Earlier today Maia and Kenzy commented saying that they wanted to hear stories. I'm taking this to mean *nonfiction* stories, so here you go. Here is the first thirteen pages of a story I'm working on called The Truth About the Oracle. It's totally unrevised, so be ready for total typos and grammatical errors etc.. Yeah, enjoy!! 

     By writing out this story, I have ensured that my life is in great danger. But whatever. You didn’t pick up this book to hear me whining about death. You picked up this book because that little voice inside your head is telling you that you have to know.

Nothing is safe anymore. Don’t believe anything that anyone tells you: Nothing is safe. There’s no way around it.

 Unless you can stop it. There are certain people, people like Lucas, who might have a chance if they band together. The only way I can be of any help is to find the rest of you and get you to him, keep you alive. That’s why I’m writing out this story. Because you have to know the truth.

 

 

 

 

Chapter One: I Dye my Hair to Match my Outfit

 

I sat back in my chair and thought about what the lady had said.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I had laughed and nodded. I wondered if she had kids. Didn’t she know how cool it would be to have purple hair?

A few more hours and I would be a teenager. That’s definitely old enough to have colored hair. I mean, it’s not like it won’t come out. It will… eventually. And if anything, all I have to do is come back in and bleach it back to boring old blonde. And it wasn’t like I was dying my whole head purple, just one strand by my ear.

I closed my eyes and let the lady shampoo and dry my hair. No one had ever done this to me before. I know you must be thinking ‘gosh, who cleaned your hair for the first five years of your life?’. And the answer is, I’m not really sure. I can’t remember that far back.

See the thing is, I never had a mom. Well, I did, every one does, but I never really had a mom mom. You know, one that helps you ride a bike, tucks you in at night, cleans your hair. I just didn’t.

Dad never really told me much about her, just that she lives in London with my brother. I don’t know anything about him, except that he doesn’t go to school. Well he does, but not like I do. He’s home schooled. Lucky him, right?

I don’t really mind not having a mom. I mean, I don’t even know her name. I don’t know what color her hair is, but I’m guessing it’s blonde, because that’s what color my hair is, and Dad’s hair is dark brown. I don’t know my brother’s name either, and I just don’t care.

Most kids would probably throw a fit about something like that, but I just accepted it as it was, and moved on. I don’t know anything about my first few months of life, I just take it for granted that I live in Chicago with my father, and that my mother and older brother live in London. That’s that, no questions asked.

That was my first mistake.

But anyway, there I was, sitting in the chair, letting my hair turn colors. I’d already told Dad about my plan. He’d just shrugged and handed me my birthday money. Dad wasn’t one to care about things like hair. I’m sure if I’d wanted to dye my whole head bright cotton candy blue he’d have had no problem with it. A little streak of purple was no problem.

I’d even dressed up for the occasion. I was wearing a dark purple shirt that was the exact color of the hair dye. My dark jeans went right along with the color scheme. I fingered the silver locket that hung around my neck and crossed my converse-clad ankles.

The hair-dresser’s hands in my hair felt so good it almost put me to sleep. No. I told myself sternly. You have to stay awake so that you can walk home and make dinner.

That kept me awake. I was planning on making something really good for dinner. Dad’s girlfriend Missy was coming. I liked Missy, she was way cooler than the last one.

Missy had hair that was a dark red, and it fell in waves down to her upper back. I don’t think it was ever really serious between Missy and Dad, they had more of a best-friend-ship than a real relationship. Missy didn’t have any real family any more, and I think she was really just lonely.

She really appreciated good food. Missy was almost as excited as I was to eat the French soup tonight.

So I forced my eyes to stop drooping, and I picked up the newspaper. Don’t get me wrong, I would have much rather read The Teen Weekly, but that was sitting out of arm’s reach on the next table over.

So there was, reading the paper, when I caught a name that I recognized. At first I thought it was my name and picture in the news. It didn’t take me long to realize that this was not the case.

Police are baffled with the case of a missing fifteen year old boy named Lucas Jones.

See why I thought it was me? Lucas Jones, Lucy Jones. Not much of a difference. And the picture was even more surprising. It was like I was looking at what I would have been like if I had been a boy. Lucas Jones had my blue eyes and my blonde hair.

