Moon-Linked (Lone March #1)

Moon-Linked

The Lone March Series

Book 1

Erin Irvin

Moon-Linked

Erin Irvin

Copyright © 2011 by Erin Irvin

Smashwords Edition

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Erin Irvin.

For the other pea in my pod.

Acknowledgements:

An Amazing-Colossal-Man-sized thank-you goes to both my fiancé and friend, Travis Boles, and my sister, Lauren Irvin, for Amazing-Colossal-Man-sized involvement in this story, and for being the human walls, against which I could bounce my mental ping-pong balls.

Thank you to Tyler Boles for being the one to spark my interest on the subject, and encourage me to write it in the first place.

Thanks to Dr. Barbara Rodman, and all the members of her Spring 2010 Creative Writing class, for the hugely helpful feedback on my early chapters.

Thanks to Janice Caldwell for dusting off the cobwebs on the high school debate file in my brain, and spitting out a resolution before I could say, Cross-Examination.

Thanks to Jonathan Pruitt for giving me the inside track on hospitals, and also, for just generally exuding cool.

Thanks to Eisley for being the perfect band for the center of March’s musical universe (and mine for many, many moons now).

Thanks to all the artists—literary and otherwise—who have inspired me over the years, of which there are entirely too many to list.

Thanks to my sister, Amy Solomon, for allowing me to use her last name and job title for ‘Counselor Calm’.

Thanks to Kris for the word ‘disheveled’.

And last, but never least, thanks to all the rest of my family and friends who have lent support, encouragement and feedback all down the road.

Moon-Linked

Chapter One

EEK! EEK!

The sound was more like the screech of an owl than an alarm clock.

Shut up! I slammed my hand on my clock and sat up and put on my glasses.

7:05 AM. I hated school for making me get up so early. (Actually, I hated school for a lot of reasons.)

I didn’t know why, but I felt weird in the belly. I had pains that I knew weren’t from hunger. It wasn’t like I was giving a speech or anything today, so it wasn’t nerves.

I threw back my covers. It wasn’t that hot, but I was sweating. Oh, geez, I hope I’m not getting sick again. I really couldn’t afford to miss any more school. I was hanging on to a passing grade in Biology by a thread as it was and my ten-day bout of croup, during which, subsequently, I didn’t do all of my makeup work (meaning I didn’t do any) had already caused Mrs. Burns to threaten to fail me in Algebra. The last thing I needed was to miss even one more day of school (which was a weird thing to say considering how much I hated it).

When I stood up I felt the full effects of whatever illness had come over me this time. My back was sore—I mean really sore—especially my lower back. What, was I lifting heavy things in my sleep? I also had a headache—one of those that settle in the base of your skull and behind your eyes. I was a little dizzy and light-headed and—oh! That can’t be right! I had to be imagining things! It felt like I had peed on myself! Automatically I turned to look at my bed to see if there was a wet spot. Omigod—I would just die if I had actually done this! I hadn’t peed in my bed since I was four. What kind of fifteen-year-old pees in her—

A big, brownish-red spot stained my sheet. It was just barely shining in the light provided by my window, which meant it was fairly damp. I looked down at myself. My blue, cloud-print PJ pants were also stained a crimson-brown on the insides of my thighs.

Omigod! What’s wrong with me?!

I immediately started stripping, and the gross, sticky things peeled off me as they went. My legs were all tinged with red-orange. When I pulled down my underwear I saw that they, too, were covered in the same dark color. Okay, I think these were grounds for a freak-out.

After stripping the sheets from my bed and throwing on my thick, blue, terrycloth robe, I made a beeline for the washing machine, holding the bundle as far away from me as possible.

My mom greeted me in the kitchen. Morning, Marchie.

She was stirring a pot of oatmeal. Ick. She insists I eat it at least three times a week because of how susceptible I am to getting sick. It’s crazy, healthy-people food and apparently it’s also magic food in that it’s supposed to make you stronger and give you more energy and boost your immune system. Whatev. Coco Puffs do wonders for my immune system—and my energy levels—AND I’m almost positive they help ward off sickness. I can’t prove it yet, but one day I will and the entire scientific community will applaud me. (Of course, they may stop applauding, once they figure out that I couldn’t pass tenth grade Biology.)

