Gravity

Gravity

A Sanctuary Novel

Book Two

Amanda Miga

Copyright 2014 Amanda Miga

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I was especially excited to hear from Jess,
my sister after she read
Gravity
because like
Pull
,
she "doesn't read this kind of stuff," so her opinion was gold to
me. She doesn't hold back and if she doesn't like something she'll
tell me, which is just as exciting as seeing Blink-182 in concert
(my favorite band). So when she handed me her proofed copy it was
like the Holy Grail of copies. She told me what parts sucked. I
went back to my writing desk and rejoiced. Opinions like hers are
what I need. Took me months to repair one chapter she was
disappointed in. Thanks for the extra work, Sis!

Thanks to Nisa Linger for your hawk-eyes.
You've spotted more misspelled words than my spell checker, making
me feel like I'm in middle school again and she's correcting my
story about three boys with powers. She found things that even I
said, "why did I write that?" or "what did I mean by that?" It was
the first time I realized that I write much differently than I talk
so sometimes I didn't make sense to her, so I may not make sense to
other readers. Thank you for that important lesson!

Mom loves everything I do even if its crap,
but I don't expect any less from my mom. She's knew my characters
since my first attempts in writing the Sanctuary books. She's read
the unreadable originals of book one to five. She can relate to my
characters well. I think her favorite is Red but she also like
Dash. This is the kind of stuff I love talking about with her. It
gives the momentum to keep going, It makes these characters real.
Thanks again for re-reading this story for only God knows how many
times.

My happy husband, Miga, for taking me to
concerts; for holding me tight when the pit opens up; for dancing
with me at the sweet sixteen parties I dragged him too; for being
my prom date; for being my best friend; for holding me when I fall
apart; for being the one I fell in love with. You're the best part
of my teen years. You're the romantic root in these novels.

To my family, friends and bookstore buddies,
thank you for your support when book one was released.

I give thanks to music; to which had helped
me bring this story to life. Years in the making, the following
artists and bands had the most impact on book Two: 7Lions, 30
Seconds to Mars, Adam Lambert, Allstar Weekend, Angels and
Airwaves, Armin van Buuren, Ashland High (Jealous Lover), Atlas
Genius, Attack! Attack!, Awolnation, Big Time Rush, Blink-182,
Blood On the Dance Floor, Bobby Darin (Beyond the Sea), Box Car
Racer, Boys Like Girls, Breathe Carolina, Breathe Electric, Chris
Brown, CHVRCHES, Chunk! No Captain Chunk, The Clash, Cobra
Starship, Colbie Caillat, Conor Maynard, David Guetta, Demi Lovato,
Devil Wears Prada (Louder Than Thunder), Ellie Goulding, Fall Out
Boy, For What It's Worth (Long Island band), Foster the People,
Funeral For a Friend (History), Haim, Hellogoodbye, Hit the Lights,
Hot Chelle Rae, Imagine Dragons, Lesley Gore (You Don't Own Me),
Linsey Stirling, M83, Maroon 5, Metro Station, Mika, Mike Beyer
(solo recordings), Mindless Behavior, Mozart (Piano Sonata No. 11;
Alla Turca ; Allegretto), The Naked and Famous, Never Shout Never
(Time Travel), New Found Glory, NONONO (Pumpin' Blood), One
Direction, OneRepublic, Owl City, Panic! At the Disco, Parachute,
Parade of Lights, Passion Pit, Patrick Stump, Phoenix, POP ETC.
(Yoyo), The Postal Service, The Ready Set, The Rolling Stones,
Rudimental (Feel the Love), Ryan Tedder, SafetySuit, Shiny Toy
Guns, Sleeping With Sirens, Smallpools (Dreaming), Solomon Burke,
Thomas Bergersen, Timeflies, Tokio Hotel, Two Steps From Hell, Walk
the Moon, Washed Out (Before), We Came As Romans, Wildlife Control
(Different), Young London, Youngblood Hawke, The 1975 (The
City).

Gabriel

I
maneuver quickly, keeping to the
school walls before I'm cornered like a rat trying to escape. The
memorization of the school’s alcoves, the bell timing, and avoiding
the halls that carry the most traffic are more than a way for an
introvert to avoid people—they're survival tactics. I perfected a
system to protect my personal space from being violated. Bumping
into another person is a mistake my mind can’t afford, no matter
what my body craves from such a clash. They will obsess over me if
they’re too close for too long. They will lust after me if their
shoulder grazes mine. It doesn’t matter if they’re a boy or a
girl—the monster inside me has no preference.

I
take every precaution to keep from
being noticed. Yet, the notorious black Ramones hoodie I wear is
just about all that people recognize. It helps to cover my black
hair and obscure my face. There isn't a day where I'm not wearing
it. Blending into the background as a dark, blurry nobody in high
school is not what a typical teenager wants to be remembered
as.

I'm not
typical.

I have
no choice but to bear the labels
given to me and try to stay invisible or I'll ruin someone's
life.

I
sit in the last row in homeroom just
as I always do in every class. I'm the first to enter. Wait for
attendance.

"Gabriel Black."

"Here." My eyes
stay down. My limbs stay close to my body.

It's the same every
day. My routine is the only control I have.