     I read through the rest of the article. The boy had been gone for three days. He’d been in his room, in a two story house. There was no way he could have gotten out of the window without falling twenty feet, and his bedroom door was locked.

     When the hair dresser tapped me on the shoulder and told me she was done, I had all but forgotten about my purple hair. I looked in the mirror and smiled and myself. I thanked the woman and handed her a small tip.

     I paid for the job and walked away, slipping the article in my back pocket. I winced to myself, wondering how I would bring up the subject to my father. 

     “Hey Dad, I know we don’t really talk about what happened between you and my mom, but is this my brother that just went missing three days ago?”

     Not so much.

     I twisted a lock of my very blonde hair around my finger and thought. Instead of walking right home I stopped at a public bench and finished reading the article. Then I read it again.

     A boy in London. Lucas Jones. Fifteen years old. I didn’t know my brother’s name, let alone his age. But he lived in London, and he had family here in Chicago. And he looked like me. He really really looked like me.

     I folded the article carefully and walked the rest of the way home as slowly as possible. All of a sudden dinner with Dad and Missy sounded really slow.

     What would we talk about? What could we say now? I wouldn’t be able to think about anything until Dad had told me that Lucas wasn’t my brother.

     I mean, that little inner voice was telling me, come on, this is crazy. Do coincidences like this actually happen? But the bigger voice in my brain was telling me to get real. I mean, London? Why would there be an American article about a boy in London?

     Because his only family was here in Chicago. I told myself. That’s why. Then I told myself to shut up.

     When I got home I ran upstairs without even telling my father that I was home. I plugged in my cell phone and put the rest of my birthday money in my Doctor Who TARDIS money bank.

     I looked at myself in the mirror, marveling at the purple stripe that showed just below my ear, falling lushly on my chest. I smiled. At least if I had to confront my dad, I could look totally awesome doing it.

     I sighed. Time to make dinner.

     I went down the stairs slowly; taking my time. What had seemed like it was going to be so much fun suddenly seemed like a punishment.

     “Hey, Dad,” I said as I trudged into the kitchen.

     “Hey Reighny-Lu,” he said, using my old nickname. He had given it to me at age three, when I had asked him how to spell my middle name. He’d promptly made up a song:

     R-e-i-g-h and an n

     That is the way we spell

     Lucy Reighn

 

Reighny-Lu had come soon after. I smiled at the memory despite myself as I pulled down the potatoes and leeks.

     Dad looked up from his computer at me.

     “Let me see your hair!” He said, obviously trying to sound excited. He knew this was something that I was excited about, so he’d been trying hard to be supportive.

     I set down the potatoes and the peeler and twirled around for him, letting the centrifugal force pull my hair away from my back… and my article away from my pocket.

     “You dropped…this…” Dad said, picking up the article and looking at it for the first time.

     His face drained color.

     “Where did you get this?” He asked me abruptly.

     “The salon,” I said shortly. “Who is he?” I asked, cutting right to the chase.

     Dad didn’t answer. Instead he walked quickly into the other room. I followed him. By the time he reached the living room he was almost running. He grabbed the home phone and punched in what looked like a foreign number.

     I stood behind him, wondering who he was calling. Wondering if it would be, just possibly, the woman who had avoided me for the past thirteen years.

     “Rachel. Where’s Lucas?” Dad turned as he talked, dashing up the stairs. That man can be fast when he wants to be. He was in his room with the door closed before I could make out any of the other words he said.

     Rachel? Was that my mom’s name? Why had he talked to her like that? Like she was so young?

     Maybe because she is so young. I told myself. He could have been talking to anyone. That might have been anyone on the phone.

     That’s the only thing that kept me sane for the next few hours. I made the soup. Actually, I made the soup and a salad and dessert. I cooked enough food to feed my whole school. For a week.

     Missy didn’t ask any questions. As soon as she walked in the door she knew something was wrong. Normally Dad would be in the kitchen with me, cooking and laughing and singing and dancing. Not today.

     Today I told her he was making a call. He was in his room. He’d been on the phone for the past hour. Make yourself at home.

     Nothing else was said. Missy sat on the couch watching her favorite tv show, and I stayed in the kitchen, making everything I knew how to make.

     Finally, Dad came downstairs.

     He had a suitcase.

     “I’ve got to go to London,” he said finally. That was it. Just, ‘I’m going to London.’