I mumbled some sort of greeting at her, no part of which had any discernible words from the English language, and hooked a left at the laundry room.

Well someone’s in their grumpy suit this morning.

Mom, I’ve told you a hundred times; I’m fifteen, and despite what you and Dad think, you’re border-lining on child abuse with the baby-talk.

Why are you washing your sheets? Didn’t you just put those on last night?

No.

Yes, you did.

No, that wasn’t me. You must be thinking of someone else.

No, March, you’re an only child, remember?

Yes, I remember that every day when I’m reminded how much you guys watch me like a hawk. If you had a couple more kids it might pull your focus and take some of the heat off me. You should consider doing that.

"You are cranky today. Now tell me why you’re washing your clean sheets."

Alright, moment of truth. If I didn’t say anything and started the washing machine and left, she’d just come in here and open it and see for herself. I couldn’t stand here and guard it all morning—I had to get ready for school.

But I had to be careful with how I told her this. She and Dad were always worried about me getting hurt or sick because I was so prone to both. I didn’t want to freak her out. But then again, I was pretty freaked out myself and I kind of needed to find out if this was something bad. Of course, leaking brownish-red stuff in your sleep can’t possibly be a good thing. I exhaled heavily.

I…had…some sort of…weird accident—but I’m okay…I think.

Oh, God—what happened?

Mom, calm down, I’m sure everything’s fine.

George! Come quick! She made her way toward the washing machine.

Mom, trust me, you don’t wanna look at it.

What is it, March?

It’s…sort of this…um…brownish-reddish looking fluid that clearly came out of me in the night somehow. It kinda looks like blood, but then the murkiness makes me think…I dunno. Maybe I just cut myself. I looked behind me and twirled around like a dog chasing its tail as my mom pulled my PJ pants out of the wad of sheets. Immediately she breathed a sigh of relief and started laughing. I didn’t know what about this could possibly be funny to her. It’s not funny, Mom!

Oh, honey, you just got your period, that’s all.

What?

Oh, don’t do that to me. You had me worried. You got your first period! Congratulations!

My period? I repeated. But there’s brown—

That’s just old blood.

She said it like it was no big deal. As if blood isn’t bad enough, the phrase ‘old blood’ sounds even more disgusting.

Perhaps the natural conclusion to jump to for a girl my age would be my period, but I always thought when I got it there would be like some early warning signs or something. Like peeing twice as much or puking or having my ears flash hot every half hour for a week. Like a distant relative coming to visit. Hey, it’s your period! I’ll be there in two weeks!

My dad came dashing into the kitchen with only a towel around his waist and dripping water all over the floor. What is it? What happened? he asked, looking back and forth between the two of us before finally catching the relieved and amused expression on my mom’s face and relaxing his own.

Everything’s fine, dear. Our little girl’s just growing up, that’s all. She put her arm around me.

What? he asked.

She’s a young woman now. She beamed down at me.

God, Mom! Don’t tell Dad!

Don’t tell me what?

My mom made a motion like she was zipping her lips shut. Nothing, dear, just get back to your shower.

He walked out shaking his head at us like we were crazy and my mom turned back to the washer and started pulling the sheets out.

What are you doing? You don’t have to look at all of it! I protested.

Honey, you have to put some stain remover on this or it’ll never come out.

Oh, well I’ll do it. I tried to take the sheets from her. I really didn’t want her looking at it—it was embarrassing.

No, I’ve got it. You just go get yourself cleaned up. I’ll bring you some supplies from my bathroom after I get finished here.

Supplies?

She looked at me like she was amused at my confusion and shook her head.

Okay, I’ll admit, I don’t know much about the men-stru-al cycle except that it’s called the men-stru-al cycle and you get it once a month and it has something to do with making babies, which I’m never going to do anyway, so I don’t know why I have to have one at all. Why isn’t it an application-only situation? Like my online Eisley newsletter—you can choose to sign up for it or not. (Don’t get me started on Eisley—they are my all-time favorite band because they’re the best. Period. Hah—‘period’…)

So yeah, I knew little about what all this men-stru-al cycle thing entailed and that, coupled with the initial shock of seeing a foreign substance on my sheets, had me completely dumbfounded. (Maybe more dumb than founded but my first inclination is always freak-out before deduce rationally. I mean, I was due this thing for about two years now and was getting used to the idea that it would never come.)

