Vivian lantzs second cha.., p.2
Vivian Lantz's Second Chances, page 2
“Hey there, Vivian!” Q. S. Murray greets me again. She’s sitting in a sunlit peach-colored room. Black hair frames her fair face and glasses are perched on her nose. She speaks in a strong, steady voice, and I hang on every single word.
“This is Quincy Murray, calling from my office in Boston to wish you a very happy thirteenth birthday. According to your friend Cami, you’re about to start your last year of middle school. She wrote here”—Q. S. Murray squints at something off-screen—“that your first days of school have always been . . . difficult. Something about a curse?” Her eyebrows lift. “Well, that is serious. I’d like to help.”
My breath collects in my throat. Q. S. Murray is going to help me break my first-day curse? I feel like I’m in a dream.
“I remember eighth grade,” Q. S. Murray goes on. “It was challenging. But it’s also the year I started writing articles for my school paper. I kept on doing that in high school, and eventually I became the editor of my college newspaper. Writing the news is what inspired me to write other things . . . like a certain book series that I’ve heard you enjoy?” She smiles, revealing pearly white teeth. “Now, about this pesky curse of yours. I have some advice. Do you know why I joined my school paper? It’s because one day I looked around and realized I wasn’t doing much for myself. I went where my parents drove me and learned what my teachers taught. Life was simply happening to me.
“But here’s what’s up, Vivian: big breakthroughs don’t come from sitting around, letting life happen to you. You have to happen to life. That’s how you break curses—you take the power into your own hands. So, start happening! Try something new. Your friend tells me that you’re also a writer, so you might consider joining your own school paper. Write for others, and write for yourself, too. Write down your goals! The more you see and repeat them, the more often you’ll be reminded to go after what you want.
“Well, that’s it from me, Vivian. I’ll be sending you all the good magical vibes from here in Boston. Now, go out and happen to life this year!”
The message ends, Q. S. Murray’s smiling face frozen on my screen.
I can’t believe it.
Q. S. Murray knows who I am. She knows about my curse, and she has deigned to provide me with words of infinite wisdom.
Quick Relevane history lesson: in book one, Torin the Rogue begins his journey across the Six Commonwealths of Marladia after he gets a vision from the Relevanian Oracle. She’s the one who convinces Torin that his aunt, the Grand Duchess of Relevane, is planning to murder him and that he must escape to the land of his enemies, the Elystrians.
Well, today? Q. S. Murray has been my oracle.
This MeetNGreet? It is my vision.
And it’s going to change everything—including my lifelong, good-for-nothing curse.
2
I WATCH THE video again and again. As days go by, I memorize every word. It’s all I can think about, and soon Q. S. Murray even shows up in my dreams, tossing her long black hair and telling me, “Vivian, you happen to life.”
I can’t go back to normal after this.
Up until now, I saw my predicament this way: sure, my first-day curse sucks, but it’s common knowledge that no hero becomes a hero without facing obstacles. Plus, Cami made it so that my first days weren’t all bad. I decided that I could live with that.
When Cami moved, I freaked out about facing the curse all alone again. But now my path is totally clear. I don’t just have to hope for a first day that’s more good than bad. I can do better than that. I can alter the course of my future. No one in high school will think of me as Vivian Lantz, the girl with the exploding appendix who got stung by four dozen wasps and puked up her breakfast in gym. I can blot out my past with a bright, shiny present. I can reinvent myself. I can be Vivian Lantz, the coolest girl from eighth grade. I just have to follow Q. S. Murray’s advice.
Q. S. Murray told me to write down my goals, so that’s what I do first, before anything else. I get out my most prized possession—the hyacinth journal that Cami gave me—and open it to the first, crisp page. It takes me longer than expected—two whole hours, to be exact—but in the end I write down my three most important goals.
Behold:
VIVIAN LANTZ’S FOOLPROOF PLAN FOR THE PERFECT FIRST DAY
Get a new style (Because I’ve never had a style before.)
Join the school paper (Because that’s how Q. S. Murray got her start.)
Make Alex Fernandez my boyfriend (Because this one’s obvious.)
