Young Adult Novel Research and Writing
Amanda Nudo
Dr. Sherry
Literature for Young Adults
21 April 2011
After reading over The Hunger Games Trilogy and carefully considering Susan Collin’s writing style, I attempted to pull out some of the main or most important concepts behind her pieces. Among the characteristics I chose to include in my chapter was a young adult, female protagonist who is from a lower class background; an underdog of sorts. Also, I composed the piece in first person present tense- a task that is much more difficult than I had previously anticipated- as Collins did with her trilogy. Furthermore, I attempted to bring in elements of deadly competition and the need to protect someone else that the narrator sees as much more pure or worthy of surviving than they are. The last major elements that I chose to include in my chapter were the overarching ideas of a sci-fi developments and a dystopian society with its negative effects on the youth that grow up in it. I would be remiss not to mention the cliff-hanger ending that I added to highlight one of Collins’ favorite literary devices.
Just as important as Collin’s trilogy to my decisions of what to include was the information I gathered from the student surveys. Many of the students listed war-based video games and sports in their hobbies so I attempted to incorporate those elements into a physical and competitive storyline. Quite a few surveys also conveyed an interest in romance through various forms of media such as novels like Twilight and movies such as The Note Book among their favorites so I tried to develop at least a suggestion of romance between the female and male leads, though the chapter I chose to cover didn’t offer too much room to do so. While most favorite forms of media included young adult protagonists, there seemed to be a higher interest in
pieces with male leads than females. However, I decided not to make this change because Katniss’s gender has such a strong impact on her decisions and her outlook on life that it seemed more appropriate for a book modeled to a degree after The Hunger Games to keep a female perspective, though not necessarily a feminine one.
Since the chapter I wrote begins somewhere in the middle of the story, it seems appropriate to offer a synopsis of the would-be-novel. Sometime in the not-so-distant-future, where those who fall out of societies graces are left to their own devises rather than supported, people charged with major or repeated crimes can escape execution by having champions compete in a deadly game to win their freedom. The catch is that only one champion and criminal can leave the game, a series of timed arenas, alive. Since the criminals and champions are almost always lower class, this game serves as a way to control the population in the city slums while offering competition for the high-class to view and bet on.
Dicentra, a sixteen year old girl who lives in the slums, becomes one of these champions even though she has sworn to never get involved in this cruel game. Her best friend, Syshe, is convicted of stealing for a third time when he attempts to steal a novel Dicentra dearly wants to give to her as a birthday present after they have their first ever argument. Dicentra feels responsible for Syshe’s condition and enters into the deadly game where beating the clock and surviving the dangers longer than the other contestants is the only way to make it out alive for both of them. Can Dicentra succeed or will she have to accept her failure to save Syshe, the one person she has left in the entire world?
Arena Three and the Memory
The mechanical buzzing sound hums out of the wrist watch newly fastened to my arm. It’s a taunt, a reminder that I’m running out of time. The sensation’s completely foreign to me, not just the watch which is programmed to sound off every time I hit a new arena, but the concept of worrying about time. When you’re sixteen and trapped in a dead-end life, time is the one thing you have too much of. Summoning all of the calm I can muster, I press the center button on the watch, waiting for the next clue that the contraption will reward me with for making it to zone three within the time limit. A screen projection shoots out of the watch face; it shows an arrow pointing south with the words “avoid red and blue” written below like a tutorial from the old video game system that I used to own as a child. My experience with the first two arenas confirms that the arrow is pointing to the direction of the next arena but I’m not sure what to make of the words under it. As for the arena itself, the time to distance ratio seems off. I have thirty minutes to complete a course that’s just over a mile. By far, this is the shortest course with the longest time limit yet. Something tells me this isn’t good.
The last bit of information I receive via the wrist-watch is the number of contestants still in the game; only eight of the original twenty contestants are still alive. I cringe, glad of my increased chances of surviving this but unable to comprehend the deaths of the twelve contestants and their loved ones they were trying to rescue. I wonder if any of them have relationships like Syshe and I or if I’m the only girl left on this godforsaken planet crazy enough to do this for a friend. Still, there can only be one winner.