Mom, I was sick on Sex-Talk day. If you’ll recall, they sent you guys a letter saying you were supposed to talk to me about it, but you forgot.

Oh, that’s right. I feel so bad! I hope you don’t hold this against me and use it as ammo in future therapy sessions.

"It’s not therapy, Mom. She’s my school psychologist and she just calls them meetings. We just talk, that’s all."

I have to go to Mrs. Solomon (aka ‘Counselor Calm’) once a week and talk to her about what’s going on in my life. I’m not a troubled teen or anything. It’s just standard procedure for someone who’s missed as much school as I have.

"Explain this whole supplies thing to me and I promise not to tattle on you to Mrs. Solomon."

Deal. I’ll meet you in your bathroom, she said, turning back to the washing machine with her low, blonde ponytail flipping off her shoulder as she moved.

I grabbed a clean pair of underwear from my drawer before heading to my bathroom. I opened my robe and looked down at my legs again. It was so gross-looking. I quickly hopped in the shower, wetted my bath rag and started scrubbing the stains off myself when I noticed that something wasn’t right. My legs were…no…that couldn’t be…hmm. My legs seemed longer. I mean, I know that’s not possible, but they just looked a little more stretched out.

I rolled my eyes at myself. I was obviously disoriented from the whole getting-my-first-men-stru-al…erm…period thing.

Okay, now wait; I know there’s something wrong with my feet. I can’t be imagining that, too.

Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t my legs and my feet; maybe it was just my eyes. God knows I have terrible eyesight.

I shook the thoughts from my mind. Now was not the time for silly, dramatic assumptions.

I still felt bad. I hope this isn’t how it’s gonna be every time I get one of these, because, I swear, if there’s always headaches and stomach pains then I’m just gonna quit life right now.

Okay. My mom plopped down a big package of pad-thingies and a small box of stick-thingies and pulled out one of each. You should start out with just a pad, but I think you should try a tampon at some point and see how it works for you.

I turned the square package over in my hands like I was examining an alien artifact. I’ve heard the words before, but somehow I’ve managed to skip any visuals. I mean, girls pass them around the locker room in P. E., but I pay little enough attention to myself, much less everyone around me.

I couldn’t explain my ignorance of my own body (as embarrassing as it was to be ignorant about such a thing). It was an epic teenage fail. It wasn’t until then that I felt like I wasn’t a valid girl for not knowing. But, I mean, come on, it’s not like I sit around reading my Biology book or something. (I’ve never been good at science anyway; it’s all a blur to me.) And sure, girls talk about it in school sometimes, but mostly they just say things like, Oh, crap—I just started my period—does anyone have a tampon?! Since I had neither, I generally tuned them out. What was the point of listening when it didn’t concern me? I knew I’d probably get a period someday, but why worry with it till I did?

When she noticed I was studying it with curiosity, Mom started in with the laughing again and took the pad from me. I can see I’m really going to have to walk you through this process, aren’t I?

No, I’ve got it; I’m fine, I said, snatching it back.

Okay then, what do you do next?

Well, clearly this is some sort of patch you put on your body—

Close.

It’s like a nicotine patch, right? Only, it’s for infections, not cravings. It fights the infection, right?

How is it you know more about nicotine patches than sanitary napkins? It’s not an infection, honey; it’s just your menstrual cycle.

Yeah, everyone keeps throwing that word around—men-stru-al—that doesn’t help me.

Oh, dear. She laughed at me again.

We spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom with my mom giving me the crash-course version of the sex-talk, which, in case you were wondering was, yes, highly awkward and not even a little bit fun.

She finally left my bathroom and I walked out into my room to see that my clock read 7:40. Omigod! I had exactly five minutes till Jessi (Jessi Martin, my best friend) would be here to walk to school with me and I wasn’t even dressed! Well, on the bright side, at least this meant I got to skip out on oatmeal today.

