The Reconciling [Part 1]

  The Reconciling

  Overcome Trilogy

  Part I

  Copyright 2015 by April Newell

  Cover design by Caitlin Yount

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  1st Edition

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others in part or in whole for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

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  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Connect with April

  Acknowledgements

  To my husband, who encourages me in my talents and calling.

  To my family, who has supported all my endeavors.

  To Mrs. Felts, the first person to ever call me a writer.

  To my best friends, my sisters, who are probably more

  excited than I am to finally read a finished story!

  Most of all, to the One who wrote this story on my heart with a burden

  to share, thank you Jesus, El Roi, my King.

  PROLOGUE

  She had another bad day. The relentless teasing of her peers took a toll on her physically and mentally. Her 7-year-old mind just knew that she could control the curse and could go to school without gloves. But her mother did not even try to understand it and was worried. Rightly so, of course, Chrissi agrees looking back; but that day she couldn’t see through her frustration. So she ran outside, with every intention of running away, but found herself climbing the massive oak instead. She climbed in a fury, branches blurred in her peripheral and leaves brushed her face, smearing tears all over her pink cheeks, and small red lines formed from the sharper greenery cutting her skin. Finally, she reached her limit and settled on a branch to catch her breath. She ripped off her gloves and lifted her arm vehemently, poised to hurl them to the ground far below. Then she thought better of it, realizing she would have to touch the tree to get down, which she could not do without killing the whole tree, raising great suspicion among the neighbors. Not to mention, she would have to call on her mom, who she was in no mood to see, to help her down. So she tucked the gloves in the oversized pockets of her floral sundress, one on each side and held her hands out in front of her.

  When she was an infant, her mother realized that what Chrissi touched with her hand died. A flower wilted, that’s how her mom knew. Chrissi’s touch only affected living things. So the numerous pairs of gloves, all different colors and styles, she has donned since she was 6-weeks old remain intact. The story for the public was that she had a skin disease and had to wear the gloves at all times for protection. What her teachers and merciless peers didn’t know was the gloves really served to protect them. She stewed in anger over the irony and injustice of it all.

  “If I wanted to,” she mused out loud in her safe haven, “I could turn Lesia Walters into decaying swamp goo. Just a big ‘ole hunk of rot! I’d be doing everyone a favor really.” But she knew, even then, her musings would never truly take place. For she could never be so cruel as to take someone’s life. Even the life of an antagonist like Lesia. She knew the gloves and the weight of secrecy did protect her, as well as her mom, in ways. At least this way she could live a somewhat normal life.

  Hours past and the sky turned a hazy purple, giving way to night. She decided to go make peace with her mom and moved to begin her journey down the tree. Just before her hands touched the first branch she realized what she had done.

  “My gloves!”

  She quickly snatched her hands towards her body and fell back onto the branch. “No, no, no please!” she pleaded mentally as tears welled up in her eyes. What a mess they would have to clean up! What lies would have to be woven! Sweat began to bead on her forehead as she could only watch in anxious dread. But to her surprise, the yellow glow stopped right before masking the tree’s trunk. The branch and everything on it was black, of course, but the rest of the tree remained normal. She sighed in relief, although very perplexed. She had never been able to control the spread of the decay before. Maybe she could learn to control it after all.

  “Chrissi! Time for dinner! No dessert if you’re late and sulky!” her mom bellowed from the front porch of their quaint suburban home.

  Chrissi quickly slipped on her gloves and climbed down, vowing to come back and take control of the curse and of her life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chrissi sits in her favorite tree in the front yard, her long honey-blonde hair slung over one shoulder. Her tree, a big oak dressed in abundant leaves, shields her from any watchful eye—especially Mrs. Grusko two houses down with a mouth that never closes and a mind bent to gossiping. There is a light summer buzz around her as nocturnal insects and animals emerge, and families begin to settle down at home. It’s the ending of the summer season in a small town.

  Usually on such a slow Saturday afternoon with no passersby she would be disappointed with no event to appease her people-watching eye. Today, however, the tree, her tree, is entertaining enough. Here in her big oak tree, high above any person, machine, word, deed, or idea, higher than the very town in which she lives, Chrissi takes off her gloves. Blue faded leather was her choice this morning. She slips each finger out of its cozy home, one-by-one with care. It isn’t often her bare hands feel the warmth of the golden sun. She holds her right hand up in front of her face and examines it. It looks like any other hand she has ever seen, if a bit pale. Five fingers, lined palms, nothing special. She stretches out her index finger toward a nearby leaf. Its vibrant green shade pops in the golden hues of the afternoon, her favorite time of day, when she feels most at peace, almost normal.