The clock mocks me with another buzz to let me know I haven’t moved for thirty seconds; I’m wasting too much time on the dead again. This whole experience could be a video
game, only video games don’t blow you to smithereens for failing to make a time limit and they don’t contain enemies that can actually injure and kill you. Not to mention, when you play a game, the most important person in the world to you isn’t counting on your victory to save his life. I’m playing a game of sorts, one I had sworn never to play. I have to this time though- and I have to find a way to win-Syshe’s life was depending on it.
I hurry forward while fumbling with the canteen of water hanging from a strap at my side and taking a conservative sip. I have no idea when this terrible game might end. It theoretically continued until only one contestant was left standing. Rumor had it that one competition lasted for fifty-one rounds before a champion was finally successful, but it was just a rumor…I hopped. The problem with this is that I hadn’t spotted any water sources along the trail. The chances of dying from dehydration were low but my experiences with taking chances never ended well, as is proven by the fresh gash on my right side. The wound is surprisingly shallow although it feels much deeper as I sprint in the debilitating afternoon heat.
Until I had received the gash, it hadn’t occurred to me that I didn’t seem to have so much as a piece of gauze in my pack. What I do still have are a dart gun and a row of poison ammunition for it, the dagger I had found at the end of the first arena, and the small sack I had located at the finish of the last arena, which proved to contain a meager amount of jerky. I resist the urge to shovel the contents into my mouth and, instead settle for ripping off a tough end and savoring the salty flavor as I sprint across the new landscape.
The cover from the trees disappears as I head straight into a valley. I’ll have to be more cautious in order to avoid being spotted by enemies. My side is starting to throb and I can feel each step taking more effort out of my weary legs as they lag under the burning sunlight. The
canteen tempts my parched throat and I raise it to my dry lips before gaining enough sense to stop myself.
I stop dead. The humming tips me off before I see the actual thing. Another nest of thistweatels bare their dagger-like stingers at me as I pass by; my hand moves instinctively to cover the wound on my side made by the same creature in the last arena. The grenade that I had used to take out the last nest had been a lucky snag but it was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of fortune. I doubt I could make it through another nest with only a gash to the side. To make matters worse, I notice the coloring, not black like the last set I encountered but a deep red; the ones the guidebook labeled as fatally lethal. My breath catches as my stomach twists into knots. Through the nest is the only way to the next arena but it would mean death. I weigh my options and vaguely wonder if the “avoid red and blue” displayed on the screen referred to this situation. It’s death either way.
The wrist-watch buzzes again, urging me to take action. It blends in with the sounds of the nest and luckily goes unnoticed by my predators. Their hawk-like wings flap furiously as they scan for pray from all directions. My hands fumble for the dart gun and ammunition as silently as my exhausted body can manage. Mustering my remaining energy, I jump behind a large boulder and let half of the darts fly in all directions near the nest. The darts make a high pitched whistling sound as they rocket around the nest, causing chaos as the creatures madly search for what they mistook for prey. This is the closest thing I will get to an opening. I dive for the ground and army crawled through the frenzy.
I might actually believe I’m in a very convincing video game if it weren’t for the clear sensations of pain that sting through my already damaged and exhausted body. I am suddenly grateful that I was forced to fight for survival for the better part of my life. The city streets were
a whole different kind of danger, but they had defiantly made me tougher. I doubt any of the higher ups who had designed this course would keep going in my condition. A short, bitter laugh escapes my lips. I drag my body behind the nearest boulder, certain that death is near…wondering how long it would take me to die from the sting wounds I’m sure I’ve been gashed with before I realize the source of my pain is on my lower body.
