Alternate Version Blogfest Entry!

Today, in honor of April Fool’s Day, I’m participating in the Alternate Version Blogfest being run by my friend and critique partner, Livia. You can check out the rest of the entries over at Livia’s blog, here.

This is a small section from the second chapter of my work in progress, Listen (you can see another excerpt from Listen here).

The kitchen smells seven kinds of bad. Singed turkey bacon mingles with eggs, toast, old coffee, kitchen sink compost, and damp newsprint. Lemon rinds, my mother’s newest air-freshening experiment, fester on the windowsill. She has a lot of experiments nowadays. Lemon rinds, even if they are moldy, are one of the better ones. Shampoo in the dishwasher (why waste money buying two products?) is the worst so far. It took me three days to get the dishes clean, and the kitchen floor still has a weird, soapy feel. The twins like to sock-skate on it.

Next to the rinds is a small jar of wilting coriander, dropping leaves on to a beaten up tape recorder. I reach for the recorder, wanting to brush the leaves free, but a hand slaps mine. “Working.”

Working? I choke back my surprise—if she’s up working, it’s a good sign, right?

Maybe.

I can’t remember the last time she was this normal. I can’t remember the last time she was anything but crazy.
On the stove, poaching eggs simmer, their all-organic free-range orange yolks glimmering. Jiggling the handle with her left hand and holding a brown-stained broadsheet in the right, mom leans into the tape recorder, muttering, “Statistics on the new treatment vary. Doctors are unwilling to call it a success with side effects present in ten to twenty percent of patients. Due to herbal nature, it does not fall under purview of medical associations or government drug regulations at present time.” She tucks the broadsheet into the oven’s towel rack then nudges me into the chair next to Leila.

I’ve never made it past the first chapter of Twilight (though I have read the whole Xlormpf spoof), but I’m fascinated by the phenomenon. I’m also fascinated by the longevity of the Cali-girl style character, so this is a spoof mashup of the pair. Although my character, Jamal, is actually a 16 year old guy, I’ve just given him a girly voice for kicks.

The kitchen smells seven kinds of bad–literally seven, and I know because I counted them, one and two and three and all those numbers that come after three but I can’t remember right now because I’m so tired because I was up so late last night. I can’t believe Maddie just knocked on my window like that and expected me to invite her in and then compliment her on her sparkly skin–it is such gorgeous, sparkly skin, and it glimmered like my strawberry shine lip gloss in the moonlight.

Next to my stupid crazy mom’s moldy lemon rinds–as if lemon rinds are good air freshener, duh–one of the dead pots of herbs is shedding on a tape recorder. Only my mom would use a tape recorder for her notes. I mean, they’re so 1976. I’d get her an iPod or something, but she’d just forget what it is and use it to scrub the sink or bake it in the oven or something. I’m so fed up with her being crazy. Mom’s aren’t supposed to be crazy. It’s kind of good sometimes, though, ‘cause before she crazy mc crazypants, I’d’ve been locked up in my room staring at the ceiling at midnight instead of locking lips with Maddie.

She’s talking into the crap recorder, saying stuff like “statistics” and “treatments” and trying to poach eggs at the same time. I hate poached eggs. She can’t get anything right. I bump her away from the stove, point her to a chair, then dump the eggs in the trash.

I love Jane Austen novels, and I couldn’t participate in an alternate version blogfest without a little homage to Jane.

Even with his cousin’s early knocking, Jamal was the last down to breakfast. The kitchen, despite Mrs. Mahmoud’s best efforts, reminded him of a pig sty in the height of summer. Observing the disorder around the sink–disorder mirrored in his mother’s movements–he gently removed the frying pan from her grasp, and helped her to a chair. But before long Mrs. Mahmoud was on her feet again, reaching for a tape recorder covered in dry, brown coriander leaves.

She held the recorder to her mouth, moving her lips as if trying to speak clearly, but mumbling, “Statistics on the new treatment vary. Doctors are unwilling to call it a success.”

“I’m happy you’re working,” Jamal told his mother, “but perhaps you should sit down, and rest your nerves.” His mother did as she was bid, but still clutched the tape recorder in one hand. Jamal wondered if he should take it away from her, then thought better of it. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen her working, couldn’t recall the last time she had acted so close to normality. This sudden focus on work had to be healthy–hadn’t it?

And that’s it for now. I’ll be back with a book list as usual tomorrow, and regular YA world commentary and discussion on Tuesday. Enjoy your April Fool’s, everyone!