Time's Daughter Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2012 by Anya Breton

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  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. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contact information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Anya Breton

  See Cover Art Acknowledgments for information about free stock photography, free images and free fonts used in this and other covers.

  Publishing History

  First Edition, May 2011

  First Smashwords edition, April 2012

  Time’s Daughter

  Anya Breton

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stretched out my limbs with a ragged yawn, wiped the drool from my chin and then recalled with a groan that I was being filmed. Wonderful. My nation-wide film debut was going to be made with sleep-filled eyes and a crusty mouth. Could I hope the ridiculous documentary my mom had forced me into would only be shown at small-time film festivals then go direct to the dumpster instead of DVD?

  I considered my next move without moving a muscle more beneath my afghan on the little twin bed. Should I get out of bed now or wait until my pillow had dried a little so the cameras wouldn’t show the dark stain on the burgundy fabric? What would a normal person do?

  Stealthily I flipped the pillow over to hide the drool track then slowly drew myself into a seated position. It was a barely veiled attempt to appear as if I hadn’t been awake for several minutes already.

  With a glance around the small room I noted the position of the camera above the door, the one in the corner to my right and the last gleaming in its spot over the sole window in the room. There was a digital eye installed in such a way that nothing could escape their notice.

  In an effort to earn a little privacy I quickly retreated into the one camera-free room in our five-room apartment: the bathroom. It was my safe-zone now. Yeah, my safe-zone had morphed from the entirety of our eight hundred square foot apartment into one ten foot by ten foot room.

  I gazed at the weary blue eyes in the mirror, eyes set around a nose that was neither too long nor too short but hopelessly nondescript just like the rest of me and told myself that it was only for six months. Not long when one took into account the average life span of an American female.

  Today marked the beginning of my stint as one of six sideshow freaks. That was how my classmates would view us when we showed up at school with a team of filmmakers in tow.

  It really would be a circus. Already the whole town was in a tizzy about the documentary: “Young America: The average teenager in small-town USA”.

  My mother had seen the advertisements for casting hanging on the bulletin board of our local grocery store and had insisted I go. I’d hoped that somehow the Hollywood hotshots would sense that I’d been forced to meet with them and that I didn’t want to be a part of the project. Maybe they had. I was certain the fact that the casting director wanted a date with my mother was the only reason they’d picked me.

  With a defiant glance at the door, I ignored the director’s standing order that I do our hair outside the bathroom. If I ignored enough of the orders early on maybe they’d replace me. It would be the only way I could get out of this insanity.

  “Aeon!” My mother’s soprano voice called from the kitchen on the opposite side of the small apartment.

  Hands down I had the weirdest name at school. Most of my classmates’ parents thought I’d been named after an old MTV cartoon. In reality I’d been given my father’s name but I would never dare tell them that.

  My neck craned in an effort to hear her additional mumble. Had she sounded cheery just now? Tiffany Still was rarely cheery in the morning. Something was up.

  The camera mounted on the hallway wall and videographer in black pointing a lens at us reminded me what that was. She was putting on a show for the filmmakers. Great.

  For the first time since I was ten, my mother was making actual breakfast instead of sleeping past her alarm and rushing out the door with a fruit bar in hand. It wasn’t that she was a bad mom, only that she had a lot on her mind. Between working two jobs, taking care of me all by her lonesome and fending off cancer, she had more important things to do than make me bacon.

  “You’re going to be late,” she fussed while setting a plate of newly flipped eggs over-easy and two bacon strips in front of me at the small round table that didn’t really fit in the cramped kitchen.

  I didn’t argue with her despite the fact that if one of the two of us were going to be late today it would be her.

  The barely-there make-up on her downturned eyelids was obvious to me but I doubted anyone else would have noticed it. Wavy dark brown hair that usually fell past her shoulders was pulled back into a jaw clip in such a way that it looked un-styled. Anyone who knew my mother knew that she was always styled in one way or another. Today was no exception.

  Her manicured wine-colored fingernails glistened over the fork she handed me. It was hard to believe that she’d had two tumors removed from those fingers a year earlier. Even stranger was that she used those fingers to cut hair four days a week nearly non-stop for five years.

  Nonchalantly she posed a question while dropping into the chair across from me and pulling her fuzzy green robe tighter around her size ten body. “So what’s going on today?”

  I gestured to our left. “You mean besides the guy standing right there with a camera in my face?”

  “Aeon,” she griped sharply. Her blue eyes were censorious.

  I wondered if I ever looked like that when scolding would-be shoplifters at work. It was possible. My mother and I shared the same eyes, hair and body-type but the softer nose and fleshy lips I had were from my mystery parent. Maybe I looked sterner than she did.