After further examination, the culprit turns out to not be the poison blade-like stingers of the thistweatles that would have killed on contact but pickers covering the ground. I remember seeing these in the guidebook as well, monstrous thorns with gleaming dark green tips. My mind struggled to picture what had been written under the picture. May cause short-term paralysis? A cakewalk in comparison to the poison thistweatles but still dangerous with the watch ticking away the last…I check…eighteen minutes…of my life. I only have half a mile to go but it’s clear I won’t be running it in the shape I’m in. My legs go numb and it’s all I can do to drag myself away from the deadly nest and across the valley. Each rock pushes into my skin as beads of sweat form on my forehead from the effort of moving forward. It will all be worth it if I can save Syshe, I tell myself. I struggle on toward the finishline.
I pull up short as my chin, now dripping with drool as the paralysis spreads, nudges against a dicentra flower, my namesake. The watch buzzes, reminding me to keep moving, but it doesn’t block out the memories from that day.
I was ten, the age where most girls were starting to worry about pop icons, make-up, and boys. Those were my biggest concerns until everything I had was taken from me. My parents were killed when the bullet train they were riding to work crashed and exploded in on itself. I had no other family, both my grandmother and uncle had been killed in the war defending our
city and the rest of my family had been taken by the chaos of the city. Drugs, violence, and suicide had destroyed everything I had. When I lost my parents my life was over. There was no time to grieve or feel comforted by friends. All of our property had been taken by the government and I was thrown out of school since I was unable to pay the tuition; public schools had been done away with half a century before. Desperate for some sense of normalcy or comfort, I tried to speak with my school friends but they turned away and ignored my existence. In less than a day, I went from being a middle class child to the scum of the city. I no longer existed.
Giving up seemed like the best option. The city slums weren’t made for children and surviving them wasn’t likely to improve my lot in life. For some reason, I wasn’t able to just stop living, no matter how badly I wanted to. So I kept steeling a loaf of bread here or a peach there- a blanket from a street vendor… I was surprised at my natural talent for thievery. But what I stole was all I had. I wasn’t able to so much as say hello to a single person after what had happened. Everyone who I had ever cared for was lost or had found me disposable. I wasn’t about to create more disposable relationships. And then Syshe came along.
He was the same age as me with strikingly tomato-red hair, too many freckles and an unnervingly broad grin that didn’t belong in the city slums. One late fall night, he sat across from me at a makeshift fire that I had spent the past few hours slaving over and made himself as comfortable as if he had built the thing. I glared at this strange boy and he grinned back.
“So, where you from, hmm?”
I tried my best to ignore this boy who was intruding on my campfire.
“Did you hear me?” The red-head tried a second time. Again, I pretended not to notice.
He sighed, “Suit yourself.”
The next thing he did surprised me enough to ruin my composure; the boy pulled out a book. I had always loved to read but hadn’t picked up as much as a pamphlet for the past two months. Perhaps it was a subconscious rebellion against the school that had closed its doors on me and stolen my education or perhaps it was because reading always made me think of my father. I still wasn’t ready to think about my father. Either way, it didn’t change the fact that I missed the smell of a book or the feel of the pages running through my fingertips as I made my way through whatever stories I could get my hands on. I only had eyes for the book, but that meant talking to the red-headed boy.
I tried to keep my voice even but I hadn’t said a word in so long that it took three attempts to get any words out and even those sounded awkward and cracked, “Could I…could I see that book?”
The boy looked up with the same grin on his face, “Only if I can have the rest of your roll.”
The roll lay forgotten next to me. In pursuit of the book, I quickly swapped him. We sat in silence for another hour or so as I read and he warmed his hands and munched on the remainder of my sour-dough roll. It was the most comfortable silence I had experienced in a long time, and I was experiencing it with a complete stranger.
I was surprised to find that I was the one to break it. “Where did you get the book?”
He looked confused, “I stole it.”
I was indignantly up on my feet. “You what!?! That’s wrong!”
His puzzled expression met mine before he responded, “Where did you get the roll.”
I blushed. He was right. That was stolen as well.
The read-head brushed off my comments. “I’m Syshe, by the way. I have more books if you’d like to read them.” He seemed just as excited as I was about the prospect of having someone to share books with.
“I’m Dicentra, like the flower,” I heard myself say a bit too enthusiastically.
