The Charm (Olivia Hart and the Gifted Program Book 1) Read online

  Olivia Hart and the Gifted Program: The Charm

  By Alana Siegel

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  Cover design by Rachael Cronin and illustration by Daniel Cruz.

  Copyright 2011 Alana Siegel

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination of are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  To my parents, Nay and Rogue. If we met as freshman in high school, I would have chosen you as best friends.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Speak Now

  Chapter Two: The Strange Day Continued

  Chapter Three: Time to Move On

  Chapter Four: Spaghetti and Meatballs

  Chapter Five: Time to Accessorize

  Chapter Six: Surprising Concern

  Chapter Seven: A Meeting is Arranged

  Chapter Eight: Conundrum

  Chapter Nine: Surpass Our Heredity

  Chapter Ten: Becoming a Believer

  Chapter Eleven: Practice Makes Perfect

  Chapter Twelve: A Gifted Player

  Chapter Thirteen: The Fifth

  Chapter Fourteen: We Meet Again

  Chapter Fifteen: Cafeteria Conversations

  Chapter Sixteen: I Wish You Knew

  Chapter Seventeen: Enchanted

  Chapter Eighteen: An Unexpected Visitor

  Chapter Nineteen: The Homecoming Game

  Chapter Twenty: Elste

  Chapter Twenty-One: Just Dance

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

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  Chapter One: Speak Now

  I used to be cool. Well, not exactly “cool” per se, but at least my mom didn’t drop me off at school. Mornings were a lot less embarrassing before my older brother, Derek, graduated high school. I lost my ride and my daily walk through the senior parking lot last June.

  Derek had charisma. Every single day of his high school career, he strutted down the hall high-fiving and fist-pounding people he was friends with. As far as I could tell, he was friends with everyone.

  We would arrive at school five minutes early so he could stand at the entrance and tell stories of the mayhem he and his friends caused the night before. Stories of the winning soccer goal or spiking the punch at the last party were woven into magical words, emphasized with hand gestures, and drew in crowds of kids who loved re-living the experience with Derek. And I got to stand in his shadow for those glorious five minutes. Given the choice, I would have stayed in that shadow forever.

  That choice wasn’t up to me. Derek began college in the fall, and for the past two months, I rushed into school as quickly as possible before anyone saw me escape from my mom’s white Ford Expedition. There were no high-fives from seniors or my older brother’s light-hearted laugh to guide the way.

  Today was no different. I jumped out of the front passenger seat of my mom’s SUV, attempting to move in one swift motion. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt a little tighter. My hood was my shield, protecting me from unwanted eyes and the thick haze that threatened to frizz up my unmistakable long red hair.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t protect me from the puddle of slop that I landed in. Distracted, I completely lost the hold on my hood. I sighed, silently cursing the weather as I looked up at the gray sky. The clouds were calm, but lingering. They hovered over the school like an overbearing parent, waiting to punish for bad behavior.

  I knew I had to make a mad dash for the door before the rain started again, but the number of books I had to carry around made being quick impossible. I tucked my hair back into my hood, re-adjusted my bag on my shoulder, and shuffled around the car to cross the street and head into the building.

  My timing could not have been any worse. Just as I stepped out from behind my mom’s SUV, a minivan zoomed by without a second glance. I barely had time to stumble backwards to avoid being hit. Both sets of wheels hit the puddle at my feet, spraying muddy water and soaking my clothes. It figured.

  Was it some sort of punishment? Horrified, I glanced around the grounds in front of the school checking if anyone had seen.

  The school stood in the center of the small town of Pandora. The three story building made of light brown bricks may have faded over time, but still defended its ground. A semi-circular driveway, where buses and parents dropped off students, led the way to a grand entrance.

  Four Greek columns, highlighted by a Pandora High School sign in block lettering, stood tall in front of a large set of double doors. To a kid whose existence seemed to focus on school, it felt like a daunting monument that represented authority and structure.

  The amount of land within the cookie cutter town of Pandora’s limits was small, but densely populated. The medium-sized, white picket fenced houses looked just like all the surrounding neighborhoods of other small towns. In fact, someone who did not live in the area might not realize he left one town and entered another.

  I was about to relax, thinking I had escaped unscathed, when I caught sight of the ‘smokers’ corner.’ A crowd of kids who liked to push the envelope gathered there every morning. Nothing stopped them from staking claim to that corner. They were there in one hundred degree heat, in snow and, of course, in rain. The corner was across the street so it was not technically school property, and the kids that hung out on it were often loud, rowdy and, as usual, smoking cigarettes.

  Of course, he was there. He was always there. Without looking, I knew he was going to be there. I knew he was watching me, mocking me. I looked anyway. It was like I intentionally inflicted pain upon myself. Would it have been so hard to look forward and keep walking?