  Appearances were important to her so I gave her the answer she’d been seeking. “I don’t know,” I said. “Probably a pop quiz in history. There’s always a pop quiz in history on Mondays.”

  “Always?” her head pulled back in confusion. “You’ve only been in school for three weeks.”

  I shoved a chunk of egg into my mouth, chewed it until I could swallow and then answered. “And each Monday we’ve had a pop quiz in history.”

  “School started on a Wednesday. The first Monday was Labor Day.”

  “Okay, so we’ve had one pop quiz,” I admitted wryly. With a wagging of my fork I added, “But being prepared for the worst is always good.”

  She made a sound o
f disgust. “You’re such a pessimist. I don’t know where you got that from.”

  In a bold move I retorted, “Maybe my father.”

  My mother’s nostrils flared in annoyance as we faced off over identical strips of bacon. I had mentioned my father. He was an unmentionable. The topic of my parentage was right up there with the birds and the bees and where we were going to get the money for my college education.

  “Your father wasn’t a pessimist,” she informed me coolly.

  “Good to know,” I drawled the final word and pushed back from the chair.

  Swiftly I rinsed my plate in the sink then stuck it in the dishwasher. Without thinking I grabbed the frying pan she’d used atop the puke green colored stove and started scrubbing it inside the wide aluminum sink.

  She hovered behind me with her dish in hand. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. There were thirty minutes to finish up and get to school. It was a twenty-minute walk.

  My hand reached out to take the dirty plate from her. “No.”

  She exhaled noisily but shuffled back to her room to ready for work without further argument. I finished the dishes with time to spare despite her worries that I’d be late.

  After grabbing the backpack laden with the thickest books in the history of man I headed out the door with the cameraman trailing close behind me.

  With the idea of being a little optimistic for my mom I decided to look on this Monday as a new start. Maybe I’d have a better chance this time around than I had the first. Maybe.

  * * * *

  Three weeks into September in northern New England meant that the temperature was chilly in the morning. I had to wear my blue fleece pullover, the hand-me-down from my mother when she’d bought her trench coat at the outlet store last month. It was barely keeping the chill from my bones but the next step up in my outerwear collection would have me decked out like an Eskimo. It wasn’t that cold yet. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and drew into myself to stave off the chill.

  Today was week four of my junior year of high school. When I should be worrying about studying for college entrance exams and essays, I was going to be avoiding cameras and strange looks instead. At least I wasn’t alone. Five others had been picked along with me.

  We were a mixed bunch by intent. There was me as well as a role-playing nerd, a tomboy who was rumored to be a lesbian, a football star, the well-off county prosecutor’s daughter who happened to be a cheerleader, and a mystery student. The only thing we knew about the sixth person was that it was someone who had recently moved to Junction Hill. The director had said it was an amazing opportunity to document the trials and tribulations of the new kid in town but had refused to give a name.

  I hoped the interest in the new kid would trump the interest in the hovering cameramen and the discovery of who had been chosen to feature in the documentary. More than likely it would be a toss up because of the hard feelings involved in those who hadn’t made the cut. Many had tried for a part. I knew my friends would be particularly bitter because it was no secret that I’d had no wish to participate.

  My trepidation over what was to come grew as the school came into view. In the student parking lot I was treated to my first looks of shock. Loud whispers followed the stunned expressions. I could barely make out what they said.

  “Aeon Still?” A female with a disdainful tone of voice exclaimed. “Seriously? They picked her over us? You have got to be joking. She’s so weird! I thought this was supposed to be a documentary about average teenagers.”

  “Average is another way of saying mediocre,” was her companion’s dry response. “Maybe we were too extraordinary for them.”

  The griping continued even after I’d walked out of earshot. In the distance I could see another person trailed by a camera walking into the entrance. My lips curved slightly. No, I wasn’t alone in this. Some of the other choices were going to get harsher reactions than I would.

  The school had originally been built in the late eighteen hundreds. Now the original stone and brick building held the auditorium, principal’s offices and three floors of classrooms that were freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer thanks to the oversized and badly insulated windows.

  Tacked onto the end of the original building was a new wing that held the gymnasium, art classrooms and two nice new science labs. Unfortunately my first period science class wasn’t in those labs. It was in a room that made me wish I’d remembered to wear a sweater because the old windows let in a serious draft.

  I walked around the stone steps leading up to the rarely used auditorium that were primarily for show. The cement sidewalk parallel the stairs brought me to a pair of glass doors. From there it was a quick walk down the broad corridor toward the center of the building.