“Never heard of it but I like it. At least it’s not boring like Rose or Violet.”
I giggled; I was beginning to like Syshe.
I had always liked Syshe, I admit as I drag myself past the last of the pink dicentras, temporary memorized by their heart-shaped petals that split in the middle, earning them the nickname of bleeding heart flowers. Syshe would have called me a bleeding heart for worrying about him when my own life was at risk. I couldn’t help it. He was the only constant for the past six years of my life and I had put his life at risk. I couldn’t see myself in a world where I didn’t save him. The thought of Syshe’s grin wiped away and replaced by a look of pain made my stomach convulse. The question that I had been avoiding crept back into my thoughts, did this mean I was in love with Syshe?
No. We were in this situation now because we had the most ridiculous argument over a stack of bound pieces of paper. That’s all this feeling is, guilt and friendship. How could I have accused Syshe of not caring enough to get me the stupid poetry book I wanted for my birthday? The knot in my stomach returns because I know the answer. Those cruel words had been meant as a challenge to force Syshe to get to the book. He felt he couldn’t return empty-handed on my sixteenth birthday and, despite the elevated security at the bookstore, my words had been meant to force him there. All for a stupid book? Was I really that selfish of a person? Either way, it was defiantly my fault that we were in this situation right now.
I’m yanked from my thoughts by a large wooden chest standing out against the otherwise grassy plains. The only thing inside is a small vile of blue liquid. It could be an antidote for the paralyzing thorns since every player would have to crawl through them to escape the thistweatles. A thought breaks through my hysteria: the warning to beware of red and blue. Red was obviously the thistweatles but is this vile the blue item I’m supposed to avoid or is it the only thing that will cure me of the paralysis that is gripping my body?
I struggle to check the watch. Only five minutes left and almost a quarter mile to go. The knot re-inhabits my stomach to join the other pains that are making it impossible to concentrate. Once again, I find myself in a gamble-or-die situation. The blue vile is the only reasonable hope I have of making it on time so I hold my breath, picture Syshe’s grin, and down the stuff.
The paralysis begins to wear off almost immediately. I let out all the air left in my lungs before I realize I’ve been holding my breath. There’s no time to stop and be thankful for the continued luck that’s keeping me alive. I’m up before my muscles are ready and hobbling as fast as I can to the end. My body finally catches up about fifty yards before the finish line with two minutes to go. Somehow, I’ve made it.
Something touches my shoulder and the finish line floats into the sky. Unsure of what to do next, I glance around and down at the clock: one minute and forty seconds left to go and the finish line isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Panic sets in like death. I feel another something land on my back and spin around to find the source…nothing’s there. When I spin back around, neither is the finish line; it’s moved over to the other side of the arena. I force myself not to cry and unsheathe my dagger. A speck of blue moves in the reflection. This must be the machine that’s disorienting me. I force myself to believe this because the alternative is that the finish line is really gone and it has taken Syshe’s and my lives with it.
This time, I see the small blue thing flutter into my hair before it hits. It resembles a computer chip with little betel legs sticking out. I reach back to pull one out of my hip-length black hair and recoil instantly as my nail turns black and falls off. I fight back a scream. Thirty seconds to go and I can’t find the finish line or touch these blue creatures. My hair starts to pull as I feel them crawling up it and toward my head, those deadly bodies creeping closer to the vulnerable skin of my scalp. It’s really over this time. I wonder if the creatures or my watch exploding will kill me first; I’m hoping it’s the watch. And then, at the last second, I have the answer. Raising the dagger behind my head, I slash my hair off at an uneven angle just above my shoulders and tear across the now- clear finish line before my long black lochs have even hit the floor, the bugs inside still struggling in the tangles of my discarded hair.
However, I don’t have time to congratulate myself or gather my bearings. I can’t stop and marvel at the first haircut I’ve had since my parents died. I can’t even grab the item that has been left at the beginning of the fourth arena or check my watch for the next time or clues.
