The Beautiful Name: Chapter One

This is the first chapter of my debut novel The Beautiful Name, out now!!

Imagine: you’ve just gotten your iced coffee (or matcha, or whatever you drink, but it has to be iced). You’re sipping and walking along through the shelves in the warm, paper scented womb-like bookstore of your choice (Indigo, B&N, or even better, your local indie shop!). A purple cover catches your eye (cover art to be determined, but I know it will be purple). You tug it off the shelf and turn it over. It’s big, so you’re not sure if you want to commit to such a tome. On the back cover you read the following:

Since childhood, Diana Foster and Carmen De Luna were inseparable. But after suspecting her father of hiding a dangerous past, Diana pushes Carmen away to protect her from the Foster family history. Lena Asai, Diana’s new neighbor, gets swept up in the Fosters’ dark tide when she begins a romance with Diana’s brother Quinn.  

In her first year at Mondegreen College, Carmen witnesses her professor leading a ritualistic meeting of a secret society, during which he ingests a strange purple substance. When Carmen decides to seek the truth about the society, what she discovers poses a threat to the social balance of the College, and to her roommate’s friend group, a circle Carmen is unwittingly thrust into. 

Logan Richardson is the professor’s son and heir to the society’s seat of power. He has rejected everything his father indoctrinated him into, including the society itself, known to his peers as the Jargonauts. But as scenes from his past plague him, his future place in the society descends upon him. 

Livvie Deveraux is quickly losing sight of herself amid the partying and social codes of her sorority, leaving her best friend Naomi in the lurch. When Livvie meets a dealer of the purple drug, Neil Austen, they fall fast for each other. But their relationship is strained by addiction and the man who Neil owes money to and is running from.  

Though estranged or strangers, Diana, Carmen, and the others are connected by one entity: the wealthy and patriarchal cult controlling the town of Mondegreen. Before long, they find themselves deeply entrenched in the society’s machinations with no discernible escape. 

Now, you’re intrigued. But books are expensive these days. So, you decide to open the book and glance at the first chapter to make your final decision. You begin to read….

CHAPTER ONE

Irreplaceable

A town called Mondegreen. August 2011.

There were always pennies at the bottom of the pool.

His father put them there. Dive. Swim. Search. Retrieve.

If he couldn’t hold his breath long enough to fish all the pennies from the bottom, no goggles allowed, no breaks, then he didn’t deserve the money. All he retrieved is all he earned. Samuel Richardson counted out seven dollars in pennies and plopped them, one by one, into the chlorinated cerulean, scattering the copper in equal portions. The most Logan ever got was one hundred and seventeen, his twig-like, bony arms and narrow chest thrust forward, the bottoms of his feet pink as they faced the distorted surface of the pool. His father paced silently, arms crossed, watching his son. The pennies shone bronze and red like little bullet holes, dark portals. In fall, the leaves limply floating along the surface seemed to bring those pennies up and into focus, spread into maple shapes. Red, brown, and bruised.

Logan’s hair matted over his eyes as he broke the surface, panting, his white shoulders glittering with freckles and speckled droplets of water. He brought his arm out, water trailing down his wrist, and the other after it.

Two fistfuls of metal.

Without his hands to tread with, he kicked wildly, chin deep, and let the pennies fall from sticky wet fingers. He shook his hands like emptying pockets until each coin clattered onto the concrete. He squinted into the sun and turned his head all around. Through the glass doors, he saw his father seated at the kitchen island, reading with spectacles on.

Logan wrapped a towel around his narrow shoulders, stepping past the pennies and getting one suctioned to the bottom of his foot on his way to the door. Logan shivered in the dusk despite the humid night. Cicadas whirred and screamed. He turned the knob as his father pretended not to notice and placed damp feet on the hardwood.

Mr. Richardson glanced up at his son, regarding his narrow, freckled shoulders, and squinted hard hazel eyes over the rims of his glasses.

“Go shower,” he said, and went back to reading. Logan didn’t tell his father how many pennies he had retrieved.

It didn’t matter.