This is my Master Plan. It is the key to breaking my curse. It is my guide to reinvention. And it is, as I have already noted, foolproof.
Most of the plan will have to wait for the first day of school. For now, I’m focusing on goal number one: getting a new style.
I hadn’t given much thought to fashion before now. In sixth and seventh grade, I figured a good pair of jeans and a T-shirt was all I needed to get around. You could say that I let style happen to me. Well, that ends this school year. Q. S. Murray told me to try something fresh, and what’s fresher than a legit makeover?
As of now, I’m happening to clothes. To makeup. To hair.
I’m happening to life.
The life-happening starts with a drive out to a thrift shop called Loose Threads. I ask Arlo to drive me there, but I don’t tell him that I’m modeling my style after Lissa, the keyboardist in his band. Of all the girls I’ve seen—at school and online—Lissa’s style is the one I like best. It’s all big T-shirts and ripped jeans and fun, fringed vests. Like, style, but comfy style. That’s perfect for me.
Arlo waits outside the dressing room as I go through practically fifty outfits and finally buy three, using a big chunk of the money I’ve saved from working at the shop. I’m so ready to show off my new look that I put on one of the outfits right away, changing into a David Bowie T-shirt, silver-studded headband, and electric-red shorts.
“You look rocker chic,” Arlo observes as we leave the store.
I beam, tugging the asymmetrical hem of my shirt. I feel rocker chic.
A few days later, I go with Da to Target, where I buy tubes of mascara and lip gloss that, according to YouTube makeup tutorials, will complement my fair complexion and brunette hair.
Then, on the day before eighth grade begins, Arlo drives me to Atomic Hair Salon. Dads always pay for me to get a back-to-school haircut; that’s nothing new. But this time? I ask for something revolutionary.
“Bangs,” I tell my stylist, D’Andra.
“They’re work,” she warns.
“I can take it,” I reply.
Because I, Vivian Lantz, am happening to hair, and my rocker chic ensemble won’t be complete without bangs. When D’Andra is done, she spins my chair so that I can see myself in the mirror. And it’s good. I was made for bangs.
“Whoa,” Arlo says when he sees me.
“Yeah,” I reply.
That’s how it is with me and Arlo. We don’t have to say much to say a lot.
Arlo doesn’t ask nosy questions about my makeover, which I appreciate. I haven’t told anyone about the goals in my journal—not Arlo or Dads or even Cami. It’s not that I don’t trust them; it’s more that I think of my Master Plan the way I do a birthday candle wish: I don’t want to jinx it by saying it out loud.
That’s why I haven’t even told Cami about Q. S. Murray’s curse-breaking advice. All she knows about the MeetNGreet is that Q. S. Murray wished me a happy birthday. It sucks, keeping a secret from Cami, but it’s only temporary. I’ll tell her everything once I’ve broken the first-day curse—just not before. I’d rather shock everyone with the magnificent Eighth Grade Vivian I’ve become, rather than show them the girl I want to be.
And that starts now.
Dads are in for a surprise when I waltz into Be Kind, Rewind.
“Bangs!” Pop shouts.
“Ack!” Da cries, clutching his chest.
I can tell they approve.
Da says he’s got enchiladas waiting for us in the oven, and we chow down on dinner before watching a rerun of I Love Lucy, Pop’s favorite old-timey show. Afterward, tucked in bed, I go over the plan in my hyacinth journal one last time. I’m snuggled next to Mistmorrow, a plushie horse made to look like the Mistmorrow—Sage Miriel’s trusty steed—with midnight-black hair and violet eyes. Rain patters on the roof, and I nestle deeper into the sheets as I review my goals.
Number one? Check. New style acquired. I cross it out with a satisfying scritch.
Number two: Join the school paper.
I’ve loved writing since before I even learned to spell. I used to make construction paper books for Dads to read, and I wrote poems in fourth grade that I would be super embarrassed for anybody to get a hold of now. Then, in sixth grade, I started writing Relevane fan fiction.
