Preface
I'd like to preface this with a quick note. I'm going to try my hardest to keep the people in character. There will be no slash, no smut, nothing too crazy. Okay, maybe a little bit of crazy. I have tweaked some facts for the sake of the story. Call it poetic license. I'm going to do the best I absolutely can. I'll try to make sure all my facts are straight. I have been playing with this storyline for a while and I'm pretty excited for this one. I haven't really written for a while, so forgive me if I'm a bit rusty. My laptop's down, so I'm using my mother's, which does not have Word, so I'm on Wordpad and I've no annoying squiggly red lines under misspelled words, so forgive any typos. I'm trying to keep this at a good pace, but let me know if I need to slow down or speed it up. Constructive critisism is a godsend, so please don't hold back. AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, please, pleasepleaseplease, warn me if you think Lia is a potential or in danger of being a MarySue. I hate them, and I want to make sure you guys see a full and well-rounded character.
That said, Thank you so much for reading and I thouroughly hope you enjoy!
Chapter One
Stepping off the plane, a fresh wave of nausea sweeps over me. This can't be real. The attendent ushers me into the terminal, where my brother will be waiting for his orphaned sister. I'm fourteen. Fifteen in two weeks, and I have no mother. I am a burden to my father, who washed his hands of me and held me out between his thumb and forefinger, arms length away, because I am nothing but a stray cat with a mean streak. I need to be put down.
As I walk into the airport, I see hundreds of people. It's a few days before the fourth of July. Travelers are moo-ing into their phones about their delayed flights and misplaced tickets. They all have places to go, people to hold them when they cry. I am not one of them. I've been shipped to a long-lost brother, who had no clue of my existence.
My mother just might have had the right idea.
Even as I think this, I can practically see her, sitting on my bed. She is in a white kimono with her long blonde hair pushed over her shoulder, just brushing her lap, wavy and free. She is staring at me with those crystal blue eyes, staring straight into me with a tolerant and patient smile, her head tilted to the side. Silly girl, she would say, You're not alone. I'm right here, aren't I?
But she's not.
A man in a sweater and blazer walks up to me, his eyes studying my face.
"Are you Amelia?" He asks, looking at the bag I'm carrying. I stare at him for a moment. Is this him? Is this the good-deed-doing guy who said he'd take pity on a girl he doesn't even know? He has kind eyes, but I learned not to trust any eyes a long time ago.
"Lia." I say, but it is not my voice. It is a mouse's.
He smiles, a little carefully, and extends his hand. "I'm Spencer."
"Nice to meet you." I say, a little stronger now, it fools him, or he pretends it does.
"Are you hungry? We could get something to eat, maybe?" He sounds nervous.
"Yeah, that sounds good." We leave the airport, him carrying one of my suitcases and I hold onto my messenger bag for dear life. He has one very similar to mine, except lighter. I wonder what he keeps in his. Does he have a pack of cards? A laptop? Does he carry a journal with him wherever he goes? I wonder if I have anything in common with this stranger who go slapped with the label 'Brother' as unexpectedly as I got slapped with 'Sister'.
I used to want siblings, I wanted a big brother to protect me and a big sister to tell me all the things I was too afraid or embarassed to ask our parents. Or maybe a little brother to torment me and listen into my phone conversations secretly. A little sister to tell her all things she was too scared to ask Mom and Dad. Now, I'm not sure at all what I want. Do I wish I was back with my father? The man who only ever loved my mother, and only loved me as an afterthought. The man who worked too much and never tucked me in. He never read me bedtime stories, never asked how my day was.
Do I want to be here, with someone I only share DNA with, and possibly nothing else? The caseworker didn't tell me much. She was a tired black woman who had seen too much and it showed. She explained to me in a lolling drawl that I was no longer wanted by my father, and that I had a brother named Spencer, who worked in Quantico, Virginia. I was handed a plane ticket and told to pack everything I wanted. My furniture would be delivered to his apartment. Then she closed my file and told me I was free to go, and that she was aching for some coffee.
Do I want my mother? More than anything. She didn't want me, though. She wanted to be free of all responsibilty. Free of a man who loved her more than she could handle; free of a daughter who was obscenely average. Maybe a little smart, but nothing she was interested in. Free of expectations and tolerant and patient smiles. Free of the tears I only heard her cry twice.
"Lia." I turn my head to the sound, and Spencer is standing maybe ten feet behind me, leaning on a Jetta and looking curiously at me. I hadn't realized he stopped. I turn back around, cheeks burning. "Sorry," I whispersay, he nods his head with a kind smirk and I put my suitcase in the trunk while he loads the other one into the backseat. I get into the car and it smells like new car. It has a Satelite Radio and electric everything. He looks and smiles at me, looking sort of wistful.
"My friend Derek convinced me that I needed a new car. I didn't believe him, but I guess this one's kinda growing on me." He laughs and I smile, because I think that's what he expects. Starting the car, we both put on our seatbelts and I tighten my grip on the brown leather bag in my lap. He glances at my white knuckles and his eyebrows draw together, troubled.
"I know this is not ideal," he begins, eyes locked on the road. I'm not sure if he's avoiding eye contact or being a safe driver. Either way, I'm okay with this. "I'm going to do the best I can, I can't promise that I'll be the perfect guardian, but I promise you I'll try."
He turns his head and our eyes lock and he looks like if there were any promise he had to keep in the world, it was this one. I nod, and look out at the road. "Thank you."