The wet copper coin from his foot sat glinting, kicked under the table, alongside Samuel’s slipper, uncounted.

***

It was a humid summer before eighth grade.

The Markham family had just gotten a new car. A royal blue Porsche Panamera with custom red rims on the wheels, crisscrossing over one another like a bloody spider web. The sky was glaring blue, and so was the car. The interior was leather and beige and untouched. It sparkled in the sun, the reflection in the side mirrors blinding Logan as he walked up the driveway to meet Johnny Markham.

Johnny was sitting on the front steps, playing a game on his iPod Touch. The Markham house was a red brick colonial beast with a dark blue door. The car was made to match. Not like Teakwood, the Richardson estate, which was all white paneling and columns and marble. Johnny wore new boat shoes and a button-down that was too small for him, striped blue and white. His shorts were red once, faded to a dull pink now, and he had a sunburn on his cheek.

When Johnny saw Logan, he waved, bored. Logan sat down next to him. Without looking up, Johnny said, “See the Porsche?”

Logan leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out, feet facing the red wheels. “Yeah, it’s cool.”

Johnny scoffed.

“Cool? Dude, it’s fucking sick. My dad said it’s irreplaceable.” He gestured with one hand to the sleek, easy curves of the doors and the hood. “Custom made baby.”

Logan nodded.

“I could get so many bitches in that car. Did you know my dad got his first blowjob in the back of a Porsche? That's why it’s the only car he buys. It's like, some type of good luck charm.”

“You mean from your mom?”

Johnny laughed, high pitched, and Logan did too, nagging images of pennies and his father’s steely eyes dissolving in the hot air.

“Dude, no, my dad fucked so many girls before he met my cunt mom.”

Logan would never speak of his mother in such a way, because if he did his sisters would slap him upside the head, but this language was normal coming from Johnny, and it didn’t make him flinch anymore. John Bishop Markham had just learned the C word, and what it meant, and he was going to use it until it got old.

“So, what do you want to do?” Logan asked. Johnny perked up like a dog that smells meat and clicked off his iPod.

“I don’t know how he did it? But fucking Lucas made friends with some girls in the grade above us. They’re coming over.” 

Logan thought of Lucas Carter, who was cute—or so the girls his age claimed. He had floppy brown hair and no messy freckles like Logan. He was on the school basketball team. He made girls laugh in class, but he never ruthlessly teased them. It made sense that Lucas had befriended older girls. The fact that he had agreed to hang out with Logan and Johnny on the other hand, was more puzzling. They weren’t unpopular—their families were rich and well-known, and they were legacies at their small private school, giving them an air of some invisibly granted status that outsiders were jealous of. 

But outside of class, Logan and Johnny barely hung out with anyone else. They went outside to play basketball until it rained, pushed each other’s heads under the water in Logan’s pool, went into the minimal woods far outside the neighborhood to sword fight with sticks or pick mushrooms and discuss eating them—but they never did, afraid of being poisoned. The quickly running mill of Logan’s thoughts seemed absurd when interrupted by Johnny’s jokes and absolute statements. He'd wipe the sweat from his upper lip, slam his keyboard, and talk about nipples. To Logan, this was reprieve.

For Johnny, everything was easy. Everything would go his way. The way he talked was loud and loose, the way he walked was jerky and confident, and as he grew taller and more muscular with his in-home gym, he grew wider, and his young, immature ideations seemed to fit more and more into his bulky body. He watched porn and was prescribed Adderall in middle school. He had freedom to stay out as long as he wanted at the skate park, no limit on his screen time, and a lock on his door. Logan was fascinated and excited by his friend’s freedom—his limitless and unregulated joy.

This was before alcohol. Before weed or coke or sex or any of the things that made these airy comments and promises in childhood become dangerous and strange later on. It was only natural that Johnny would be the one to turn the tide, to push the boundary of innocence into a darker realm. There's always one, after all, in a group of young friends. The one who rears their head and blinks at the others, hungry.

