sample chapter:

comfortable in my own genes

Chapter 1

I, Danielle Marie Smith, was born to write. The blood in my veins flows with ink, the written word is my song, and the computer keyboard serves as my instrument—at least I hoped so. I’d written these corny, yet optimistic lines last May on a yellow piece of construction paper and taped them to the mirror above my dresser. I did this because in Proverbs it says, “For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he.” Surely these words held true for sixteen-year-old wanna-be journalists as well as old Bible dudes.

The beginning of my junior year at Elk Forest High School was now only a week away and I was eager to join the staff of The Antlerette, my high school newspaper. Okay, so this wasn’t the most prestigious extracurricular activity on our suburban Houston campus—possibly only one notch above the comic book club and fairly equal to the badminton team. But who was I to scoff at this literary opportunity? I’d been referred by Mrs. Fassler, my sophomore English teacher, to participate in the school newspaper the following year, and…well…I really wasn’t good at much else.

Oh, I’d given a few other campus activities an honest shot, but things never quite seemed to work out. On the first day of gymnastics practice last year, my face had a close encounter with a balance beam while I was trying to execute a handstand on that suicidal piece of equipment. It looked easy and safe enough when Sarah Berger tried it. And the beam was only a foot off the floor—how dangerous could it be?

My face soon found out.

Then there was the drill team tryout last spring—ugh! So I couldn’t do the splits. So I forgot a few moves to the routine and had to have them start the music over again—three times. So I couldn’t kick my leg high enough for my knee to touch my nose—shoot me! Anyway, after the balance beam incident, I doubt my face could handle having flying objects—such as “high-kicking” knees—flashing in front of it. (I’m not sure, but I think we’re talking “post traumatic stress” here). Anyway, now I was hopeful that I’d found that extra-curricular activity that I possibly had some sort of talent in. I was actually going to be a writer…a journalist—or I was going to wear blisters on my fingertips trying.

 Little did I know, however, that my very first reporting assignment with The Antlerette would come even before the first day of school.

“Dani, phone’s for you.” Trista, my older sister by thirteen entire months handed me the cordless phone with her freshly manicured fingernails extended so as not to inflict a smudge on their pristine surface. “And be sure to answer the beep,” she reminded with a slight edge of warning in her voice. “I’m expecting a call—It’s important.”

Everything involving Trista was important—she was important! Not only was my older sister the reigning Miss Teen Queen of Harris County, she was also the student body secretary at Elk Forest High School, head varsity cheerleader, a member of Vocal Ensemble—the school’s best singing group. She also served as Laurel president in our ward.

After rolling my eyes at my important sister, I took the phone and placed it to my ear. “Hello.”

“Hey, is this Danielle Smith?” I was a little caught off guard by the male voice. The last guy to call me had been Stewart Kaneski. Nearly a year ago he had phoned in search of our sophomore English vocabulary list for the week—it was the night before the test and he’d left his list at school. Yep, these were the types of calls I got from guys.

“Uh…yeah. This is Dani”. I tried to put emphasis on my nickname. The only person that ever called me Danielle was Grandma Smith—she also referred to Santa Clause as “Saint Nicholas” and she called a couch a “divan.”

“Okay, Dani...this is Ethan McWilliams, editor-in-chief of The Antlerette.” There was a slight pause as if he was waiting for a stunned gasp or round of applause, but then he continued. “I have you on the list of faculty recommended Antlerette staff this coming year. Are we still on?”

“Excuse me?” I was a little confused.

He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Are you still planning to write for The Antlerette this year?” I didn’t like why this Ethan McWhatever thought he had to annunciate every little syllable as if I was some sort of dim-wit.

“Yes, I am.” I tried not sound irritated.

“Sweet, ‘cause I have your first assignment.”

“Really?” I was stunned.

“Don’t worry—I’m sure you can handle it.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Isn’t Trista Smith your sister?”

Suddenly the light bulb went on. I knew exactly what this was about—what everything is about. As far as my universe was concerned, Trista was the stars, sun, and living Earth all rolled into one. And I was a distant, lifeless moon hoping that at least part of the day I could bask in my sister’s luminous reflection before slipping into her shadow.