I can’t do any of these things because there is a blade pressed against my throat.
Dr. Sherry
Literature for Young Adults
21 April 2011
After reading over The Hunger Games Trilogy and carefully considering Susan Collin’s writing style, I attempted to pull out some of the main or most important concepts behind her pieces. Among the characteristics I chose to include in my chapter was a young adult, female protagonist who is from a lower class background; an underdog of sorts. Also, I composed the piece in first person present tense- a task that is much more difficult than I had previously anticipated- as Collins did with her trilogy. Furthermore, I attempted to bring in elements of deadly competition and the need to protect someone else that the narrator sees as much more pure or worthy of surviving than they are. The last major elements that I chose to include in my chapter were the overarching ideas of a sci-fi developments and a dystopian society with its negative effects on the youth that grow up in it. I would be remiss not to mention the cliff-hanger ending that I added to highlight one of Collins’ favorite literary devices.
Just as important as Collin’s trilogy to my decisions of what to include was the information I gathered from the student surveys. Many of the students listed war-based video games and sports in their hobbies so I attempted to incorporate those elements into a physical and competitive storyline. Quite a few surveys also conveyed an interest in romance through various forms of media such as novels like Twilight and movies such as The Note Book among their favorites so I tried to develop at least a suggestion of romance between the female and male leads, though the chapter I chose to cover didn’t offer too much room to do so. While most favorite forms of media included young adult protagonists, there seemed to be a higher interest in
pieces with male leads than females. However, I decided not to make this change because Katniss’s gender has such a strong impact on her decisions and her outlook on life that it seemed more appropriate for a book modeled to a degree after The Hunger Games to keep a female perspective, though not necessarily a feminine one.
Since the chapter I wrote begins somewhere in the middle of the story, it seems appropriate to offer a synopsis of the would-be-novel. Sometime in the not-so-distant-future, where those who fall out of societies graces are left to their own devises rather than supported, people charged with major or repeated crimes can escape execution by having champions compete in a deadly game to win their freedom. The catch is that only one champion and criminal can leave the game, a series of timed arenas, alive. Since the criminals and champions are almost always lower class, this game serves as a way to control the population in the city slums while offering competition for the high-class to view and bet on.
Dicentra, a sixteen year old girl who lives in the slums, becomes one of these champions even though she has sworn to never get involved in this cruel game. Her best friend, Syshe, is convicted of stealing for a third time when he attempts to steal a novel Dicentra dearly wants to give to her as a birthday present after they have their first ever argument. Dicentra feels responsible for Syshe’s condition and enters into the deadly game where beating the clock and surviving the dangers longer than the other contestants is the only way to make it out alive for both of them. Can Dicentra succeed or will she have to accept her failure to save Syshe, the one person she has left in the entire world?
Arena Three and the Memory
The mechanical buzzing sound hums out of the wrist watch newly fastened to my arm. It’s a taunt, a reminder that I’m running out of time. The sensation’s completely foreign to me, not just the watch which is programmed to sound off every time I hit a new arena, but the concept of worrying about time. When you’re sixteen and trapped in a dead-end life, time is the one thing you have too much of. Summoning all of the calm I can muster, I press the center button on the watch, waiting for the next clue that the contraption will reward me with for making it to zone three within the time limit. A screen projection shoots out of the watch face; it shows an arrow pointing south with the words “avoid red and blue” written below like a tutorial from the old video game system that I used to own as a child. My experience with the first two arenas confirms that the arrow is pointing to the direction of the next arena but I’m not sure what to make of the words under it. As for the arena itself, the time to distance ratio seems off. I have thirty minutes to complete a course that’s just over a mile. By far, this is the shortest course with the longest time limit yet. Something tells me this isn’t good.
The last bit of information I receive via the wrist-watch is the number of contestants still in the game; only eight of the original twenty contestants are still alive. I cringe, glad of my increased chances of surviving this but unable to comprehend the deaths of the twelve contestants and their loved ones they were trying to rescue. I wonder if any of them have relationships like Syshe and I or if I’m the only girl left on this godforsaken planet crazy enough to do this for a friend. Still, there can only be one winner.
