Tag Archives: solitary boys

A deleted scene from my WIP

July 17th 2016

Since I write for two group blogs, Across the Board, and Mysteristas, I find I have little content left for my own blog. So I thought, why not post some deleted scenes from my work-in-progress. This is a scene I wrote as an opening to the novel, but my CP read it and felt it didn’t work. It’s not a bad piece of writing and I wanted to share it. Don’t mind the formatting. I copied and pasted it from Scrivener.

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1995
Troy Byrne floated on a raft in the center of the in-ground pool and thought, Fuck, school starts soon. The fingers of his right hand grazed the top of the warm water while his left hand clutched a beer, an expensive IPA from Belgium, at least that’s what his stepdad said before handing it to him.Troy lazed in the float, stopping every few moments to adjust his sunglasses or steer himself away from the edge. It was the Thursday before Labor Day. The sun was blazing hot, the sky slightly overcast. His stepfather, Jerry Concord, lay on a chaise lounge, barking directions to one of his underlings into the cordless phone, while his mom, Natalia Concord nee Byrne nee Diaz, could be heard blending margaritas in the outdoor kitchen, drowning out the stereo which was playing Troy’s new Radiohead CD.
This was a far cry from his childhood summers in the Poconos which were more about exploring the woods outside their tiny rental while trying to avoid Mrs. Crutchen, the cantankerous babysitter. He and his sister, Miranda, splashed in waterfalls or caught minnows in the pond. Somehow those simple things managed to fill up a whole summer. Not like now where time dragged on, while Troy waited for his life to begin.
A shadow blocked Troy’s sun and he lifted up one end of his Ray-Bans to investigate. His neighbor, Amanda, clad in a pink bikini, a towel draped over her tan shoulder, smiled brightly. “Your mom invited me over, hope it’s cool.”
Troy dazzled her with his thousand-watt smile and said, “Sure. The water’s warm.” He dropped his sunglasses back into place. He heard Amanda’s lithe body glide into the water.
Troy’s mom now stood over the water holding a tray with two margaritas, as if she was still working as a waitress, and presented them to Troy and Amanda. Troy pressed the beer bottle to his lips as an answer. Amanda graciously swam over and accepted the drink.
Some parents walked a thin line between being their kids’ friend and being responsible guardians. Not Troy’s who were permissive to the point of embarrassment. Like now. He shot a look at Amanda, but she had set her glass on the expensive paving stone, and was diving under the water, her blonde hair trailing her like a mermaid. She didn’t seem to mind one bit.
“Your parents are so cool,” she’d said to him over half a dozen times either outside his locker or in English class or at Jerry’s country club. Amanda talked to Troy a lot. “Yeah,” he’d respond absently. He loved his mom and Jerry, but they were far from perfect people.
The raft wobbled and Troy turned his head to see Amanda break the surface on the other side of him. She wiped the water from her eyes and said, “A group of us are going down the shore this weekend. You in?”
“You should go, querido,” his mother said in her accented English.
Jerry had hung up the phone and made his way to the steps, stopping first to adjust the waistband on his bright blue swim trunks. “What’s this now?”
Amanda smiled, suddenly sheepish. “I was telling Troy a bunch of us are going to Point Pleasant.”
Jerry glided across the top of the water, his gray hair like a silver bullet. “One last hurrah before senior year.” His voice was full of nostalgia. “I remember those days.”
Troy noticed his mother remained silent. Probably because her high school years were interrupted by violence and kidnappings in Nicaragua. Maybe that’s why she let him get away with so much. Her gift to her American-born son was a life without hardship. But no one had that life.
“Yeah, one last chance to have fun before the real work begins,” Amanda said.
Jerry playfully smacked Troy’s bicep with a wet hand. “Not our Troy. The kid gets As without even cracking a book.”
Troy winced. Academics came easy for Troy. It was the rest of life that had him stumped.
“Don’t be embarrassed, son,” said Jerry. “Colleges will be begging you to apply.”
Troy wasn’t so sure about that. He had some blemishes on his record, well one very large blemish in particular. Jerry never brought it up, but he had to remember.
Troy paddled himself over to the steps in the deep end and swiftly maneauvered from the float to the ladder while still holding onto his now empty beer bottle.
“Getting out?” Amanda said, clearly disappointed.
He smiled and wagged the bottle. “Need another.”
Troy made his way over to the tiny fridge tucked under the countertop. The outdoor kitchen had been Jerry’s idea. “This way your mother isn’t always in the house when we’re outside,” he’d said to Troy. Troy wasn’t sure if his mother appreciated that consideration quite the way Jerry had suspected she would.
Troy grabbed a beer, this time a cheap brand Jerry stocked for unfussy guests, and popped the top on the bottle opener attached to the deck. The backyard was an oasis, even by the standards in their wealthy Philly suburb. Jerry didn’t like to travel much, so to appease his new wife and son, he turned his expansive backyard into a personal resort. Troy could not complain, but his sister would’ve hated this.
His mother reappeared, this time dressed in a black sarong tied around her slim waist. She had walked to the mailbox, a sixty-second chore that gave his mom hours of pleasure for she reveled in the jealous stares of her uppity white neighbors.
“You got something,” she said as she handed him a glossy white rectangle.
Troy took a swig of his beer and then examined the postcard. It was rare for him to get mail. When he and Miranda had been kids, they used to get envelopes covered in funny stamps and filled with letters they couldn’t read in weird Spanish cursive. Now, the only time he got mail was when his high school sent something, which wasn’t that often, and never good.
Troy situated himself on the barstool next to the outdoor sink and repeatedly flipped over the postcard trying to make sense of who sent it and why. On the front was the intricate black gate of the Coshosh Community College, and the college’s motto, “We grow success.” Troy always thought it was a bizarre metaphor, as if kids were crops. Yeah, cash crops. But on the back, where normally someone would write a jaunty paragraph about their vacation, or in this case, summer classes at CCC, someone had sketched a tree stump and written a date in Spanish. Was this for his mother? Troy double-checked. Nope, his name was on it.
What the hell?
Then his breath hitched. He set his beer on the counter and traced his damp finger over the drawing of the tree stump.
When he and Miranda were kids, their mother, on her days off, would take the kids to Herman’s Rock, which wasn’t so much a rock as a clearing on top of a steep hill outlined in trees. There, they’d lay out a big blanket, eat a picnic lunch of sandwiches, gallo pinto, and fruit, and he and Miranda would play tag or, if the wind was right, fly kites. There was a hollowed out tree stump and the kids would leave trinkets under the moss to retrieve when they returned.
God, Troy missed his sister. He hadn’t seen Miranda in two years, not since she took off after high school graduation with nothing more than her clothes and some cash she had earned at a part-time job. Miranda loathed Jerry’s money. She said his wealth changed their family for the worse, but Troy couldn’t agree. Jerry’s money meant Troy didn’t have to work too hard or think too hard and he was grateful for it.
He hadn’t heard from her in two years either. No email. No phone calls. No letters. Well, except for this one.
The whole postcard was cryptic. The drawing, he understood. It was symbolic of an important place known only to them. But why the Spanish date? It’s not like their mother couldn’t read it. Also, Spanish months were cognates, any idiot could translate them.
1 de septiembre, 1995.
September 1, 1995.
Tomorrow’s date.
She didn’t specify a time, but based on the crude sun she drew high in the sky, he figured about noon.
Herman’s Rock was a three-hour drive from the house. One way. He could take his Acura, be home by dinner.
It was one thing when Troy’s real father left them. Troy was a toddler, he could barely recall the man’s face, let alone if he was a loving dad. (He wasn’t.) But his sister leaving him left a much larger hole in him than he cared to admit. And it came shortly after he’d been hurt by another person. Troy had spent the last two years cultivating his devil may care demeanor. It suited him well, but it was a false bravado. Troy worried. He worried a lot.
“Hey, Troy.” Amanda swam up to the edge of the pool and hoisted herself out slightly so that her breasts practically rested upon the concrete, giving Troy a perfect line of sight to her cleavage. “Are you gonna come with us tomorrow or what?”
Troy admired her courage, but he didn’t feel bad he was going to crush it.
“I can’t.” He wouldn’t tell his parents about the postcard. They’d just ask too many questions or, worse, they wouldn’t care. “I made other plans.”

