Chapter 1

"Start by doing what's necessary; then do what's possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible."
— St. Francis of Assisi

May 17, 2014

The weather forecast proclaimed thunderstorms, but obviously those guys needed to be hit with the get-a-clue stick because they couldn't be more wrong. The sun shone brightly, illuminating vivid green grass and the glittering Mohegan Lake. The birds chirped; the trees rustled in the wind. It was truly stunning.

In other words, a beautiful day for Abel Wilde to lock his door, draw his curtains, and finally choose a damn costume for the Bleach convention that would be taking place in four hours.

It wasn't like he didn't have options, either. Over the years, he'd acquired quite a collection of Bleach-themed clothing, weapons, and hair dyes. But nothing was exactly right. And since this convention happened to be on his fifteenth birthday, he wanted it to be a good one. (And that wasn't even to mention his mother, who had been insisting that she was about to trash all his Bleach memorabilia if he didn't chuck it himself, so this could well be his last chance at a perfect outfit.)

Suit jackets, sunglasses, and red wigs littered the bed. Face paints, knives, and newsboy caps lay in a pile on the floor. The poster above Abel's bed featured a digital painting of his three favorite characters: Byakuya Kuchiki, Orihime Inoue, and Michiru Ogawa. Half a year ago, he'd commissioned it from an online friend and hung it the second they'd emailed it to him.

But thinking about that damn picture wasn't going to supply him with a costume. He slumped his shoulders and considered calling Lamont — who, of course, already had a fully prepared outfit that had only cost him about ten dollars because the kid was both brilliant and creative — but he wanted to do this thing on his own.

Once again, he sifted through his stuff, pausing to finger a black eye patch (Giriko) and a bat (Ichigo). He'd cosplayed all of these people at one time or another, but none of them had been really special. And honestly, he was running out of decent male characters that actually appeared in the show and not just on the Wiki page.

Abel's hand was hovering over a glass katana — which was quite sharp and sturdy, considering it was marketed as 'fake' — when the idea occurred to him. He knew the one character that he had never been before.

Kensei Muguruma.

He threw open his laptop, paying little attention as the cover slammed into the wall behind his desk. After punching in his password, he clicked to Google Chrome, Bookmarks, Bleach Wikia, Kensei Muguruma, and Images. A full-body photo appeared, clearly detailing the outfit.

Abel dug through his piles, surfacing with Kensei's trademark white robe, knot belt, and soft fingerless gloves under metal gauntlets. Underneath he slipped on a pair of black Kevlar jeans and steel-tipped combat boots. The katana was tucked into the belt. He knew it wasn't his best effort, but there simply wasn't much more he could do. Time was running out.

He was forcing the rest of the stuff into the back of his closet when the dye suddenly broke out of his grip, rolled across the floor, bumped into the bookcase, and knocked over a stack of comic books. In a flash, Abel noticed that it was a grayish blue hue, almost the exact color of Kensei's hair. There was a list of instructions on the container, but he didn't have the time for that.

Abel raced to the bathroom, grabbing a sheet from the linen closet as he passed. He pulled the door closed, tucked the cloth over his shoulders, and brushed out the tangles in his hair. Then he yanked gloves out of a cabinet and yanked the nozzle off the dye. Not bothering to separate his hair into chunks, nor apply a light coat of water, he sprayed evenly until half the liquid was gone.

He didn't even bother to look in the mirror before shouting for his mother to drive him to his convention.

May 17, 2014

There was a boy standing in front of Lexi Fox. She wasn't sure when he'd arrived, but that was how these kinds of things went. If someone was right there, you used them and then you let them go. At least, that was her way of dealing with it.

"Cigarette?" he offered, and from his voice she could tell he was a junior, one of her brother's crazy friends. (But she didn't have to let him know that she recognized him.)

Instead, Lexi smirked. Anyone who knew her could tell immediately that her expression was phony, that when one corner of her mouth turned up higher than the other it meant she was faking it. (That wasn't important.) "Please."

He flicked the lighter and passed one over. "You wanna go outside before we set the place on fire?"

He just wanted to be alone with her; there were plenty of people smoking inside. But she shrugged anyway. "Why not?" (It was a question, and she did expect an answer, but he had no way of figuring that out.)

"Come on then." His words were muffled. He grabbed her hand. The world tilted in slow motion as Lexi followed him outside, past the gaggles of girls who she knew would be gossiping about her (that wasn't anything new), past the flock of boys who craned their necks to eyeball her ass (neither was that), past all the idiots who had nothing better to do than judge (neither had Lexi, before; that was why she'd started drinking, at least it was something new).