In record time I threw on a pair of jeans (which, I’m pretty sure were dirty, but oh well) and slipped on my favorite dark blue sneakers (most certainly dirty). Ooh. My feet were hurting—No way! I was right! My feet and my legs were longer! My jeans were definitely shorter than usual. I could totally see my ankles shooting out of the bottoms of my pants and my toes were poking up at the ends of my shoes like they didn’t have any room in them. What the heck was going on here?!

I heard Jessi knocking repeatedly on the door and yelling out, Yoo-hoo, before Mom called down the hall to let me know she was here. These pants would just have to do—I didn’t have time to find other ones. I picked up and pulled on the top closest to me on the ground, a wrinkled tee-shirt that said: No, it’s not easy being me…but it’s still awesome.

How ironic that I would wear this shirt today, because life is certainly not awesome for me at the moment.

Chapter Two

I had just enough time to grab a Snickers bar from my secret stash before bursting out of the house and bopping Jessi on the head for pounding on the door so loudly while she was waiting.

I know it’s hard for you, being naturally such a bubbly person, but could you refrain from all the noise? I have a headache today, I whined.

Sorry. I guess I’m just in a good mood. She had a little bounce in her step as she walked and her curly auburn hair swished and bounced around with her.

Well, that makes one of us. Should I tell her? Oh, what the hay? She’s my best friend. I started my period this morning. Well, actually I got it sometime in the night.

Hm, well, it’s about time. You’re only two years behind the rest of us, she said, smirking at me with her hazel eyes sparkling with deviance.

My poor immune system has stunted my growth and it’s not very nice of you to point that out.

I didn’t tell her that I was pretty sure that was no longer the case and that my body was clearly making up for lost time if my shorter pants and smaller shoes were any indication. I thought it best not to mention this to her right now. It was all just too weird and I hadn’t even had time to think about it myself.

Aw, my poow, wittle Mawchipoo! The freckles on her plump face changed shape when she scrunched her nose up while doing baby-talk at me.

Why did everyone in my life insist on talking to me like this? Just because I had moderately ill health didn’t mean I was a helpless baby.

Keep it up. Good luck finding someone to go to the football game with you tomorrow. I stuck my nose in the air and walked ahead of her.

C’mon, I didn’t mean it, March. Forgive me, please?

I’ll consider it.

We got to the breezeway just in time to hear the five-minute warning bell. Deckard was leaning against the ugly, concrete building, tapping his invisible watch at us and shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Deckard Brown is our other best friend. He’s named after the character in Blade Runner, which makes his parents like the coolest ones on the planet.

The three of us have been best pals since first grade when he showed up halfway through the school year and no one but us wanted to be friends with him on account of him being the new kid. We didn’t reach out to him or anything. To be honest, Jessi and I weren’t all that nice either. We mostly ignored him and spent our recesses filling the tire swing with rocks. He watched us for a few days and then one day he came up and, without saying a word, just started emptying rocks out of his pockets to give us. We thought he was pretty cool after that so we let him play with us and the rest is history.

Are you guys pushing for some kind of record for most detentions? He pulled his headphones off, mussing his brown hair along the way, and let them rest around his neck where they would stay all day. If I didn’t see them on his ears sometimes I would swear they were attached to his neck.

Jessi put her hands on my shoulders. There were extenuating circumstances today. She gave me a look like she was waiting for me to tell him.

Ew—no! I’m not telling him about my period! I didn’t care how close the three of us were, nothing was going to change the fact that he was still a guy and should not know about this kind of stuff.

What circumstances were extenuated? he asked.

You know what? Two can play this game.

Without hesitating I said, Jessi got her period this morning.

What? she exploded at me.

Well, you obviously think Deckard should know, I said smugly, proud of my quick thinking (which was a rare occurrence for me).

Deckard’s puppy-dog brown eyes widened and he covered his ears and shook his head while spinning his body on a dime and walking toward the door. No, no, no, I didn’t hear that—get out of my head, scary images!

We were nearing our lockers, which were all in the same unit, and Melissa Glasswell (whose locker, unfortunately, was the one right above mine) interrupted our convo. Hello, Loser Triplets. She