“Uh…Yeah, Trista’s my sister.” For a split second I was almost tempted to deny my relationship to Her Royal Highness, The Princess of All-Things-Important. I could probably get away with it too. Aside from the fact that there were at least two or three dozen Smiths attending Elk Forest High School, Trista and I looked nothing alike. Trista was tall like Dad, and had Mom’s golden locks. I, on the other hand, was much shorter like our mom, and had Dad’s brown hair that tended to frizz in the Houston humidity.

Ethan’s voice took on a tone of arrogance. “It’s funny ‘cause I pretty-much know everything about everyone on campus—you could call it part of the job description.” He chuckled as if he’d said something humorous. “But I never knew Trista Smith had a sister until Mrs. Fassler pointed you out.”

“What do you mean, ‘pointed me out?’”

“Relax—no need to get all paranoid. We had an Antlerette editorial staff meeting yesterday to get a jump start on the semester, and Mrs. Fassler pointed you out in the yearbook. I never would have guessed that you and Trista Smith are sisters.” Ethan chuckled again and a familiar dull ache surfaced in my heart. I was so tired of seeing—and hearing—people’s shocked or amused expression when they discovered that the beautiful and statuesque Trista Smith had such a scrawny, mousey looking little sister. Who’s in charge of the gene-pool distribution in heaven anyway? Sometimes life could be so unfair.

It was only a matter of moments, however, before the dull ache in my heart transformed into an intense urge to grab my yearbook and a magic marker, look up Ethan McWanna-be’s picture and add my own little artwork—perhaps horns, a mustache and a pointy beard. What a jerk!

I decided to suck it up, and pretend that Ethan McWho-cares’s comment hadn’t even fazed me. “What exactly is it that you want me to do…I’m sorry…is it Nathan?”

“Eee-than…Ethan McWilliams. And I’d like you to cover the Miss Teen Queen of Texas Beauty Pageant. I heard it was this Friday night—I assume you’re going since your sister’s competing in it.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Of course I’d be there. In my family, attendance at such events is mandatory—that whole “support structure” thing Mom and Dad are always harping about.

“Great! You can turn in the story at school on Monday.”

“This Monday? You mean the first day of school?” A twinge of panic managed to prick my stomach.

“That would be this Monday. Is there a problem?”

“But I’ve never written a newspaper article before.”

“We call it a story in the journalism world. And if Fassler recommended you to The Antlerette staff, then I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“But how will I know who to give the story to on Monday?”

Ethan’s long, drawn-out exhale was so exaggerated that I could almost feel his warm breath seeping through the earpiece of my phone. I suddenly had the urge to wipe off my ear. Boy…this guy was going to be loads of fun to work with. “You’re signed up for Journalism second period—just give it to me then. It won’t be hard to find me—I’ll be the one in charge.”

So with a vote of confidence from Editor-in chief Ethan McWhat-an-ego, I had my first newspaper assignment. I was a writer!

The bad part about having the three o’clock church schedule is that it feels like you’re getting ready for church the entire morning. I guess one perk, however, is that you can sleep in with plenty of time to get ready, enjoy Mom’s awesome Sunday brunch, and still make it to Sacrament meeting in time to secure a cushioned bench, preferably three rows from the front, on the left—our family’s self imposed seating assignment.

            On this particular Sunday, however, I was especially grateful for our late afternoon church schedule. Aside from spending my entire last Saturday of the summer writing, and then re-writing the story for The Antlerette, our family, along with several of Trista’s “rah-rah” cheerleading friends, spent the entire day Friday caught up in the hoopla of Trista’s beauty pageant. After wowing the panel of illustrious judges with her stunning evening gown (Mom’s homemade handy work), beauty, poise, vocal talent and platform to find a home for every stray can and dog in the entire state of Texas, my beautiful sister Trista came in first runner-up in the Miss Teen Queen of Texas Pageant.

Now, this wasn’t exactly the outcome my sister had hoped for. First runner-up only received a one thousand-dollar college scholarship, as opposed to the full-ride scholarship the Hula dancer from Amarillo walked away with. Trista had been counting on the money to pay her BYU tuition; she hadn’t been accepted yet, but just as almost everything else in my sister’s life, I was certain it would happen. But now she was going to have to get a job and earn money by actually working—what a concept! I wasn’t sure why, but I felt just a slight sense of pleasure that for once, Trista was going to have to put forth a little sweat for something she wanted.