The clock mocks me with another buzz to let me know I haven’t moved for thirty seconds; I’m wasting too much time on the dead again. This whole experience could be a video
game, only video games don’t blow you to smithereens for failing to make a time limit and they don’t contain enemies that can actually injure and kill you. Not to mention, when you play a game, the most important person in the world to you isn’t counting on your victory to save his life. I’m playing a game of sorts, one I had sworn never to play. I have to this time though- and I have to find a way to win-Syshe’s life was depending on it.
I hurry forward while fumbling with the canteen of water hanging from a strap at my side and taking a conservative sip. I have no idea when this terrible game might end. It theoretically continued until only one contestant was left standing. Rumor had it that one competition lasted for fifty-one rounds before a champion was finally successful, but it was just a rumor…I hopped. The problem with this is that I hadn’t spotted any water sources along the trail. The chances of dying from dehydration were low but my experiences with taking chances never ended well, as is proven by the fresh gash on my right side. The wound is surprisingly shallow although it feels much deeper as I sprint in the debilitating afternoon heat.
Until I had received the gash, it hadn’t occurred to me that I didn’t seem to have so much as a piece of gauze in my pack. What I do still have are a dart gun and a row of poison ammunition for it, the dagger I had found at the end of the first arena, and the small sack I had located at the finish of the last arena, which proved to contain a meager amount of jerky. I resist the urge to shovel the contents into my mouth and, instead settle for ripping off a tough end and savoring the salty flavor as I sprint across the new landscape.
The cover from the trees disappears as I head straight into a valley. I’ll have to be more cautious in order to avoid being spotted by enemies. My side is starting to throb and I can feel each step taking more effort out of my weary legs as they lag under the burning sunlight. The
canteen tempts my parched throat and I raise it to my dry lips before gaining enough sense to stop myself.
I stop dead. The humming tips me off before I see the actual thing. Another nest of thistweatels bare their dagger-like stingers at me as I pass by; my hand moves instinctively to cover the wound on my side made by the same creature in the last arena. The grenade that I had used to take out the last nest had been a lucky snag but it was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of fortune. I doubt I could make it through another nest with only a gash to the side. To make matters worse, I notice the coloring, not black like the last set I encountered but a deep red; the ones the guidebook labeled as fatally lethal. My breath catches as my stomach twists into knots. Through the nest is the only way to the next arena but it would mean death. I weigh my options and vaguely wonder if the “avoid red and blue” displayed on the screen referred to this situation. It’s death either way.
The wrist-watch buzzes again, urging me to take action. It blends in with the sounds of the nest and luckily goes unnoticed by my predators. Their hawk-like wings flap furiously as they scan for pray from all directions. My hands fumble for the dart gun and ammunition as silently as my exhausted body can manage. Mustering my remaining energy, I jump behind a large boulder and let half of the darts fly in all directions near the nest. The darts make a high pitched whistling sound as they rocket around the nest, causing chaos as the creatures madly search for what they mistook for prey. This is the closest thing I will get to an opening. I dive for the ground and army crawled through the frenzy.
I might actually believe I’m in a very convincing video game if it weren’t for the clear sensations of pain that sting through my already damaged and exhausted body. I am suddenly grateful that I was forced to fight for survival for the better part of my life. The city streets were
a whole different kind of danger, but they had defiantly made me tougher. I doubt any of the higher ups who had designed this course would keep going in my condition. A short, bitter laugh escapes my lips. I drag my body behind the nearest boulder, certain that death is near…wondering how long it would take me to die from the sting wounds I’m sure I’ve been gashed with before I realize the source of my pain is on my lower body.
