Chapter 1

My great-aunt Sophie was a character. That’s what they called her, and not nicely meant, either. She never married or had kids, though she had a live-in companion/housekeeper, and raised a couple of nephews. I only met her a couple times, and stayed with her once when my Mom and Dad went on a cruise. I was thirteen at the time and had stopped being an adorable baby, cute toddler, sweet little Mama’s boy, and dirt magnet with a brilliant smile, and was an awkward combination of legs, arms, elbows, big hands and huge feet, with hair growing in places I’d never known I had skin, and a face that only a mother could love, or in this case, a great-aunt.

And, oh yeah, inclined to moods, anti-socialness, writing poetry, and falling out of trees. One other thing, aka ‘self-pollution’ as our ancient dictionary called it, was now a rather frightening joy, and I say that because, well, all I ever thought of while doing it was my gym teacher, Coach ‘call me Dick and I’ll kill you’ Richard Weston.

I was only there a week and never had a clue. So now I’ve just turned eighteen, and the ‘rents are going on another cruise. I told them and told them I’m old enough to stay home alone and watch the house, and besides, my friends aren’t the kind to come over, drink up all the booze, and have sex all over the house. Neither of them. But I digress. Anyhow, they shipped me off to Aunt Sophie’s again.

They’d given me money to buy a train ticket and dropped me off at the station. Little did they know…they knew I was old enough to take the train by myself but not to stay home by myself? Parents. Mom? Dad? Hello? I’m a legal adult, you know. Many people my age are living on their own.

As soon as they left, I pocketed the money and went out a different door to hitch a ride. That money was mine. I had a bit of an attitude about this trip, and I planned on nursing that anger as long as I could. I considered taking up smoking, but, ugh. I considered wearing clothes from a thrift store, but, bleagh. I considered working my way through every girl that had ever winked or smiled at me, but, oh God, no. I shuddered. My mom had said some perfectly awful things to me. Well, there’s more but I don’t want to talk about it. I am not a girl liker. Too bad.

Now. Hitch-hiking! Let the games begin! 2

I stalked out the side door of the station and crossed over the street to the eastbound side. It was busy enough and yet out of the way. My folks had to go the other direction. I leaned up against a lamppost, pasted on a happy and innocent smile, and stuck out my thumb. This was going to be a cinch.

I wondered what I looked like, if I would scare people or look like I was muggable. I tried different facial expressions, laughing at myself. Then I wondered how much to talk to them. Would they rather just concentrate on their driving or was I supposed to supply entertainment?

I could talk, I’ll give you that. My mother is Irish. My father is Welsh. My name is—hold on—Shenandoah Morgan. I go by Shen or Shane, however people hear it; I don’t care. Apparently it sort of means I’m a piece of good land near the sea, but I will never tell a living soul that. I think they were both drunk when they named me. Can’t you just hear my dad calling me for supper, when I was out playing down the road with my pals?

“Shenandoah Tristyn Morgan!”

My friends lived for that moment, the bastards.

* * * *

An hour passed; oh wait, my watch says it’s only been ten minutes. But look—oh goody, my first ride. This—thing—drew up in front of me. It was purple and white, so shiny it was like a mirror. It was boxy and ugly, but when I opened the door and slid inside, I sank into luxury. I looked at the driver. He looked at me (I looked better; me, dark reddish hair, dark brown eyes, clean-shaven) (who am I kidding, I didn’t have to shave yet), smiling. A legal, non-shaving, adult. Him—fat, old, balding. But of course—it was a convertible, right? It might be a slow ride but it looked like a safe ride.

He peeled rubber and we roared off down the highway. The radio shouted out, “And now for the number one Billboard hit from 1990—‘Hold On’ by Wilson Phillips!” And hold on I did. I had to.

“You into cars?” my driver asked. “Oh, by the way, my name is Phil Filbert, ha-ha, I know. My mother had a sense of humor, the old bi…ird. I’m a pastor. Hold on, while I change lanes, this broad in front of me—I just gotta get past her! Ha-ha, I kill me.” My driver guffawed and when he dwindled down to chuckles, so did his speed. We were back in the appropriate lane. Did I mention it was a two-lane highway with a double yellow line? I was so glad I’d gone to the—oh wait, I hadn’t. I glanced down at my pants to make sure I still hadn’t, either. Nope, all good. I breathed.