It lit a spark in Logan’s chest to think of how, a month from now, they’d be heading into their last year before high school, and in high school they’d be those taller, broader guys they saw driving cars and blasting music in the neighborhood. They'd have deeper voices, facial hair, sunglasses on and hands in their pockets. Hanging out with girls would be a normal and frequent occurrence, and maybe by then Logan would be able to hold his breath for longer, and swim deeper with stronger, more tanned shoulders in the unrelenting water. Once he got to high school, his father would gaze on him with pride, as a man—not disappointment, as a naïve little boy.

Johnny’s eyes widened. “I told them to come over so we can drink. My dad won’t be home for a while because he has this stupid fucking conference he’s going to, and my mom’s still at work until later. There’s beer in the fridge, like literally just sitting there, and the girls totally want to get wasted. I heard my dad say to his friend once that girls are so much more fun when they’re drunk. Also, we can break into the liquor cabinet and get vodka, or a martini? My mom drinks martinis so maybe the girls will like that? Girls never drink beer.”

Johnny talked in a rush, jumping from one thought to another, while the blue Porsche sat glinting in the sun, making Logan squint. Why wasn’t it parked in the garage, out of the heat? He registered everything Johnny was saying but he still couldn’t picture it. A group of them, here, within the next minutes, getting drunk?

Logan had never been drunk. He’d seen his sister Mona come home tipsy once from homecoming. She had been giggling, her eyes heavy-lidded. Logan’s dad had one glass of whiskey every night before bed, and beer while he watched golf, but Logan had never seen his father drunk. He had no notion of what it would feel like. He'd seen movies. He knew people suddenly couldn’t walk, and took liberties with their speech, and sometimes yelled and threw things. What kind of drunk would he be? What kind of drunk would Johnny be? Was it true what he’d said about girls? Logan felt a panic rise in his throat and chest. He'd talked with girls on occasion, but outside of school they existed only on the screens Johnny showed him, and in his imagination as soft and eager for him. Logan thought about Lucas and his soft brown eyes, his lithe arms. The panic returned.

Johnny told him that their names were Emily and Rachel, and that they were both blonde, and apparently “super hot.”

When they did arrive, Rachel walked at the front of the pack, taller than both Emily and Lucas who strutted behind her. Lucas’s white t-shirt contrasted against his tan skin in a harsh glow, like the light off the side mirrors of the Porsche. Emily was not blonde as Johnny had said. She had dark hair and skinny arms and a vacant, unsettling look about her. She was quieter than the others.

As they greeted each other with some degree of awkwardness, Logan noticed Lucas cracking his knuckles several times until no sound was left to emerge from his fingers. Logan was comforted by Lucas’ anxiety, unnoticed by the others. Once they got inside and indeed opened both the fridge and the liquor cabinet, getting a blue bottle of gin and three cans of beer, Lucas seemed to loosen, playfully shoving Rachel and flipping off Johnny when he made a comment on Lucas’ “girly” long hair.

He was the same up close as Logan had observed from afar. Lucas Carter, who he’d known since elementary school. Lucas, who always got attention from girls. Lucas, who never complained about homework, and was friendly with teachers. Lucas, who listened to Logan when he spoke and smiled sincerely. Lucas, who drank first and put everyone else at ease, his lips around the mouth of the beer bottle a beacon for Logan’s gaze.

Rachel, throwing her whole body backwards when she laughed, referencing inside jokes to Emily and not-so-subtly eyeing Lucas, her arms above her head dancing to the music that they put on from Mr. Markham’s old record player, which none of them could figure out how to use until Emily stepped in and placed the needle on with thin fingers. She was the same loud and bubbly Rachel Logan had always heard about, her gold cross necklace winking at her throat. 

Emily, smiling a little at the jokes and smartly bringing the bottle away from Rachel’s lips when she noticed her friend tipping in her seated position on the floor of the Markham living room. Her laughter came easier once she drank, though Logan wasn’t sure she was ever drunk at all.

As usual, Johnny was loud and crude and told wild stories, most of which were untrue or greatly embellished upon, but none of them cared because they felt warm and buzzy and light and a little heavy. They wanted to jump and joke and fall lazily onto the sofa and point things out. Emily and Rachel pointed out all the bowls and vases and Renaissance paintings, making fun of the naked women. They pointed out that gin feels different than vodka, wanting to announce that they had done this before. And Lucas pointed out that Rachel’s hair looked pretty after Logan caught the other boy’s gaze lingering on his freckles.