  Act normal, the director had said. I think what he’d meant to say was: act as you normally would. It was only thing that made sense when applied to me.

  Normally I’d meet my group of friends outside the chemistry room so that was exactly what I planned on doing.

  Upon turning the corner that would bring me to my first class, I heard four loud gasps. Ashley, the de facto ringleader of our group, had adopted her most intimidating pose. That consisted of shoving her left hip out and settling her weight onto it. I ignored her lifted ginger eyebrow, bug eyes and thinned lips by focusing on Melissa, the easy-going member I identified with most.

  Melissa was feigning surprise because I hadn’t been able to keep the news about the documentary from her. The remaining girls, Jenn and Jenny, both variations of blonde, were in identical states of gape-mouthed shock that remained until our friend Ryan barreled around the corner in a speed walk that came to an abrupt halt.

  He held his hands up in front of him in mock surrender. “Holy cameras batman! Who got picked?”

  Ashley’s reddened finger pointed at me as I drew up near the group of girls resting against the cinderblock wall outside my science class.

  Ryan bravely joined us despite the presence of the camera and his obvious distaste for it. “Aeon?” He said, pointing a look at me. “Seriously?”

  I nodded mutely while dropping my eyes to the floor. Being shy didn’t exactly make for great video but that was the director’s problem. Not mine.

  “That’s gotta suck.” Ryan chuckled, a sound I thought was slightly nervous.

  I glanced up to see if he looked as nervous as he sounded.

  Beside him I saw Jenny’s pale-blond eyebrows knit atop her smooth, yet paler skin. “Suck? You didn’t try for a part?”

  Ryan’s mop of wild brown hair shook a second longer than the rest of his head did. “Nah. I’m too freaky for a documentary on average kids.”

  “So is she,” Ashley snorted derisively as if I weren’t standing three feet from her. The arms crossed tightly over her barrel chest further illustrated her distaste.

  I contemplated why I hung around her for the hundredth time. A glance at Melissa reminded me. Melissa enjoyed Ash’s company and for Melissa’s sake I stomached her. But if the shrew continued insulting me like that, I was going to have to reevaluate how much I was willing to do for that friendship.

  Ryan, Melissa and the Jens scattered at two minutes until the bell. Ashley stalked past me into the chemistry room. She then proceeded to ignore my existence despite the fact that I had the seat directly beside her Amazonian build. I wondered if she realized the cameraman trailing me would be filming her as well.

  My attention switched to our dull chemistry teacher at the front of the room. She had a momentary spark of life upon finding the cameraman in her classroom. I could tell the second she recalled that she was supposed to pretend the filmmakers weren’t there because she cleared her throat and began staring intently at someone in the front row.

  As the lecture started, my eyes dropped to the wide-rule notebook in front of me to start my daylong doodle session. Doodling would help me avoid seeing the glares from all around.<
br />
  Today’s theme was “harpy” in honor of Ashley. I drew one of the mythological creatures with pale skin, stubby eyelashes and what would have been flat red hair had I not been drawing in pencil. The image took shape over the course of the class period but the details in the wings were cut short by the bell ringing. I glanced over to see if Ash had noticed my portrait of her and was treated to her cold shoulder.

  History class and the inevitable pop quiz were next. In a last ditch effort not to fail, I scanned the bullet points in the chapter we were supposed to read over the weekend while my classmates filled in the desks around me. Loud whispers interrupted my skimming midway through page seventy-two. I glanced back to find a cameraman passing through the door behind an unfamiliar black-clad guy.

  Over the heads of the kids in the back row I saw that he had neatly cropped short black hair atop a rather normal sized head. What skin I could see seemed to be smooth and a nice bronzed color, perhaps from a summer spent beneath the sun’s rays. But it was the pair of the most startling steel blue eyes that snagged my attention for a moment too long.

  This must be the new kid because I never would have forgotten those eyes on any classmate.

  My head swiveled around to the book in front of me. I hadn’t looked at him for long but what I had seen was enough to note he was handsome. No doubt his good looks combined with the fact that he was one of the students picked for the documentary were going to propel him straight into the inner circle of the popular clique.

  “Take out a piece of paper,” Mr. Zimmerman announced from his position behind the desk up front. “Your name is worth ten points.”

  Hastily I scribbled “Aeon Still” next to the heading “Name” then wrote the numbers one through five down the paper.

  “Question number one: the hundred years’ war lasted how long?”

  It was a trick question. I knew that much but I didn’t know exactly how long it had lasted. I picked a number between eighty and ninety and hoped it was close enough.