After the sacrament had been passed and while the high councilman spoke about the importance of fellowshipping new members, I thought about my best friend Annie—actually, her name is Annalyn but she’d rather answer to “Hey, you” than her real name. Annie plays the triangle in the marching band—yeah, the three sided metal object used to alert hungry ranch hands that supper’s ready. The only difference is that Annie’s triangle is smaller and silver and she doesn’t use a metal spoon to make it “ping.” For some strange reason, the minute I learned that Annie played the triangle, I knew that the two of us would be fast friends.

Annie and her mom joined the Church a little over a year ago and the two of us were instantly drawn to each other. Bishop Matthews and Sister Hansen, the Young Women’s president, had thanked me for fellowshipping Annie. To be honest, I hadn’t even looked at it as fellowshipping—I was just thrilled to finally have someone to call my “best friend.”

I smiled at the thought and turned my head to the back row—this was where Annie and her mom always sat. Apparently my turning head had caught Annie’s attention because when I looked back, she glanced down to the opposite end of the row from where she was sitting, stared back at me, then jerked her head twice in the same direction that she’d been looking. I was fairly certain that my best friend was either trying to point something out to me or pop her neck—I wasn’t quite sure. Then Annie gave me the most mischievous grin while simultaneously raising her eyebrows twice.

With her final gesture I was certain that Annie wanted me to look at something that must be pretty good, so I scanned my eyes down the inhabitants of the long center pew. Old Sister Jorgensen, who was nearly asleep, was struggling to stay upright as she sat next to Annie’s mom. Then there was the Sanford family—all redheaded except for Brother Sanford who was as bald as a watermelon except for a flaming orange moustache.

Finally, my eyes rested on a very muscular figure who was most definitely not a Sanford. Now I understood why Annie’s eyebrows couldn’t control themselves. This guy had the most intriguing and exotic look—bronze skin, thick, black wavy hair and hazel eyes that seemed to add to the mystique. His features were bold…strong, yet his expression was serene as he absorbed the words of the speaker.

I felt a little guilty for a split second that I wasn’t paying more attention to the speaker myself, but my eyes couldn’t seem to break away from this mysterious stranger. Who was he? This muscular mystery man looked like a teenager, but where was his family? And I couldn’t figure out his ethnicity. Was he Hispanic? I didn’t think so—maybe he had some Hawaiian or Samoan in his blood. Whoever or whatever this mysterious and beautiful stranger was, I was certainly anxious to find out. And since our ward combined the 16- and 17-year-old Sunday School classes, I figured that I’d learn who he was in the next hour.

When the meeting finally closed I anxiously made my way back to Annie. From the activity level of her eyebrows during the entire sacrament meeting, I was certain that she, too, was interested in finding out the identity of “Mr. Beautiful.”

“So, who is he?” I tried to contain the squeal level of my voice as I grabbed Annie’s arm when we met in the middle of the crowded aisle in the chapel.

“I have no idea, but the guy practically flew out of the chapel the minute Sister Jackson said ‘Amen.’”

“You’re kidding.” The disappointment I felt was almost too much of a burden.

“Maybe he was in a hurry to get to Sunday School.” Annie said with a hint of hope in her voice. I really loved Annie—always the optimist.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t one. “Maybe he noticed that two psycho girls were staring at him during the entire meeting and it was all too much for him.”

“Maybe—”

Our conversations were cut short by Brother Wilson, second counselor in the bishopric. “Brothers and Sisters, could we please carry our conversations out into the foyer? Since our meeting ran long we need to clear the chapel reverently yet quickly so that Primary can get started without further delay. Could the Primary children please come forward and…”

Still holding onto Annie’s arm, the two of us quickly left the chapel, hoping the hope of the hopeless that Mr. Beautiful was indeed sitting in our Sunday School class—perhaps even saving us each a seat.

We were wrong.

Wrong and hopeless.

Sometimes hope can be a cruel thing—especially when you’re sixteen. However, later on that night, Annie did find out from Brother Sanford, her home teacher, that our Mr. Tall, Dark, and Beautiful from sacrament meeting was an exchange student named Matt something-or-other from New Zealand. The only other information she had been able to gather was that he was a member of the Church and living with the Elk Forest High School football coach and his family.