  As the very tip of her finger taps the leaf, it begins to glow yellow, blending into its surroundings. The glow travels from the point of contact out to the edges until the green disappears completely but the beautiful glow continues, a farce, just like always, and the leaf begins to curl in on itself. Its stem bends at this new decaying counterpart, and the transformation stops where it meets the branch. She lifts her head to look at the branch above her where, in her usual spot, a multitude of dried, darkened leaves rustle in the summer breeze. Ironically, it is a rather melodic sound that whispers, “Welcome home.” Peace envelopes her even amidst the decay. For here, in her tree, she is free.

  Even higher above is the first branch she occupied when she was seven years old. There, high and out of sight of her neighbors, not only do dead leaves dance in the light of the setting sun, but stems and whole branches reveal her experiments. She leans back on her new
branch, closer to the earth (out of bravery or stupidity, she is not quite sure yet—is it confidence that brings her closer to a passerby’s eye or longing desire to finally be released from her cursed?) and tucks her knee in as her other leg, donned with knee-high boot, swings back and forth.

  Now at 16, Chrissi has mastered controlling the spread of the decay, she has not yet mastered the curse itself. Still every living thing she touches decays and inevitably dies. A leaf, a stem, a branch, a pill bug. She isn’t sure how the curse might affect humans, luckily. Though when she was four, she pet a stray cat in the backyard and it became a frightful sight. Her mom swiftly buried it by their shed in the backyard before any nosey neighbors saw. Her mom never goes in it; Chrissi is not even sure why they have the old tin shelter. When she is tempted to take off her gloves, usually after a particularly rough day at school, she sits by the grave, feeling sorry for the poor unsuspecting cat. And to remind herself of the danger that is her touch. More depressing than encouraging, but Chrissi labels herself a realist.

  She does not use her curse as revenge often, however, when she and her mom and her grandmother were on vacation at a lake resort, 6-year-old Chrissi, filled with defiance, followed her mother on a hiking trail. Huffing in anger behind her mom, Chrissi commenced to tap a leaf here, a twig there. Near the end of the trail as they circled back to the beginning of the loop Chrissi’s anger had ballooned in her chest and was so great she lost all sense of responsibility and rationality. She killed whole trees, bushes, and patches of flowers along the popular trail.

  Though she tries to master it and feels comfort in her decaying tree, the feeling of power that comes with killing something has never been a rewarding one. Chrissi remembers the weight she felt by the end of the trail. Before her mom’s look of fear and disappointment ever fell upon her, Chrissi’s stomach churned with regret. She felt as dark as the dying forest she left in her wake. Ame rushed both Chrissi and Granny out of the resort. That was probably the closest her Granny ever came to finding out about the curse.

  It was a mess for sure. Everyone at the resort thought it some devastating apocalyptic event. There was so much chaos caused by the “Perishing Forest” that police had to come block it off. By the end of the week, which Chrissi and her family did not stay for, people were traveling from all over the country to catch a glimpse of it. Some were even crying and praying toward the heavens, as if some god among them needed appeasing to stop his cursing. Others even bowed to the trees themselves.

  Chrissi snorts in condescension. People are fickle and quick to assume either the worst or most unbelievable. That is her experience anyway, especially with peers. “Kids are mean,” her aunt always says. “Get over it.” Little does her aunt know, Chrissi muses.

  Today is Saturday though and she is free of the horrid place that holds her unrelentingly cruel peers. School. She only has one friend and lately she has wondered if he feels the secret between them. After years of sudden exits and abstaining from pool parties with ridiculous excuses like, “I have to power wash the house,” or “Scrub the front deck” (she’s horrible at thinking on the spot) how could he not know something is amiss? Yet, he sticks around. Good old Phil. Phil Jacobson is just as taunted as she is; it is their unspoken bond. When they met in kindergarten, Lesia Walters and her friends were hovering over Phil at the lunch table, poking fun at his cold, homemade lasagna. Though in different classes, and therefore set at different tables, Chrissi picked up her lunch tray and gently, but forcefully, pushed Lesia aside so she could sit in the empty seat next to Phil. Ignoring Lesia entirely, Chrissi asked to trade banana pudding for Phil’s string cheese, and they have remained best friends ever since. Lesia Walters has pretty much remained the same person ever since, making it her daily goal to embarrass and harass Phil and Chrissi.

  Tearing herself from her thoughts, Chrissi looks down at the house and realizes night has already arrived. She spots her mom in the upstairs room on the other end of the house that she made into her studio, paintbrush in hand. A window is open letting in the cool summer evening breeze.

  As if she doesn’t get enough artsy-fartsy at school, Chrissi thinks. It is so strange how her mom goes from painting at sunrise to teaching third graders how to paint (with perfect patience) to painting at home again at the end of the day, every day and weekends. Who could enjoy one thing so much? Her mom, Ame Camden, was born rich and has never had to think, worry or deal with money. Yet she works in a stressful and cliquey small town elementary school. She had to be in love with painting to want to work with whiny kindergarteners all day.