I love writing those stories, but I do have a teensy problem with finishing them. As in, I haven’t finished a single one. It’s exhilarating to start a story with a fresh, big idea. But after I make it a few chapters in, it’s like the words get away from me. I introduce too many characters and send them on too many quests, and then the story feels too epic to ever end.
Then there’s the issue of sharing my writing. Some kids post their fanfic online, but I don’t want total strangers reading about how I think Prince Lorace and the Mage of Fairwood should run off and get married. That’s why I’ve only ever shared my Relevane writing with Cami. She doesn’t make fun of me for how mushy I make the romance, and she doesn’t complain when I stop one story midchapter to start a new one.
One day, though? I do want to finish a book, and I do want to share it with the world. I want to be an author like Q. S. Murray. I’ve just been kind of stuck on how to get from here to there. For one thing, there aren’t any creative writing clubs at Bluebonnet Middle School. The only thing close to that is the Jaguar Gazette, which always seemed boring to me. Nonfiction? No, thank you.
But Q. S. Murray joined her school paper, and look how life turned out for her. What if the Jaguar Gazette could take my writing to the next level, too? Here’s the way I see it: articles are way easier to finish than fantasy novels. They’re only, what—a few hundred words? I could do that. Plus, if I were a journalist, random kids would be reading my writing. I could get used to that feeling, one article at a time. This is my chance to happen to writing.
That’s why I’m going to talk to Ms. Rose—my new language arts teacher—tomorrow after class. She’s the adviser for the Jaguar Gazette, and so long as she thinks I can cut the mustard, I’ll be a student journalist by this time tomorrow night.
When my eyes flit to goal number three, my heart starts pounding like a marching band drum.
Alex Freaking Fernandez. He’s been my crush for twenty-three months straight. It all started in sixth grade. Practically every morning before school, I watched him and his friends hanging out by the bike rack. Alex would gut laugh over something his best friend, Neil, said, and I’d imagine what it would be like to be Drea, Alex’s girlfriend at the time. What if that was my arm draped over his shoulder? What if I was sharing a 7UP with him?
I came close to finding out once, when Pop dropped me off at school early and I found Alex sitting alone on one of the turquoise benches outside. He was on his phone, playing a game with the volume on full blast, and he lost his grip right as I was walking past. The phone went flying, hurtling toward the concrete, and in that instant, I had the reflexes of a wild gazelle. I lunged and caught the phone as it was inches from total screen-smashing destruction.
Alex stared at me in shock. I was pretty shocked myself.
“Dude,” he said, as I handed the phone to him. “You’re my hero.”
Then Neil ran up, shouting something to Alex about American Ninja Warrior. I backed away to give them space, but Alex’s words clanged in my head, louder than the school bell: You’re my hero.
His hero. Sure, I hadn’t saved him from a perilous fall off the Cascading Cliffs, like Sage Miriel does for Torin the Rogue. But I’d been Alex’s real-life hero, and in that moment, I knew that he was my Torin. My soulmate. My meant-to-be.
If Neil hadn’t interrupted us, what else would Alex have said to me? Would he have asked if I wanted to hang out sometime after school? Sit next to him at lunch? I used to daydream about the day Fate would throw us together again. But my daydreams didn’t come true in sixth grade, or seventh. So now I’m gonna happen to romance.
Here’s the deal: to get to Alex, I’ve gotta get in good with Amberleigh Allen, who is only the most popular girl at school. She sings solos in all the choir and talent shows, and once she was even chosen to perform the national anthem at a Round Rock Express game. She lives in a giant house in Barton Hills, and her parents have vacation homes in Palm Springs and Vail. Amberleigh’s pretty, too, with dark brown hair that she wears in a flawless high ponytail. But the most important factoid? Amberleigh is practically the president of Alex’s group of friends.
Last year, I would’ve been too freaked out to even say hi to Amberleigh. But that was before I concocted the Master Plan. Now, I’ve worked it out. Sure, Amberleigh is popular, but it’s not like she’s Nestrende, the unapproachable goddess of the Elystrian Temple. She’s mortal, and so are her friends, who seem pretty nice overall. Gemma Cohen signed my yearbook in May with a Wish I knew you better! So, there’s that. All I have to do is get in good with Amberleigh, and I’ll finally be close enough to Alex to win his heart.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been planning my move: I’ll show up to school early and make a beeline for the bike rack. I’ll walk right up to Amberleigh’s group, with my new bangs and rocker chic style and expertly applied makeup. They’ll be speechless, since they won’t recognize me at first, and that’ll be my chance to say, “Cute shoes, Amberleigh.”
