Excerpt
Charlie
I was so curious to
see where he was taking me that I didn’t pay attention to where I put my feet.
I stumbled a few times before reaching the car door. He was serious, and I
didn’t want him to give up on our stroll, so I kept my mouth closed. I focused
on the landscape: the huge trees that shadowed the car. When we were closer to home,
he turned onto a dirt road I knew well. After a few hundred meters, he turned
again onto an even older road, where the car bounced on the potholes.
I sat straighter in
my seat. “You’re taking me to…” I didn’t finish, but my heart started pounding.
No, I hadn’t been there in two years. The last time was too painful to
remember, and I didn’t understand why he was bringing me here again. Was he a
masochist, or did he not care at all?
He parked the car
far from the house, because the road was overgrown with bushes, but it just
made the scene even more beautiful. The house was just as I’d remembered.
The abandoned
farmhouse was situated just to the north of our town, where other houses
started to sit farther away from each other. It hugged the south shore of one
of the smallest lakes at the base of the mountain. It looked like it had been
taken off the cover of a mystery novel, and I’d always loved it. Constructed of
wood, the two-story structure was almost a hundred years old, and almost all of
the windows were broken.
The front entrance
was now covered with weeds; when we were kids, we kept them pulled, but now,
with no one to care about it, they’d grown almost to the base of the windows.
Mr. Sullivan, the
owner of the house and land that surrounded it, including the entire lake,
lived in one of those homes for the elderly. He was almost ninety and had no
close family. We’d met him when we were seven and used to visit my grandmother
there, before she passed away. But Mr. Sullivan was a great friend of hers and
we considered him family ever since.
I’d used to visit
him all the time. He had never sold the house, because anyone who would have
bought it was likely to destroy everything and build apartment complexes or
luxury houses for the rich. He had never agreed to it, so I’d used to joke
that, one day, this would be mine, and I would never sell it. Jacob and I would
buy the house, restore it, and live there forever.
He’d smiled and
said, “Oh, dear, I wish my wife and I had a daughter just like you. When you
grow up, you won’t want to live there, though. It is too peaceful for a young
person.” I had answered that I loved it because of the peaceful feeling
emanating from it.
Jacob and I had
used to come here all the time, ever since we were allowed to play alone in the
street. This was our secret place; we’d gone through the small forest behind
his house to come play around the house, inside it, or even in the lake, when
the weather was warm enough.
When our parents
had found out that we’d been coming here, they’d grounded us, saying it was too
dangerous to be here alone and that the house was old and falling apart, which
could hurt us. After that, we’d been more careful about not letting our parents
know, but we’d still come to the house almost every day, until two years ago,
when we’d kissed.
“Come on,” Jacob
said, taking me out of my stupor. We climbed the weak steps that lead to the
front porch, and I dragged myself to the front door, which earned me a frown
from Jacob.
“Have you come back
here, after…” I let the words drop, but his eyes were shadowed for a second,
before he nodded, while kicking the door lightly to open it.
“A couple of times
when I was… you know, down.” He looked around the hall before letting me in.
One big hole greeted us, making the passage difficult. “I think a storm
weakened the roof that gave in, there.” He pointed to the ceiling, where I
could see the blue sky. “A piece of it fell on the already-weak floor—I almost
fell through the first time I saw it.” I let out an involuntary shriek, and he
frowned again. He could have been killed here and nobody would have found him.
“The rest of the
house is still the same, with a few more holes and broken windows.” He stopped
walking and talking the moment we reached the living room. It was exactly the
way it had been the last time we’d been here. It would have been more normal if
it had been empty, but it wasn’t.
We’d made a house
of it, with a small sofa we’d found on the street, a mattress that had gotten
too old for my mother’s approval, a couple of blankets we’d stolen from our
houses, and boxes full of stuff our mothers had wanted us to get rid of,
including some clothes and snacks that were probably spoiled by now.
Jacob had left the
room exactly as it had been that day. I leaned against the door and braced
myself for the pain that was bound to come at any second. I closed my eyes for
a minute, and it was like I went back in time. The two years that had passed
evaporated.
Author
Interview:
When or
at what age did you know you wanted to be a writer?
I always loved to read and build up stories in
my mind, but I started writing in high school.
What is
the earliest age you remember reading your first book?
My mother always read to me, since I can
remember, I suppose I started reading those children’s books as soon as I was
able to. In English (my first language isn’t English, for those of you who
don’t know), it was Harry Potter. I couldn’t wait for the next book to be
available in Portuguese, so I bought it in English and realized it was easy to
understand, so I started reading more and more in English.
What
genre of books do you enjoy reading?
Right now, it’s New Adult and Young Adult
(which is what I write) but I read almost anything.
What is
your favorite book?
It’s difficult to say. I went to my goodreads’
favorite’s bookshelf for this question and I have 67 books there and I try to
be selective with the books I put there. The firsts that come to my mind are:
Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma (really
depressing but beautiful), The Host by Stephenie Meyer (like the whole concept
of that world), A Walk to Remember by Nicholas Sparks (it’s Nicholas Sparks, I
don’t need to mention it’s depressing). Harry Potter, of course.
But the most well built and that I felt was
not understood, was Hunger Games, I think it’s much deeper than people think, I
watched the last movie (I read the books long ago) and kept linking the story
to what’s happening now in the world, with the refugees, with the world
leaders… and I think the public didn’t understand what was under the romance
(which is next to nothing and very well done, realistically speaking).
You know
I think we all have a favorite author. Who is your favorite author and why?
It’s the same with favorite books, it’s hard
to say. I think J. K. Rowling is brilliant, and for the reasons I stated above,
Suzanne Collins is as well.
If you
could travel back in time here on earth to any place or time. Where would you
go and why?
Have you watch documentaries on the health
problems? The lack of hygiene? I’m kidding - but not really. I like to visit
historic places and imagine what it would be like to live there in the past,
but I can’t say I would like to live
in the past - I’m more curious about the future.
When
writing a book do you find that writing comes easy for you or is it a difficult
task?
It depends on the day, there are days I can’t
write a sentence that sounds right. When I finished Under a Million Stars, I
wrote 10k words in one day and it came out perfectly (even though I went to bed
with sore eyes).
Do you
have any little fuzzy friends? Like a dog or a cat? Or any pets?
Two amazing dogs, both rescued from the
street.
What is
your "to die for", favorite food/foods to eat?
I love sushi and pasta.
Do you
have any advice for anyone that would like to be an author?
Write, write, write, the more you write, even
if it isn’t a story you wish to publish, writing, like with everything in life
needs practice. You’ll get better with each paragraph. Then take a chance and
publish it. Don’t get stuck on the idea that no one wants to read your stories.
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