We pull into a small, dusty diner and I get out, deathgrip on my bag tight as ever. I don't know what I'm doing here. Two weeks ago, I had a mother who would paint me in the garden, reading a book. I didn't have any friends, but I had her. I had a father, who may have not loved me so much, but I know he tried, sometimes. In small gifts he would leave on my bed, a bottle of perfume, a new book by an author I didn't like, but he couldn't have known that. I had the bookstore owner, Marvin, who had a twinkle in his eye and wire-y gray hair. I had a room with a full glass wall, overlooking the garden and some of the town. I had a wall of books and a large wooden desk where I had all my journals and sketchbooks. I had a cat, Berlioz, who loved to curl up next to me while we watched rare thunderstorms together.
I have nothing here, but a brother who I don't know and a bag or two of clothes and books. Favorites only.
We are seated in a booth and I sit, telling the waitress I want coffee, because then I'll appear a bit more mature than my age dictates. Spencer orders the same and we are stuck in an awkward silence.
I take a breath, and try to embrace some of my mother's boldness. "So, do you like to read?"
Spencer grins so hard the window next to us shakes. "It's my favorite passtime."
"Mine too." I smile a little, and I notice we have the same nose. We are both tall, though we have different bone structures. I have been told one billion and two times I could be my mother's twin, but I have my father's eyes and his nose. Spencer and I share that. We have similar brown-hazel eyes. These little things comfort me in some way.
"Who's your favorite author?"
I don't hesitate, because this is familiar territory. Books are my safety subject. "Laurie Halse Andersen, or maybe Amy Reed. But my favorite book is The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran."
"I've never read any Andersen or Reed, but that was Gibran's masterpiece."
"What's your favorite genre?"
"Sciences and Criminology."
"Criminology?" I ask, sort of thrown off.
"Yeah, it's the study of criminal behavior. I'm a Behavioral Analasyst for the FBI."
"FBI? As in Federal Beaurau of Investigation?" I am utterly gobsmacked. Suddenly, I feel like I don't know him at all.
"Yeah, I profile serial killers to help find them. My job involves a lot of travel. Hotch, my boss, got me some time off and then I'll be doing deskwork for a while so I can stay in the area. I figured that'd give us some time to get to know each other." The waitress comes back with our coffee, and I pour in some sugar and creamer, hoping I can man up for the taste. I only drink coffee when I'm in the presence of adults, it helps them to not underestimate me. I hate when they do that. We order the same thing, funny enough, both getting cheeseburgers and french fries. It's a common favorite, but it still gives me a little sense of joy, knowing we have something in common
We stir our coffee and I take a sip, and it's not so bad. I think I might start drinking it more regularly. My mother didn't like it; said that it wasn't good for my natural flow of energy.
"That's sounds really intersting. It must suck, though." He looks up, a questioning smile on his face. I am getting too comfortable. I'm a guest in this situation. I don't get to make voiced observations.
"Howso?" I shrug and he urges me on, "No, it's okay, what do you mean?"
"I mean, to profile a serial killer, you have to think like him, and see what he does. I've always had a morbid sense of respect for police officers. They see a lot of terrible things. I think it takes a lot out of a person to always have to see the worst of humanity. My mom always tried to shield me from my, um, our dad's work, because he was defending these murderers and sometimes he brought it home with him and I would peek at the pictures and notes. They were pretty gruesome. I don't know how I'd stomach that on a daily basis, but I have a lot of respect for anyone who can. I mean, so long as they aren't the sole cause of it."
He nods his head, "You're right. Sometimes it does suck, but you don't just see the bad in people. I've met some amazing, good people in my job. The community standing up to protect eachother, their outcry against all the bad and the support from everyone is sometimes overwhelming, but it can be comforting, knowing people would protect a perfect stranger. In a morbid way, it sort of renews my faith in humanity sometimes."
We sit in silence as I process that. He has a point, it probably does. I still can't imagine having to look at dead bodies all the time, but if that's what he chose to do, then I guess I support him. After a while, we recieve our food and eat. I pick at my fries as Spencer devours the burger in his hands.
"I've enrolled you at the Van Der Buxonne High School. I've done some research and it seems like a really nice school. There's five hundred kids in your junior class, but the teacher ratio is one to ten. seventy three percent of their students who graduate from Buxonne have at least one degree by the time they're twenty five. It seems like a really promising school. It was founded in eighteen ninety-two by a philanthropist named Edward Thomas Van Der Buxonne. He died at the age of thirty four of tuberculosis, just three months after opening the school. The motto of the school is 'Vox Populi', which roughly translates to 'Voice of the People'. I think that's definitely a promising sign. You'll be able to choose which courses you want to go into. They have a huge selection ranging from very basic pre-law and pre-med to advanced journalism and art classes. I had your transcripts sent to them, it is a tough school to get into, but your grades were pretty great. They said they'd love to have you in fall. I looked into a bunch of schools, there's a lot of high schools, for all different kinds of interests: drama, activists, pre-law, pre-med, sciences, just about anything! I didn't really know what your interests were, though, so I figured I'd set you up with a school with a broad spectrum, and hope for the best." He seems really excited, sharing this knowledge with me and I smile at him, because his enthusiasm is sweet.
He looks at me for a second, smiling curiously, "What are you interested in?"
I think for a moment. "Journalism, I think. I like writing. My mom always says-" I stop short, catching myself. She doesn't say anything anymore. "-said, I had a well-developed sense of right and wrong. I like telling the whole story, too. Not just the parts I like."
"Maybe I could see if they have any open spots on their newspaper. That'd be a great extracurricular." He grins, and I see him practically staring into the possibilities.
I crack a smile, a real one, because maybe this could be a good thing, being here with this guy, my brother, who I barely know. Maybe this could be great.
"Can I just focus on making friends first?"