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A passion project

May 30th 2016

For the past two weeks, I’ve been working on a new YA mystery. A passion project (PP) with the working title of Solitary Boys. It’s about two estranged teen boys who becomes allies in solving the mystery of a girl’s disappearance. I actually stopped working on another book because I was so inspired by this story, I didn’t want to wait to get started. My original plan was to do Solitary Boys just until May 31st and then get back to the other book in June, in time to get it to my editor in July. But that’s been derailed. I’m going to continue working on Solitary Boys because I can’t not work on it. It’s re-energized my writing, given my deflating ego a much needed lift, and it’s so fun to write.

via GIPHY

And get this — I didn’t outline the book. I outline all my projects, otherwise I screw up the story. But, with this, I decided to write scenes as I think of them, out of order. (I know the ending. I always know how my stories end.) I’m consumed by this story now. To the point, my husband is all cranky because I’m writing at night and not hanging out with him. *shrug* I write during the day, but it’s not enough. I’m going to end this post now, so I can get back to my work. It’s 8:32pm. If I hustle, I can get in another thousand words before bed.

And here’s the opening paragraph from the WIP. Enjoy!

Troy Byrne fishtailed the ’92 Acura NSX onto the gravel drive, kicking up gray shale and dust. His stepfather probably would’ve had an aneurysm seeing how Troy handled the sports car if he hadn’t stopped caring about the vehicle a few years ago. The novelty of dropping seventy grand on a car lost its luster quickly for men of Jerry’s tax bracket. “They make them with CD players now,” Jerry had said before handing Troy the registration and insurance card.

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