And that’s when the record stopped. Johnny pointed one lazy finger lifted from the beer can and grinned wide, teeth glinting, belly filling out his striped button-down. He stood slowly, still pointing.

Rachel, Emily, and Lucas ceased their laughter and conversation. They watched John Bishop rise. Logan had that pitter-patter in his heart that he got before diving into the pool. He watched his best friend’s knees uncross from the carpet. He watched it all and this, for some reason, is the last solid moment he remembers.

“I want to drive it.” Johnny swung his head towards Logan. The rest went silent.

“What, that car?” Rachel asked light-heartedly. “Duh, won’t it be yours once you get your license?”

“Right now!” Johnny clarified. “I’m gonna go soooo fast down the street and rev that fuckin’ engine!” He was slurring his words.

Logan found that his knees were locked. Like when he held his breath too long, needing the surface, pushing. He couldn’t move fast enough to catch the can that fell from Johnny’s hand and thudded to the carpet, tipping, and then slowly fizzing and spilling gold liquid onto the wool.

“Let’s go,” Johnny announced. Emily stood as if to stop him. Rachel looked from her to Lucas, who was stunned in silence.

The sound of keys rattling in a bowl, snatched up in eager red fingers.

“Holy crap, is he for real?” Rachel said, combing a hand through her ponytail.

Lucas laughed, a little nervous, a little drunk, a little elated. “Hell yeah! Joyride baby!” He clapped Logan on the back. Though he had hoped for it all day, Logan didn’t feel the boy’s touch. He was stiff, facing the noise of Johnny in the living room. Always pointed towards him. Always aware.

Rachel and Emily looked at each other again. “Okay, we’re down, I guess,” Rachel said, speaking for the two of them. Emily lowered her eyes and Logan lost track of his heartbeat.

“But only in the neighborhood!” Rachel added. Johnny whooped loudly and re-entered the living room, holding the keys up in his fist like a trophy.

They were all okay with it.

Logan had driven before with his dad, just as a test, in the driveway once. Logan knew Johnny had driven before with his dad, allowed to make a crawl down the neighborhood street.

Logan sensed slight uneasiness from the girls, masked behind their cool girl facade. Lucas and Johnny were fine, excited. The thought of going eighty on a quiet suburban street, windows down, air rushing past—it should have sounded fun.  

Logan locked eyes with Johnny, who grinned at him. He pointed at the freckles on Logan’s nose. “My best friend gets shotgun.”

Rachel, Emily, and Lucas all squeezed into the back, skin sticking and unsticking to the leather seats, hands seared by the hot seat-belt buckles. The car was sweltering. When Johnny turned the key, the AC blasted in their faces, cooling their sweat and casting two heads of hair into a breeze.

The sound of seatbelts clicking. The laughter and jokes and banter. Lucas said, “This car is so awesome. This is the kind of car I want when I make bank working for my dad.”

Logan didn’t know what Mr. Carter did for a living. Why didn’t he know? He wanted to ask but he couldn’t. The sleek dashboard—no dust yet—swam in front of him like the pennies. He knew what Lucas’ dad did. He knew but he couldn’t remember. They jolted forward, the engine rumbling loudly. Surely, the whole neighborhood could hear. They'll look out their windows and see them, they’d call the police. Emily’s dad is the police chief. They'll get in trouble.

They peeled out of the driveway and Johnny’s arms twisted over the wheel, his fingers gripping the leather. Rachel screamed with joy. Lucas hollered in the back. Logan couldn’t hear Emily. Johnny clicked the radio on, and a popular pop song played, one they all knew the words to. They went faster, and faster, headlights bright. It was dusk, the sun a faint orange streak until it was purple and then it was gone. They were going so fast that when Logan blinked, he thought he might be on a roller-coaster, about to head for the next hill—they careened and made air going down the slight incline, heading away from the houses, towards the street.