I'm the last to
leave when the bell rings. The hallway is a battleground of fleshy
mines. Like a soldier, I must try to make it to the safety of the
recess beside the water fountain before my body collides with
another. Sometimes a quick overlapping of my personal space and
another student is realized, but the classmates that feel my aura
by accident, won’t see me. I swiftly disappear before an impression
is made.

I take
the long route to study hall, making
a quick stop at the boy’s bathroom where the last stall’s removable
ceiling tiles keep some of my textbooks and supplies. My locker is
unfortunately located in one of the main arteries of the school.
Stashes like this are a preventative measure—no one's usually
around.

The boy washing
his hands doesn’t look my way and leaves quickly. No guy wants to
be in the bathroom alone with the Ramones guy. Prejudice is my
unfortunate friend.

I'm
the last to arrive in study hall.
With my hands in my pockets and my hood up, I don’t look at anyone
and sit in the back of class. There’s no one to worry about behind
me. I have to concern myself with how close someone is to my
vicinity. My acute awareness of my surroundings is as natural as
breathing.

A slightly
warming sensation heats my right arm, warning me the kid next to me
is a little too close. I slowly use my feet to inconspicuously move
the desk a few more inches back until the warmth leaves my
skin.

The second bell
rings and my hood falls back before Mr. Hopkins mentions it. I can
never shake the anxious feeling of being unveiled like a museum
exhibit, but I keep my head low to avoid eye contact.

My
textbook and homework are out. First
period study hall is the only time to do it. If I don’t do it now,
then it will never get done. I reach into my backpack for a pen and
take one from my supply of unopened pen boxes. I'm overly prepared
because getting caught without a pen or textbook means I'll have to
borrow from someone else, or worse—I’d have to share. Going over
one textbook between two students is like breathing one another’s
breath before a kiss. It overwhelms the senses where the lesson
doesn’t matter. For the other student, the interest in me spikes. I
don’t need that kind of attention. Being inches away from another
is like teasing a starved vampire with a bleeding virgin. Touching
will only lead to sinful actions. Like after class is over, an
obscure area of the school would be occupied with perversions, I,
myself, couldn’t foresee performing, but the monster inside hungers
for it when it's prodded. Bodily cravings do not seize until
quenched.

Once I didn't
have a pen—fingers grazed—
never again
.

“Hey, Ramones!”

My eyes
lift off the paper and look up to the
girl sitting in front of me. Her blue eyes stare and she’s actually
smiling.

Mr. Hopkins is
grading papers and doesn’t pay any mind. I look back
down.

“
I never
noticed before, you have pretty green eyes," she says.

My pulse is
racing. I want to make eye contact. I want to talk to her. I want
to know what else she likes.

"You have a pen
I can borrow?”

Without looking
at her I reach
into my
backpack and pull out a pen and hand it to her, but I let the pen
drop to the floor before her fingers invade the thin space between
us. I don’t have to look at her to know what it looks like. I'm not
trying to be an asshole. I have no choice but to play the
part.

Sorry.
The simple word
would Band-Aid the situation, but that means I’ll have to talk to
her. I can't start a conversation that will draw attention. Making
friends is impossible, so why would I even try.

She grabs the
pen off the floor. “Um...thanks.” It sounds like her pretty smile
is gone, but
I don’t lift my
eyes to confirm it.

Another glare
prods me, taking my attention from the work that will pass the time
in this God forsaken school. I look up to see one of the infamous
bullying goons that make a name for himself by ritualizing the
beating of chosen targets for a week. I've been under the radar for
years, but now a drop of a pen has ensured an impending
beat-down.

My
mouth dries as Eric Anderson
inauspicious smile curls. His followers turn in their seats to
witness the stunned face of their next victim. I don’t give them
the pleasure and leaves my stoic mask unchanged.

The clock on
the wall confirms the elongated torture of the apprehensive
atmosphere. Homework will have to wait. Planning to leave this
school will prove to be most challenging. I've witnessed Anderson
and his crew parading the halls with their victim, carrying them
off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. The idea of a group of
boys setting me off makes me perspire. Being the center of
attention, even for this moment, is causing my heart to
race.

I
habitually place my hood on. I'll
keep it on as long as Mr. Hopkins doesn’t notice.

The bell
finally rings and the plan is in place. The room
empties.

Anderson’s minions
rise from their desks slowly waiting for Eric’s signal.

I
shoulder my backpack. The others move
into position as I rise from my desk.

“
Mr. Hopkins?”
I hate being a pussy, but asking for a teachers help is the only
option here. The band of assholes has me cornered.

“
What is it Mr.
Black?” I make my way past the sneering teeth and fuming
eyes.

I
make eye contact with Mr. Hopkins.
The man just stares, as the gang gets closer.

“You have two minutes
Mr. Black. I suggest you speak before you’re late for your next
class. I’m not signing a late slip.”

I
hear them approaching from behind. If
they leave the room and wait for me, I’ll be caught
outside.

"Well?" Mr. Hopkins
brows lift.

I dart
out the classroom and into the
crowded halls. The clamor of desks and chairs behind me pumps fear
into my veins. Grazing shoulders and knocking over students, sets
my craving on high.

My
hood peels back. Eric and the others
are laughing. Everyone in the hall is looking at me.

“Where are you going,
Ramones?”