"So what's your name?" she called behind her, sliding the screen door open.

"Mike," he said. "I would ask yours, but I already know it."

"I'm sure you do." She maneuvered him onto a chair, then flopped onto his lap. (God, it didn't take much to heat 'em up these days, did it?) "But I'll tell you anyway, if you want."

He grabbed Lexi's hips. "Stop moving, Little Fox."

"Little Fox? Is that what all you upperclassmen know me as? Do you call Mason Big Fox?"

"I'm the big fox in these parts," he returned. (Well, if that wasn't the worst line she'd ever heard . . . )

"Mmm," she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Are you ever planning on kissing me, or are we gonna talk for the rest of the night?"

::

Music was blasting, and there was a cup of spiked punch in her hand, and some guy had just dragged Lexi Fox onto the porch — actually, come to think of it, Lexi had kind of been dragging him — which really should have awarded her with prime gossip points except that her so-called friends were probably too drunk to care. Sawyer Braxton rolled her eyes at the group of sophomores surrounding her. Petty, obnoxious bitches.

That's not to say that Sawyer wasn't a petty, obnoxious bitch herself, but she liked to think that she was more subtle about it. And at least she wasn't too drunk to function at a party like this, which was supposed to end before dawn and had instead continued to the present time, an estimated three hours after the sun had risen.

"Drink, Sawyer!" one of the girls — Kara, Clara, or something like that; Sawyer hadn't been able to hear her over the repeating bass of Primadonna Girl — insisted. "Why don't you ever have fun?"

"I'm having a lot of fun, thank you," she answered coldly. "I prefer to be aware of the situation."

"She prefers to be aware," mocked Kara/Clara with a high-pitched giggle. "Did you hear that, Kelly? Why would you wanna be aware when you could be drunk?"

Because I have actual fears of getting wasted and passing out and being raped on the floor, and also all my real friends aren't here so I have to hang out with you idiots, and I'm not even sure if they're actually my real friends because if I'm honest they probably just hang around with me because it makes them look good and I give them expensive birthday presents on top of it. "Ugh. Maybe I should drink something."

"That's the spirit!" Kelly, if that was indeed her name, grinned, exposing straight white teeth. Westchester was the type of place where every kid received braces at adolescence and a new car at seventeen. "Chug!"

The rest of them picked up the chant, shouting and clapping, clothes and hair flying. They were all beautiful girls, but they had never looked more ugly. At that moment, Sawyer knew that she would never make a mess of herself the way they had. She let the cup slip out of her hands and turned away.

She enjoyed many things — shopping sprees and classy dinners and Diane von Furstenburg dresses, to name a few — but being addicted to alcohol before she'd really even started high school was not on the list.

"I'll see you all at school Monday."

::

There was nothing Aisha Bahirah loved more than dance. (Except control, especially over others, but that was a different story entirely.)

For as long as she could remember, she'd been enrolled in classes at Darcy's School of Movement and Grace, the most prestigious studio in the state. She'd been the captain of their junior competition team for two years, and was granted three solos in eight months, even though roles like that were only ever given to juniors and seniors. Quite successful, in her opinion.

Unfortunately, she couldn't really dance without risking the unwinding of her hijab. And there was no way on Allah's Earth that she would allow her head covering to slip off in the presence of anyone who was attending this party.

So her new solution was to secure the scarf as tightly as she could, then wear a silver crown she'd picked up at Party City for ten dollars. With that, Aisha felt like the princess of dance, and she was.

She could feel the guys watching her as she shimmied with her girls, had a feeling they were objectifying her, knew she had to put a stop to it, and honestly didn't care. If any of them dared to whistle at her, or say a word, or make a move, she could break their noses. And they were well aware of that fact. After all, she'd done it before.

Aisha was the resident freshman bully, and she was damn proud of it. In just a year and a half, she had risen from a nobody to one of the most popular people in her class — whether it was for a good reason or not was debatable, though — despite her young age, her gender, and her religion.

Basically, she was living proof that you could be anything you wanted, and fuck them all.

In fact, that was her motto.

So, talk to me! What did you think of the chapter? The characters? The writing style?

Remember, a quality review, a follow, or a favorite will let me know that you care about your character. And even if you haven't submitted, please do some of these anyway! I'll basically just stare at my screen and smile awkwardly because I'll be so happy.

Joyana

( 7 / 7 / 2015 )