom wakes up and we actually get to do stuff.
Zoey: naptime?
Me: I guess it is.
Zoey: I'll graduate b4 your mom wakes up haha
Me: Lolz, it isn't that bad. Catching up on Law/Order.
Zoey: dang you need some real tv, girl!
Me: Nothing on Discovery, nothing really on Spike or FoodNet…
Zoey: you could be tanning w/ me now!
Me: Not funny. You know I don't tan!
Zoey: so b jealous, pale girl.
Me: Pale skin is attractive. /cough
Zoey: yeah, if ur a vampire
Me: Well, I could be…
Zoey: oh rlly?
Me: I can't remember the last time I slept for 5+ hours.
Zoey: yeah u keep me up with your texts
Me: Excuse me, WHO texted me at midnight about her Pink Floyd tickets?
The phone was quiet for awhile. I almost fell asleep in the time it took my other friend, who was currently vacationing in Texas, to pick up the phone and text back. It buzzed, where it lay on my flat stomach, and startled me.
That was one more thing Mom didn't really believe in—texting.
Zoey: umm hello, it was pink floyd! there was totally a reason to text you fourteen times
Me: Not if you didn't get me tickets too.
Zoey: /kisskiss
I smiled, but before I could reply Mom rolled over under the covers and woke up. She blinked at the ceiling and sat up. When she went into the bathroom and closed the door, locking it with a click, I scrolled through our conversation and deleted the history. Zoey knew me too well; she wouldn't be too vexed.
The microwave oven clock read four forty-five.
I crawled off the covers and began digging through one of my two shoulder bags; the larger one, a heavy-duty souvenir tote with a zipper and the words "Boston is the New Big Apple" on the front, held my clothes and makeup bag. The other bag was my blue-with-a-brown-leather-strap Sak, and held my road essentials like my Phone, Kindle, graphing notebook, and a handful of granola bars. Oh, and a small assortment of comic books as well. Just a few favorites that Emma and I loved to dote over, and by looking at their bent, creased, and occasionally torn pages you could tell how much we loved them.
Mom had tamed her bed hair by the time she came out of the bathroom. Its dark auburn color highlighted in caramel was a bit on the harsh side, especially the way she kept it just at her shoulders and curled the piece-y bits. I thought the style made her face look a bit square. But, you know, to each his own—right?
Or…her own.
Emma was dead asleep still. The heavy black liner she wore around her eyes had smudged a bit. I was beginning to think (up until today) that the dark makeup was a part of her skin, that her lashes really were that long and that black. She wasn't weird or emo or anything…she just didn't go anywhere in public (or private) without her eyeliner on.
She was big into expression.
And what about me? Well, my hair is a dark brown, like Mom's, but we have deflecting views about how it should be kept. I like to keep my hair curled at different degrees—right now it's about shoulder length. And my skin is really pale—always has been—so dark brown hair, even without any highlights at all, works great for me. I've never been that "into" dying my hair anyway.
Sometimes I wonder how Emma and I even met each other, let alone became close friends.
We ate in the Italian restaurant down the street. Emma and I about died over the Penne pasta. It was that good. Mom was fine with us walking around the block for a bit, but she said that we needed to be upstairs in the room at seven.
Arm in arm, we cruised down the street, checking out a few of the other restaurants. Our budget wouldn't let us eat in most of them, but a few seafood places looked inexpensive enough. We saw a couple of groups of costumed fans, obviously here for the same reason we were. We also passed a gang of chain-smokers and decided, at that point, to turn around and head back. Emma thought we were being tailed by one of the guys, so we ducked into a department store and bought a few t-shirts and a somewhat inexpensive pair of ankle boots. I rested my sunglasses on my forehead, which pushed my long and wispy bangs back from my face. Emma wore the new boots back to the hotel. We were convinced that we had totally disguised ourselves to the point of being unrecognizable by the chain-smoker-guy.
But just to be safe, we text-talked on the way back.
Mom was in the shower with the door closed. Thin puffs of steam were escaping through the gap between the maroon carpet and the off-white door.
I knocked, letting her know we were safely back.
"Psst!" Emma waved me over to the unfolded futon, grinning.
She pulled her CD player and audio speakers out of her bag. I was freaking amazed—of course Emma packed light. Light enough to carry her entire CD collection with her across four states.
I gasped and practically flew onto her bed to raid the leather-bound book, a.k.a. The Book of All Things Musical, and thus Magical (as inscribed in silver sharpie on the black leather cover).
Emma plugged in and set up the stand-alone speakers and hooked them up to the player.
In the dramatic fashion worthy of Shakespearian applause, I selected and held up the obvious choice. One of the many things Emma and I radically agreed on every time.
Muse's fifth album, The Resistance, was officially the greatest (also the classiest) album ever to leave the United Kingdom.
Emma folded her arms, regarding the way I mock-worshipped the CD with my mouth hanging open in an 'O' shape. And she nodded vigorously, accepting my choice.
Over the ensuing noise, Emma and I talked about what we were going to do tomorrow, on the first day of the Convention. We agreed that we'd try to get a decent night's sleep and get up super-early to catch the crowd.
"I think I'm going to hit the stands and browse for comics. What about you?"
That was a tough question. There would be so much to do—so many things to see. "I hadn't thought about it. I do not want to miss the autograph signing, but I suppose I could hang with you for a bit, too."
"Really? Whose autograph do you want?" Emma looked at me questioningly. Then her face took on an impish grin. "Who are you fanatic about?"
I smiled. "Well…some of the cast from the new Marvel film will be there."
"Avengers, right?"
I nodded. Emma's eyebrows went sky-high in thought.
"Chris Evans should be there," she stated, in a very matter-of-fact manner. "I want a picture of his butt."
I shook my head, laughing.