  Ame Camden, her mom, is a good woman. When Chrissi was four years old her mother told her she was adopted. Ame was painting the sunrise in the middle of the town’s main park when she heard a quiet cry. Following the sound she found an infant wrapped up in a blanket and tucked into the roots of an old tree. Fitting really, Chrissi thinks, to be found in a tree. Ame had a friend who was a social worker and they pulled some strings so she could keep the little girl. Chrissi has never regretted her adoption, though she does regret her curse and the toll it must place on her mother. She’s grateful for knowing she was adopted and being able to appreciate her mother and what she does have. Not that Ame could hide it from her in this small town, everyone knows Chrissi is adopted. The stares have subsided and everyone accepts her as Chrissi Lee Camden, the strange adopted daughter of Ame. But at least she has family, even if she does lack answers to her curse.

  Ame’s sister, Naomi, was different in every possible way. Aunt Naomi lived for assets and investments, donning grey suits daily and a brief case she never let out of her sight. Even their stature and physical characteristics are complete opposites. Ame stands a mere 5’2”. Short and spunky her strawberry blonde bob accentuates the passion in her bright green eyes and her small facial features make her seem even more petite. Naomi, a looming 5’7”, with brown hair she slicks back into a bun and light hazel eyes she hides behind dull makeup, strives to look fierce and intimidating.

  Their mom, Ethel, or Granny as she is most affectionately known, is more down-to-earth donning wisdom for any situation. Neither Aunt Naomi nor Granny knows about Chrissi’s “condition”, as Ame likes to deem Chrissi’s curse. “Curse is negative, this will only be as negative as YOU make it Chrissi,” she always says.

  A door slams, interrupting her thoughts. Chrissi directs her eyes across the street to Kesil’s house. He is only one grade above her, a junior, but looks much older, she thinks. The dynamic Lesia has pined for him since birth and unfortunately Chrissi has been subjected to the whole dramatic unfolding since she is in the same class as Lesia. But as to whether the feelings are requited, no one can really discern. Although most assume not, since it is rare that an upperclassman would give a sophomore the time of day, and, though they talk, Kesil never looks amused. Although, he rarely does with anyone.

  She turns her attention back to the dimly-lit driveway. Kesil’s mother had slammed the front door. She stomps to her cherry red Mercedes and jams the key in the ignition as Kesil’s father watches from the doorstep, wearing a scowl. She wonders how the school principal and a small business owner afford a car like that. Occasionally, there is a third car in their driveway too—though never the same, it is always exotic and luxurious. Chrissi shifts her gaze to an upstairs window.

  She gasps. Kesil’s murky eyes look as if they are meeting her own, but surely she is well hidden. She has scouted every angle and knows full well she is safe on this branch. Kesil’s dark gaze falls to his mother’s car as it pulls out of the driveway. He rolls his eyes and gives a shallow sigh. He stands frozen for a minute staring at the place where his mother’s car once sat, parked and at rest. His hair is jet black and spiked, just like every day at school, accentuating his rounded, misshapen nose—a feature that would be unattractive on anyone else. His faded red shirt dons a graphic that Chrissi can’t quite make out from this distance. Suddenly, he slams the window shut and disappears behind thick khaki curtains.
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  Chrissi blinks repeatedly, now aware that her body temporarily forgot to function. Kesil is attractive, true, Chrissi considers, but there is something about him that does not sit right with her. It is as if he is hiding something. She chuckles. What secret could anyone in this town have that is bigger than her own? Amused at her fleeting judgment, she slips her gloves back on, tosses her long golden hair out of her face, and jumps out of her tree, landing with a soft thud. She still has tomorrow, her weekend isn’t quite over yet and she intends to take advantage of every second of freedom.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chrissi slowly spins around once in her grey desk chair, taking in her sanctuary. She is grateful her mom is the creative type who gives her freedom to decorate however she wants. Each wall in her bedroom, for instance, is a different pastel color. Purple. Teal. Yellow. Green. She pauses for a half-second facing the pale yellow wall again, the color so reminiscent of her curse. The color of her curse that looks like hope but quickly gives way to putridity. She likes it and hates it at the same time. Over the years she has mentally accumulated several theories about her curse. There is no way to know if it is genetic, since she was adopted, having been abandoned in a nearby park. She was never bitten by any radioactive spiders or drank any fluorescent potions. The only other explanation left to Chrissi’s reasoning is extraterrestrial. Thus, atop the ironic yellow paint is a myriad of Roswell character posters and glow-in-the-dark green alien memorabilia from the time she talked her mother into taking her to the legendary New Mexico town.

  The orange-toned Roswell poster catches her attention. Her mom was obsessed with the late 1990s TV drama and bought all the seasons when they came out on DVD. However, her obsession quickly faded when Chrissi began identifying with the alien characters a little too much. She thinks it makes her mom uncomfortable, like when she watches the show it is now demeaning to Chrissi or something. The 2-dimensional Max Evans stares pleadingly at Chrissi, confused and searching, with a confident Liz Parker behind him. How Chrissi longs to have the heroine’s confidence instead of indentifying with the misfit alien.