No matter what shoes she’s wearing, I will say they’re cute. Then Amberleigh will say “thanks,” which will break the ice with her friends, and we’ll get to talking, and that’ll be the start of Eighth Grade Vivian and her new life.
See? Foolproof.
I close the journal, resting my hand on the golden hyacinths, and feel the tingling zap of hope fill my heart.
A month ago, I felt as lost as Torin in Wistwander Field. I was lonely without Cami. I was nervous about eighth grade. But now, I shut my eyes and picture my bright future. Tomorrow, I will have style. I’ll become a serious writer. I’ll get a boyfriend. I will be cool. And if I can be cool this year—popular, even—maybe it won’t hurt so bad that Cami isn’t by my side.
“Tomorrow, I break the curse,” I whisper to Mistmorrow.
Mistmorrow says nothing. He’s a horse of few words.
Carefully, I set aside the journal containing my Master Plan. Then I switch off my bedside lamp and settle in for a good night’s sleep. After all, I’ll need top-notch shut-eye if I’m going to make tomorrow a good first day.
Scratch that.
The perfect first day of school.
3
“WHOA, WHOA, WHOA!”
I wake to the sound of rain on the roof and Arlo’s voice shouting from downstairs. I sit up in bed, half awake, and paw my phone off the nightstand to check the time: 6:13 a.m.
Whew. I didn’t sleep through my alarm.
But it’s six in the morning. Why the heck is Arlo up? That’s not like him. We’re lucky if he rolls out of bed two minutes before Pop drives us to school.
Then again, this year is different. Arlo bought his own car in June, which means he’ll be the one taking me to school. Maybe car ownership has inspired Arlo to act like a responsible adult, and he’s taken it upon himself to cook for the family. That’s what this is: a surprise gourmet breakfast! I wonder if he’s making pan—
“Dads. Get down here quick!”
That wakes me all the way up.
This is not about breakfast. Something is wrong.
I jump out of bed, throwing open my bedroom door and racing down the hall. Arlo is at the bottom of the stairs, and it’s when I notice his sopping wet hair that I put two and two together: rain, plus wet hair, plus shouting, equals . . . flooding.
The shop has sprung another leak.
A short history of the Lantz family business:
Both of my dads grew up in Texas. Later, they moved to Chicago, where they got married, adopted me and Arlo, and ran a shop for thirteen years. Then Pop got a call from his sister, Aunt Ximena, who offered to sell him her place in Austin. Next thing you know, my dads were moving back south, and Aunt Ximena was hightailing it out of the city in an RV for what she called “early retirement on the open road.” Now we get postcards from her sent from Reno, Marfa, Albuquerque—all over the Southwest.
Meantime, Dads run their shop out of Aunt Ximena’s old place. They do better business in Austin than they ever did in Arlington Heights. Da says it’s because of the shop’s prime location off South First that Be Kind, Rewind has stayed in business for the last five years, through good times and bad.
“Location, location, location,” he says when we have a busy day, folks bustling in to buy Victorian couches or lava lamps or—ugh—creepy porcelain dolls. Everything here is one of a kind, and once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. The shop is old, but it’s fresh, because it’s always changing. That makes it special. Magical, even. Aunt Ximena said as much when she gave Dads the keys to the place.
“There’s something in the air here,” she told us. “Or maybe it’s in the floorboards or the eaves. It’s magical, wherever it’s at, so use that magic wisely.”
That’s a nice thought, but the shop feels slightly less than magical on mornings like this, when it springs a leak for the thousandth time.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Arlo, at the same time he asks, “Where’s Dads?”
Right then, like they’ve been summoned by the Great Relevanian Horn, Da and Pop come racing down the hallway with Trixie yapping at their heels.
“The damage?” Da asks breathlessly.