After further examination, the culprit turns out to not be the poison blade-like stingers of the thistweatles that would have killed on contact but pickers covering the ground. I remember seeing these in the guidebook as well, monstrous thorns with gleaming dark green tips. My mind struggled to picture what had been written under the picture. May cause short-term paralysis? A cakewalk in comparison to the poison thistweatles but still dangerous with the watch ticking away the last…I check…eighteen minutes…of my life. I only have half a mile to go but it’s clear I won’t be running it in the shape I’m in. My legs go numb and it’s all I can do to drag myself away from the deadly nest and across the valley. Each rock pushes into my skin as beads of sweat form on my forehead from the effort of moving forward. It will all be worth it if I can save Syshe, I tell myself. I struggle on toward the finishline.
I pull up short as my chin, now dripping with drool as the paralysis spreads, nudges against a dicentra flower, my namesake. The watch buzzes, reminding me to keep moving, but it doesn’t block out the memories from that day.
I was ten, the age where most girls were starting to worry about pop icons, make-up, and boys. Those were my biggest concerns until everything I had was taken from me. My parents were killed when the bullet train they were riding to work crashed and exploded in on itself. I had no other family, both my grandmother and uncle had been killed in the war defending our
city and the rest of my family had been taken by the chaos of the city. Drugs, violence, and suicide had destroyed everything I had. When I lost my parents my life was over. There was no time to grieve or feel comforted by friends. All of our property had been taken by the government and I was thrown out of school since I was unable to pay the tuition; public schools had been done away with half a century before. Desperate for some sense of normalcy or comfort, I tried to speak with my school friends but they turned away and ignored my existence. In less than a day, I went from being a middle class child to the scum of the city. I no longer existed.
Giving up seemed like the best option. The city slums weren’t made for children and surviving them wasn’t likely to improve my lot in life. For some reason, I wasn’t able to just stop living, no matter how badly I wanted to. So I kept steeling a loaf of bread here or a peach there- a blanket from a street vendor… I was surprised at my natural talent for thievery. But what I stole was all I had. I wasn’t able to so much as say hello to a single person after what had happened. Everyone who I had ever cared for was lost or had found me disposable. I wasn’t about to create more disposable relationships. And then Syshe came along.
He was the same age as me with strikingly tomato-red hair, too many freckles and an unnervingly broad grin that didn’t belong in the city slums. One late fall night, he sat across from me at a makeshift fire that I had spent the past few hours slaving over and made himself as comfortable as if he had built the thing. I glared at this strange boy and he grinned back.
“So, where you from, hmm?”
I tried my best to ignore this boy who was intruding on my campfire.
“Did you hear me?” The red-head tried a second time. Again, I pretended not to notice.
He sighed, “Suit yourself.”
The next thing he did surprised me enough to ruin my composure; the boy pulled out a book. I had always loved to read but hadn’t picked up as much as a pamphlet for the past two months. Perhaps it was a subconscious rebellion against the school that had closed its doors on me and stolen my education or perhaps it was because reading always made me think of my father. I still wasn’t ready to think about my father. Either way, it didn’t change the fact that I missed the smell of a book or the feel of the pages running through my fingertips as I made my way through whatever stories I could get my hands on. I only had eyes for the book, but that meant talking to the red-headed boy.
I tried to keep my voice even but I hadn’t said a word in so long that it took three attempts to get any words out and even those sounded awkward and cracked, “Could I…could I see that book?”
The boy looked up with the same grin on his face, “Only if I can have the rest of your roll.”
The roll lay forgotten next to me. In pursuit of the book, I quickly swapped him. We sat in silence for another hour or so as I read and he warmed his hands and munched on the remainder of my sour-dough roll. It was the most comfortable silence I had experienced in a long time, and I was experiencing it with a complete stranger.
I was surprised to find that I was the one to break it. “Where did you get the book?”
He looked confused, “I stole it.”
I was indignantly up on my feet. “You what!?! That’s wrong!”
His puzzled expression met mine before he responded, “Where did you get the roll.”
I blushed. He was right. That was stolen as well.
The read-head brushed off my comments. “I’m Syshe, by the way. I have more books if you’d like to read them.” He seemed just as excited as I was about the prospect of having someone to share books with.
“I’m Dicentra, like the flower,” I heard myself say a bit too enthusiastically.