  Max Smarr wasn’t Mr. Popular, captain of the football team, or Prom King. He was persistent, clever, and what you would term a “bad boy.” His friends were part of the edgy crowd of kids who stood on the smokers’ corner every morning before school. It was all part of his allure.

  You could say he actively pursued me. One day I saw him walking toward me in the hallway. A small smile on his lips, his gaze never left my flushed face. My heart was racing as he approached me. When a guy like Max knew what he wanted, he went after it. No one argued with him, and he didn’t change his mind.

  Maybe I was looking for someone loud and attention-grabbing to fill the void at school that my brother left when he went to college. I felt vulnerable without my brother’s arm hung around my shoulder. Max couldn’t have come at a better time. He filled that void, and then some.

  By dating Max, I certainly rushed into things, but I desperately wanted attention. Two months ago, I was fifteen years old, and I had never kissed a boy. I repeat, fifteen years old and I had never kissed a boy. Add another notch to my mortification belt.

  I may have had to wait, but it was worth it. For the rest of my life, I’ll never forget that first kiss. Nervous that I would do it wrong, I could barely look at Max for the first half of our first date. He held my hand while I stared at the crumbling cements steps we were sitting on. I answered his attempts to make conversation with one-word responses, and I gave him a shy smile when he complimented me. Eventually, he took my face in his hands and kissed me.

  It was sweet and innocent, and I was elated. There was
actually a boy paying attention to me. It was my turn to feel wanted and beautiful.

  That was the beginning. I quickly realized that Max was nothing like my light-hearted, smiling brother. Max had dangerous insecurities that he battled. Rather than living in my brother’s cheerful shadow, being with Max was more like traveling in a dark cloud, never knowing when there was going to be a rainbow or thunderstorm. The end to our relationship had come a mere two months later.

  Making my way to the school entrance, I tried to be discreet, peeking out of the corner of my eye toward his direction on the smokers’ corner. They all wore ripped jeans and long sleeve shirts with t-shirts over them, like it was some sort of rebellious uniform for a team I would never be a part of.

  Laughing at my expense, Max stood on the corner holding hands with his new girlfriend, Chelsea Steinem. She was everything I wasn’t. She was edgy and fierce, and wasn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with Max.

  Seeing him still jogged painful memories. I had once wanted so badly to be a part of that crowd and, as Max’s girlfriend, I had been. Even then, I had never truly fit in. Obeying school rules came naturally to me, and forget about smoking cigarettes, the smell alone made me sick. It wasn’t just the loss of my relationship with him that pained me, but also the loss of being part of their group.

  Three quick clockwise turns past zero. Twenty-two. One full counterclockwise circle past zero. Nine. A small twist to the right. Sixteen. Click. Pop. Open. There was no thought process involved, just pure muscle memory. My fingers were quick with the combination, long nails dressed in pink, a strong contrast against the rusty lock. Two months of using locker L361 and I could pretty much open it with my eyes closed.

  I shook my head, still trying to forget my embarrassing entrance to school three hours earlier. I reached into my locker, wishing it were a few inches wider as I lifted my biology lab book, nudged aside my sketchpad for art class, and wiggled out the magenta spiral notebook I reserved for Ms. Magos’s Global Studies class. Doodled hearts and poems danced across its cover.

  We were a few months into the school year. Junior year, the third and toughest year of high school, promised extra responsibilities, an unrelenting workload and the pressure of what would be a daunting college application process. I should hate it. I should hate all of it. Why didn’t I?

  I wasn’t even indifferent to school, I actually liked it. I didn’t know many other sixteen-year-olds who would actually confess, especially in the midst of their junior year of high school, that they genuinely enjoyed it. But then again, I had never minded school, the monotonous classes, the hours of homework or the stubborn, unfeeling education system that oversaw it all. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone else, though, for fear of solidifying my reputation as a nerd.

  I took a look at the books I was holding and ran through the next few classes in my head, mentally checking off each item I would need as I selected it from my crowded locker. I covered my graffiti love confessions with another spiral notebook, purple this time, for our mandatory professional development class. On top of that, I piled my worn copy of Catcher in the Rye, the latest novel we had been assigned in English.

  I looked down at my watch; two minutes and thirty seconds until the next bell. This was the part I loved about school. There was a schedule to the madness, a definite consistency to each day. Ten months of the year spent in the same classes, with the same teachers and the same friends, all at the same time. It may have been repetitive and, at times, dull, but it provided a certain stability that was exactly what I found comforting.

  I took a quick glance in the tiny mirror I hung inside my locker door on the first day of school, making sure that the curls I had strategically placed throughout my thick, wavy hair that morning were still intact. Weather.com had predicted seventy-five percent humidity today. If the percentage were any higher, I would have let the curls hang in their full natural state which is definitely not my best look.

  I preferred my hair straight. But on days like today, there was no way it was going to stay that way. Even after my hood mishap, my curls were still in place and my hair was under control. Half the day was over and so far so good. I gently closed my locker, adjusting the three books I had just accumulated, cradling them in the nook of my left arm.

