In my new version, let’s call it my second first draft, Lyra no longer knows about her super cells at the beginning; she finds that out as part of the story.
Shit.
The second I open the front door I know I’m in serious trouble. I look at my watch, something I should have done an hour ago, and see it’s already 6:30pm. Dinner is on the table. I smell roast chicken and sweet potato fries. There’s a whiff of garlic from the sautéed vegetables and the scent of anger souring the air. [I’m trying to include sensory detail in here—I’m focused on the “finishing touches” instead of making sure the plot and characters make sense.]
In the six steps it takes to get into the kitchen, I contemplate my approach: throw myself on my parents’ mercy, begging for forgiveness with contrite sorrow; plead neglectful ignorance that I innocently lost track of time or blame my English teacher Mrs. White for making me stay late to tutor a minor niner. By the time I slip through the doorway, my decision seems to have been made for me. I feel a cloak of defiance settle over me. Probably not the wisest strategy.
“I thought I told you dinner was at 6pm,” my mom says, her voice is ice cold, thick hard. She doesn’t look at me, concentrates on cutting up her chicken.
“I thought I told you I don’t care,” I snap back. Definitely not wise.
My father jerks his head up, his eyes flashing. “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” he says. Then, with a resigned shake of his head, he adds, “God, Lyra, are you 17 or a 7-year-old brat?”
“A 17-year-old brat,” my older sister Ivy throws out. [Ivy actually morphs into Lyra’s younger sister with whom she is best friends]She’s smiling up at me, but she’s not smug. As usual, she’s just trying to ease the tension. It doesn’t work. I glare at her, my fists clenched. I haven’t moved from the door, wondering if it’s in my best interest to sit through this torturous family time or escape to my room, going hungry.
“Oh, Lyra,” Ivy has been studying my face. “Don’t tell me you were with—”
“Shut up, Ivy,” I growl. Ivy’s eyes soften, her expression sympathetic. She guesses—correctly—I was at Jonah’s, trying in pathetic desperation to have him take me back. I’m embarrassed that I succumbed to wretched begging, everything Ivy warned me not to do after Jonah dumped me, but I couldn’t help it. We’d been dating for almost a year—in fact, our senior prom night next month would have coincidentally fallen on our one-year anniversary and I was so excited. Then Jonah came home yesterday from a family weekend getaway at a church retreat his parents made him go to, and I got a text. A text.
I realized that God doesn’t want this relationship to work out
God? God?! Until last Friday, Jonah didn’t believe in God, but one weekend at a flippin’ Bible camp and he’s suddenly the biggest convert?
God my ass. More like Melissa Burns. Whose parents also dragged her to that weekend. I heard her moan about it all last week in biology. Bitch.
Not much happens here, does it? You get a sense of character (cardboard as she is) but it’s not enough. It takes me a while to get to the point that Lyra survived a nuclear bomb. I have a spy, Annie, discover that she survived when she shouldn’t have been able to and Annie’s friend, Dr. Hendricks diagnoses her super cells; Annie then recruits Lyra to assassinate the bad guy because she can survive a deadly plague, one that is so contagious a single breath with infect others.
Sound familiar? I was getting closer to what I’m working with now.
Lyra was going to impersonate the President’s daughter, Lauren, as a way to get a face-to-face meeting with bad-guy Simon Moto and I had her spend time in the White House, learning how to be “Lauren”. More importantly, I distracted myself for hours looking at floor plans of the White House so I could make Lyra’s stay realistic.
That was a waste; not a single sentence of that section remains.
I also changed up the beginning. Lyra becomes more of an angry, bitter character. I wanted to show that she’s capable of revenge—that revenge is partly her motivation for agreeing to kill the bad guy.
Bastard. Arrogant, cowardly, cheating bastard.
I reread the text on my phone in the hall outside my English classroom. The final bell has just rung; the halls are jammed with self-absorbed snotty teenagers pushing past me, slamming locker doors, shouting at their friends, happy the last Monday of school is done. Inconsiderate weasles, I think as a group of sophomores accidentally elbow me into the wall on their way past.
I squint at the screen on my phone. Lyra, God doesn’t want our relationship to work. Sorry J.
God?! God? If I hadn’t understood what Jonah meant when I first read the text in English class, I get it now. God my ass. Melissa Burns doesn’t want our relationship to work. Jonah, my boyfriend of 10 months—my now ex-boyfriend of 10 minutes— went to Bible camp this past weekend. Last week he complained incessantly that his parents were forcing him to go. This week, he’s miraculously converted? How much of a fool does he take me for? Doesn’t he know that Melissa Burns also complained incessantly to me in Chemistry class last week that she was being forced to go to the same camp? I can’t believe I actually felt sorry for the two of them, was happy they’d have each other for company at this Bible-thumping retreat.
Bastard. Arrogant, cowardly, cheating bastard.
I ram my way into the stream of kids pouring out the old building and into bright, warm June afternoon. Why is it sunny? It should be dark, cold, rainy. This Boston weather should be miserable, angry, fierce.
Like me.
I shove my phone into my jeans pocket and feel my house keys jangling at the bottom. I stop suddenly, on the worn stone steps, a wall of students pushing into me.
“Hey, move it!” some lanky, snot-nosed freshman snaps as he veers around me.
I ignore him. Instead I focus on the student parking lot, a small rectangle of cracked pavement to my right. More specifically, I focus on one yellow car. One yellow and black vintage 1973 Camero, belonging to one Jonah Peters. I bound down the steps, two at a time, my arms wide.
“Outta my way!” I shout, running, now. I pull out my keys, clutch them firmly in my hands, the key pointing forward like a sword.
My weapon of revenge.
“Lyra!” I hear my name, glance back briefly without stopping, and see my younger sister Ivy on the steps. I wave in acknowledgement, but don’t slow my pace.
“Lyra, wait!” she calls again. But I don’t. I’m on a mission. Besides, Ivy would try to talk me out of it, once she figured out what I plan to do. She’d be understanding and empathetic and reasonable and would convince me I don’t need to hurt Jonah’s car, his baby, just because Jonah hurt me. And I don’t feel like being convinced. I want to hurt him. How dare he throw away almost a year of my life…
Kids are milling about the parking lot, but anonymity isn’t important. Even without these witnesses, Jonah will know who vandalized his car. I want him to know he shouldn’t screw me over.
I don’t hesitate when I reach his car. I extend my arm, grip my weapon, and scrape the key along the driver’s side door. Its screech grates at my ears in a most satisfying way. I walk slowly, deliberately all the way around the car, savouring the squeal of metal on metal.
Ivy runs up to me, her mouth hanging open. “Lyra! What are you doing?!”
I round the front of the car, digging the key deeper into the black stripe on the hood before I complete my circle.“Lyra, what’s going on?” Ivy grips my elbow, tugging me away, but she doesn’t have to. I’ve already turned my back on the car. Turned my back on Jonah.
Bastard.
Better? Meh.
Which is why I went on to version number… see? I’ve already lost count.