“Never heard of it but I like it. At least it’s not boring like Rose or Violet.”
I giggled; I was beginning to like Syshe.
I had always liked Syshe, I admit as I drag myself past the last of the pink dicentras, temporary memorized by their heart-shaped petals that split in the middle, earning them the nickname of bleeding heart flowers. Syshe would have called me a bleeding heart for worrying about him when my own life was at risk. I couldn’t help it. He was the only constant for the past six years of my life and I had put his life at risk. I couldn’t see myself in a world where I didn’t save him. The thought of Syshe’s grin wiped away and replaced by a look of pain made my stomach convulse. The question that I had been avoiding crept back into my thoughts, did this mean I was in love with Syshe?
No. We were in this situation now because we had the most ridiculous argument over a stack of bound pieces of paper. That’s all this feeling is, guilt and friendship. How could I have accused Syshe of not caring enough to get me the stupid poetry book I wanted for my birthday? The knot in my stomach returns because I know the answer. Those cruel words had been meant as a challenge to force Syshe to get to the book. He felt he couldn’t return empty-handed on my sixteenth birthday and, despite the elevated security at the bookstore, my words had been meant to force him there. All for a stupid book? Was I really that selfish of a person? Either way, it was defiantly my fault that we were in this situation right now.
I’m yanked from my thoughts by a large wooden chest standing out against the otherwise grassy plains. The only thing inside is a small vile of blue liquid. It could be an antidote for the paralyzing thorns since every player would have to crawl through them to escape the thistweatles. A thought breaks through my hysteria: the warning to beware of red and blue. Red was obviously the thistweatles but is this vile the blue item I’m supposed to avoid or is it the only thing that will cure me of the paralysis that is gripping my body?
I struggle to check the watch. Only five minutes left and almost a quarter mile to go. The knot re-inhabits my stomach to join the other pains that are making it impossible to concentrate. Once again, I find myself in a gamble-or-die situation. The blue vile is the only reasonable hope I have of making it on time so I hold my breath, picture Syshe’s grin, and down the stuff.
The paralysis begins to wear off almost immediately. I let out all the air left in my lungs before I realize I’ve been holding my breath. There’s no time to stop and be thankful for the continued luck that’s keeping me alive. I’m up before my muscles are ready and hobbling as fast as I can to the end. My body finally catches up about fifty yards before the finish line with two minutes to go. Somehow, I’ve made it.
Something touches my shoulder and the finish line floats into the sky. Unsure of what to do next, I glance around and down at the clock: one minute and forty seconds left to go and the finish line isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Panic sets in like death. I feel another something land on my back and spin around to find the source…nothing’s there. When I spin back around, neither is the finish line; it’s moved over to the other side of the arena. I force myself not to cry and unsheathe my dagger. A speck of blue moves in the reflection. This must be the machine that’s disorienting me. I force myself to believe this because the alternative is that the finish line is really gone and it has taken Syshe’s and my lives with it.
This time, I see the small blue thing flutter into my hair before it hits. It resembles a computer chip with little betel legs sticking out. I reach back to pull one out of my hip-length black hair and recoil instantly as my nail turns black and falls off. I fight back a scream. Thirty seconds to go and I can’t find the finish line or touch these blue creatures. My hair starts to pull as I feel them crawling up it and toward my head, those deadly bodies creeping closer to the vulnerable skin of my scalp. It’s really over this time. I wonder if the creatures or my watch exploding will kill me first; I’m hoping it’s the watch. And then, at the last second, I have the answer. Raising the dagger behind my head, I slash my hair off at an uneven angle just above my shoulders and tear across the now- clear finish line before my long black lochs have even hit the floor, the bugs inside still struggling in the tangles of my discarded hair.
However, I don’t have time to congratulate myself or gather my bearings. I can’t stop and marvel at the first haircut I’ve had since my parents died. I can’t even grab the item that has been left at the beginning of the fourth arena or check my watch for the next time or clues.
I can’t do any of these things because there is a blade pressed against my throat.