  School may not bother me but I could definitely do without all of the books. Notebooks for each class, bulky three-ring binders for classes where teachers made them mandatory, lab books, four-inch-thick textbooks, workbooks. There were too many, and they were too heavy.

  If it weren’t fashion crime to wear one, I would carry them around in a backpack like we did in middle school. I thought back to sixth grade. Everyone had the same brand backpack strapped on his or her shoulders. It was like there was some sort of rule that you couldn’t wear anything else.

  We may have all had the same brand, but no two bags were identical. Each was unique depending on what kind of crowd you were trying to fit in with. Some were covered in colorful patches sporting smiley faces, peace signs, or hearts. Other bags were tattooed with various sayings, names of so called boyfriends or shout-outs to their favorite bands. Some had key chains and lanyards hanging from all the zippers, while others opted to keep it simple.

  The bag I carried at the time was clearly confused. The deep purple material was etched with song lyrics and covered with a tiny black peace sign, a gaudy yellow smiley face, and a banner for my favorite band. Added to that were pink and black Chinese staircase lanyards dangling from the back pocket zipper. It didn’t have any distinct style. Instead of opting into one crowd, it had attempted to be included in all.

  I smiled, reminiscing about how I had begged my mom for the overpriced bag, worked so hard on making it look cool without looking like I had put that much time and effort into it, and how it now was buried in the back of my closet somewhere, drowning in a sea of strappy sandals, three-inch wedges and knee-high boots. Maybe that’s where it belonged. Like me, it had never really known where it fit or where it was accepted.

  Using that backpack would probably be even more helpful now in high school than it was when we were tweens and only carrying a middle-school workload. But the thought of wearing a backpack through the halls of Pandora High School actually made me shudder.

  I tucked my wallet-sized handbag more securely under my right arm, the leather strap sitting comfortably in the tiny crevice of my right shoulder as I gently swung my locker door shut. Giving the lock a quick spin off the sixteenth notch, I turned around and leaned against the cool surface of the scratched up metal wall while I waited for Helen O’Reilly.

  Squinting slightly, I scanned the groups of kids swarming the hallway, quickly zoning in on her. Helen and I were both on the schools' kickline team, but she was the one with the raw talent. With one look at her, you could tell she was a dancer. Legs that went on for miles and toes that always seemed pointed, I half expected her to dip into a plie every time I looked at her. I watched her body glide toward me, making the simple act of walking look like an art form. It was like she constantly had music playing in her head and was always keeping tempo.

  Lean and toned from hours of dancing each week, Helen’s simple black halter-top showed off defined arms and a tiny waist. Lucky for her, the only part of her body that didn’t scream ‘dancer’ was the voluptuous upper half of her torso. That too was accentuated in today’s ensemble. I looked down at the shirt I had laid out the night before, wishing I had a bit more up top to fill it out.

  Helen and I became close in middle school. We had a mutual class, and we broke down our own walls of nerves and insecurities and formed a friendship that surpassed all of those of my childhood. It helped that Helen was not as shy as I was. She ignored my quiet nature that probably labeled me as stand-offish to those who didn’t take the time to get to know me.

  Coming from a big family, the middle child sandwiched between two athletic boys, she was louder, more outgoing, and had broken me out of my shell. She accepted me and welcomed me into her life wit
hout hesitation. I quickly found out that was how her entire family was. Helen’s close-knit family, an impressive breed of loyalty, beauty, and athleticism, were some of the warmest, most-welcoming people I knew. From the unsure beginning of high school, we were inseparable.

  Helen’s smile spread and face lit when she caught sight of me from a few feet away. With a slight skip, she crossed the last few feet to me. After a quick hug hello, she stood back to examine my outfit.

  “Liv! That green skirt looks beautiful with your red hair.” Her eyes were wide and sincere.

  I looked down at my skirt, smoothing the material over my legs as the self-assurance built inside. She always knew how to brighten my day with her bubbly personality, even if it was a smile and a small compliment.

  “Thanks, Hel,” I replied. She linked her right arm through mine as I pushed off the lockers. It was a comforting habit of hers that instantly melted any tension or anxiety. I looked forward to our walks together, knowing she would loosen the knots that were threatening in my stomach.

  Beige, rectangle tables, each with eight chairs tucked under their longer sides were set up along the length of the cafeteria. The tables didn’t seem to be in any specific location, haphazardly filling in space, but no two tables touched and each had enough space between them for students to walk by. Large windows, slid open to let in the fresh air, overlooked the football field and covered a main wall in the room. Helen and I sat down at a table in the center of the lunchroom.

  The bell for lunch marked the beginning of a period without teachers, and opened the flood gates for kids to pour in with their brown bag lunches or trays of hot lunch on their way to the tables around us. The volume of chatter increased as friends caught up on events from the morning. I tried hard to blur into the chaos of the full lunchroom.