Welcome back to WIPpet Wednesday, peeps! This is basically the highlight of my week. I don’t know if that is sad or totally awesome. The rules are easy: add your linky here, post an excerpt from your current work-in-progress that somehow relates to the date, and show some love to the other WIPpeteers. As always, a big thank you goes out to K.L. Schwengel for hosting!
Today, I’m switching gears. Last week I posted a little snippet from Obsidian, but I haven’t been working on that WIP because I’ve switched to my contemporary YA. It’s refreshing to switch from fantasy to contemporary. (How many times can I use “switch” in this paragraph?)
Anywhos, you can read a little bit about This Mad Virtue under the “Projects” tab if you’re really interested. The title is still subject to change because I can’t decide if I like it or not. This excerpt is from chapter 8, more or less, and features FMC Sophia, her boy toy London (who she can’t decide if she really likes or not), and occurs after the recent death of their classmate, J.J.
I was over at London’s, sequestered in his bedroom, hiding from my parents.
“Take off your clothes,” I said.
His eyes lit up and he grinned, ripping off his shirt. “I like where this is going.”
I couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Homework.” I waved my sketchbook at him. Our latest journal entries had asked about future career plans and I had answered thusly:
I plan to move to New York after I graduate, rent a cheap studio apartment, work a menial job, get high, paint, and basically live a life of sin and deprivation.
Sister Geraldine had been ecstatic to discover that I had a future in mind – any future. She had run straight to Mrs. Pearson with the news. Mrs. Pearson has since been bringing me school brochures, course catalogues, and art books. I had to be great, she said. Not just good, great.
I pulled London’s desk chair by the bed and set my sketchbook up on my crossed knees.
London sprawled on the comforter in a ridiculously feminine pose. “Draw me like one of your French boys.”
“Stop moving,” I chided.
I started with his hands resting on his naked chest. I loved hands and eyes. The minuteness of detail. The expression.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” he said, staring contemplatively at the ceiling. “It’s weird, you know?”
J.J.’s death was the only topic people had been talking about for weeks – especially among our class. His memory haunted the cafeteria, library, and locker rooms.
“Question time,” he said.
“I’m working,” I said, erasing a wonky knuckle.
“What would you do if it was me?”
I imagine he thinks it would be beautifully tragic and romantic. Like we were star-crossed lovers or something. I imagine he wants me to drink the poison.
“It wasn’t you.”
“It could have been. I was at that party. I could have gotten in J.J.’s car.”
“You wouldn’t have. You don’t even like them.”
“Just answer the question.”
I put the sketchbook down in my lap. “I would wear all black and never love again.”
He smiled, but it was sad and quiet.
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said.