BROKEN

BROKEN: Part 1 (of 5)

Author’s Note:  Broken is a thriller being published this November by Sourcebooks Fire -- and my young adult debut! I’m going to be posting the first 35 chapters in 5 posts to give you a sneak peek at my new novel. The complete book is available in print and digital from any major retailer. You can visit http://cjlyons.net for more information!

 Copyright © 2013 by CJ Lyons

 Monday

 1

 If you want to get noticed fast, try starting high school three weeks late as the girl who almost died.

 Unfortunately, attention is the last thing I crave. Give me anonymity anytime. Every time.

 I just want to be a normal girl. No one special.

 Saw a movie once, don’t remember what channel, but it was in the dark hours of the night when it was just me and the TV. My favorite time of day.

 It starred John Travolta back when he was young. The kid was so sick he lived in this plastic bubble and he was so excited when he got to leave it.

 Me? When I saw the boy leave his bubble, I wanted it for myself. Coveted it.

 God, how I’d die for a cozy little bubble to live my life in, safe from the outside world.

 Only I’d paint my bubble black so no one could see me inside.

 2

 There are two metal detectors inside the main doors of Smithfield High and 337 students plus one trying to crowd through them. I’m the plus one. Not sure which line to stand in or if there’s even a real line at all hidden somewhere in this mass of humanity. It’s the largest crowd I’ve ever been in.

 The school lobby echoes with voices and the stamping of feet. We’re herded like a bunch of cows headed for slaughter. All that’s missing are the cowboys and the branding irons.

 No one else is nervous about this. They don’t care about the metal detectors or what’s in their bags or even the two guards manning the operation. They’re not worried about being trampled or that there isn’t enough oxygen or how many billions—no, trillions—of bacteria and viruses are wafting through the air, microscopic time bombs searching for a new home.

 All they care about is me. The stranger in their midst. They shuffle around me uneasily, quickly sniffing out that I don’t belong.

 A girl with a pierced nose and heavy eyeliner looks at me like I’m a tacky rhinestone necklace on display at a pawnshop counter. She hides her mouth behind her hand as she whispers something to her friend with the purple streak in her hair.

 A guy wearing a white and orange Smithfield Wildcats letterman jacket trips over the backpack I wheel behind me, almost smashing into a wall before he catches himself. “Out of my way, loser.”

 His snarl is accompanied by a sneer. He stares down at me—he’s huge, at least six feet tall, with shoulders that block my view. “I said, move it.” I try to steer my backpack, but his feet get tangled as he zigs the same direction I’m zagging. “You don’t want to piss me off. Understand?”

 The crowd pushes him even closer so all I can hear is his voice. My heart booms in response, sending up its own distress call. His name is on his letterman jacket, embroidered above the wildcat with the long, sharp fangs. Mitch Kowlaski. Football. I shrink against the wall, making myself even smaller than my usual five feet two, and pull my backpack between my legs, giving him room to cut in front of me.

 He joins a cluster of football players and continues to stare at me. His look is easy to read: what kind of loser brings a wheeled backpack to high school?