Lucas shouted to stay in the neighborhood or else they’d be screwed. Rachel screamed the same, but Johnny’s eyes were wild and hot blue, and he ignored them.

Slow down. That’s the only thing Emily said.

It was darker then, and the headlights moved in front of them, up and down, as the road got bumpier and Johnny’s eyes got wider and Logan saw the dimness in them and he grabbed the wheel over his friend's sweaty hands and he must have shouted stop while Rachel’s hands covered her ears and Emily went pale and gripped the side door and Johnny had been laughing the whole time but now he stopped and Logan must have said get back on the road Johnny and other cars honked and flashed their headlights but there were no other cars by the time they swung sideways and dirt hissed under the tires and the side Lucas was on crashed into the tree.

A loud metal crunch. Glass shattering. Logan’s head knocked against Johnny’s headrest and the roof was on the floor and then he woke up to silence.

Johnny’s blue and white striped shirt was askew, but otherwise unchanged. He had a bruise on his forehead, and he was disoriented and crying and asking Logan what did you do? You grabbed the wheel from me, this is your fault.

Lucas’s white shirt was red and wet. His head was all crumpled in on the left side, something thick black red coming out of it, and his brown eyes were open. Emily clutched her ribs and threw up into the bushes. The left taillight was shattered and out. The red rims had dirt on them, and some blood. Rachel avoided glass but still got some stuck on her hands as she crawled towards Lucas and asked God if this was real. Her cross necklace was gone. Her pink-blonde hair was frizzy, and her lip was swollen and bloody from when she’d bitten it on impact.

Logan heard Johnny shouting at him to call for help, and when he tried to lift his arm the pain that had been held off from shock caught up and it felt like a thousand flu shots all at once, and he screamed and let the tears fall. He looked down to see a bit of bone sticking out.

The beautiful blue car was a mangled mess. Totaled. The windshield had shattered, and the left side was crumpled.

Like Lucas’ head and the state of Johnny’s shirt.

***

The next thing he allowed himself to remember was the nurse who called him a poor thing and his father’s angry hazel eyes looking down on him.

And then his father was telling him how disappointed he was in his only son.

How could you allow yourself to get drunk like that, and play that stupid game? How could you think it was okay to turn on that machine when you don’t know how to use it? Don't you know how fast those things go? What did you think was going to happen?

I thought you were the responsible one. Even if it was John’s idea to drink, you drank the most and pressured them into turning that thing on and trying to dodge those things.

“Things? What things?” Logan’s mouth was cotton and his voice sounded wrong.

“Tennis balls.”

Flying, shroom! One after the other. Neon green. His mind filled in the gaps.

“One went right into your arm—”

And that was fine, just a bruise, but then another.

“And you fell right on it.”

It was a game to see who could dodge the most.

Immature drunk kids. Walking on the streets alone and heading to the country club.

“You could have been hit by a car! What were you thinking?”

Tennis balls. One hit Emily in the ribs. One hit Rachel’s bottom lip. One got Lucas square in the head.

“And you’re lucky Lucas’ family is moving away this week.”

They were moving? Lucas hadn’t told him that.

“I don’t remember that.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“Of course you don’t. You were drunk, you were blacked out! Mr. Markham saw it all and called me straight away.”

“He called the police?”

“No, the ambulance, because you were so banged up from those damn tennis balls. You know how much cleaning that carpet in the Markham living room is going to cost?”

But what about the car?

Silence, shuffling outside, doctors conversing, beeping, machines. Blurry vision.

“Thank God you never touched that car. Markham would’ve killed you.” His father stared at the faded blue privacy curtain, his back to Logan, hands on hips, like a tense businessman making a tough decision.

And that was when he turned, and his hazel eyes met Logan’s blue ones. Singling out each and every freckle on his son’s face as he leaned down and caged his arms around Logan and said, “I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did.”

On the drive back to Teakwood, Logan looked out the window as they passed the Markham’s drive and saw it there—the royal blue Porsche with the red spider web rims and a beige leather interior, pristine, glittering and glinting in the sun.

Untouched.