First look at my novel

March 1982


1

I first met Lauren Hitchcock when I was a 17- year-old junior at South Miami High. It was a spring day in 1982, and I was making my way from my third period class (English Three, College Bound) to my fourth period one (Mixed Chorus). I walked quickly – or, rather, as quickly as possible in a corridor full of my fellow high school students trying to get to their classes before the bell rang. I had attended South Miami for nearly two years, so I had lots of practice in weaving through the crowds and clambering the stairs from the Language Arts department on the second floor down to the music department wing on the first.

I had just pushed open the door that led to the stairs when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a svelte jeans-and-blouse clad girl sitting alone on the landing. Her algebra textbook lay on the floor to her left, and her leather purse sat on top of a green Mead Organizer to her right. She slumped forward on the top step, and her dainty hands covered her face. The girl’s shoulders shook visibly as she sobbed softly.

I passed through the open door and, without hesitation, stopped. I took a deep breath, then sat down next to the spot where the girl’s green Mead Organizer and purse rested. “Hi,” I said. “Are you okay?”

She raised her head slowly and turned to look at me. The light in the staircase was dim, so I couldn’t tell what shade of brown her hair and eyes were, but not so dim that I missed her running makeup or the puffiness around her eyes. There were dark-tinged wet trails running down her soft cheeks. “No,” she said in a flat monotone. “I’m not okay.”

I winced inwardly when I heard her voice for the first time. It was so full of despair and hopelessness that it made me want to put my arm around her shoulders and comfort her. I didn’t; I was too shy and I was not (then or now) exactly the Indiana Jones-hero-to-the-rescue kind of guy. I still wanted to help her, though, so I stayed where I was. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

She sniffled loudly and her chin trembled as she tried to find the right words to answer. “Oh, God,” she finally said in that same flat monotone. “What isn’t wrong?”

“Can I do anything to help?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. Not unless you are a math whiz or time traveler and can miraculously help me pass the algebra test I just failed,” the girl said drily.

“Uh, no,” I said with a wan smile. “I haven’t taken Time Travel 101 yet, and I’m pretty bad at math as it is.”

That remark, silly as it sounded even to me, made her smile ever so slightly. Not a wide grin, mind you, but even that Mona Lisa smile made me feel like a hero.

My stomach grumbled a bit just then to remind me that it was lunchtime. I looked at my watch – I was late for chorus class, but it was lunchtime and my teacher, Mrs. Joan Quincy, would understand why I wasn’t there on time if I explained the situation when I reported to class after lunch. I knew that I had to get to the cafeteria before my lunch period ended, but at the same time I didn’t want to leave the girl all by herself. Not in the emotional state she was in, at any rate. So I did the only thing that seemed logical to do under the circumstances.

“Um, I know you don’t know me,” I said, suddenly feeling shy and nervous, “but I think we’d both feel better if I took you to lunch. Would you like to go down to the cafeteria with me?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she angled her body away from me ever so slightly. “You seem nice,” she said flatly, “but I don’t know if I should.”

I raised both my hands as if to say, Look, see? I’m not out to hurt you. “I don’t bite, and I’m not Charles Manson. I just think you could use something to eat and someone to talk to,” I said gently.

The girl bit her lower lip as she looked into my eyes. “Well, I don’t even know your name,” she said, but the flatness of her voice was gone. In its place there was some hesitation still, but I could tell that she didn’t perceive me as a bad guy.

I offered her a sympathetic smile and a friendly handshake. “My name’s Jim,” I said. “Jim Garraty.”

The girl raised her right eyebrow and cocked her head slightly to one side as she looked at my outstretched hand. For a moment, I thought she was not going to shake my hand, but after a few seconds that felt like entire hours, she took my right hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Lauren. Lauren Restrepo,” she said as she offered me a shy smile.

“Nice to meet you, Lauren. Now, let’s get your things and go grab a bite to eat before the lunch period ends.”