The Fake Heart (Time Alchemist Series)

The Fake Heart

Book One in the Time Alchemist Series

By
Allice
Revelle

Copyright 2012 ©
Allice
Revelle

Book Cover Art ©
PetarPaunchev
(iStockPhoto.com)

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or represented fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or locations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

This book may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

DEDICATION

To Mom.

LUMI, always.

CHAPTER 1

I was just a normal sixteen year old girl.

My life
in Savannah
was supposed to be
perfectly, absolutely
normal.
Totally, one hundred percent normal.
I was going to kick my old A- average where it hurt and become top of my new class; I was going to giggle and gossip with my new girl friends over everything—from the cutest dresses made from local designers (and only the best money would buy) and rating gorgeous, just-walked-right-out-of-a-fashion-magazine, Grade A guys; and last, but certainly not least…my path to the future.

First step: St. Mary’s Academy. And then, I would have the best of the best colleges from across the county at the tips of my fingers.

I was just normal, boring, stick-by-the-rules Emery Miller. And I had plans.

But those plans…well, they didn’t include me on becoming an
alchemist.

But Fate always had a funny way of showing me up, didn’t it?

◊◊◊◊◊

Every morning starts off the same. Today was no exception, even if it was the start of my brand new life, miles and miles away from home.

I hummed to one of
my favorite Adele
song
s playing softly from scratchy, silver-and-blue
stereo on the small wooden dresser drawers as I shuffled around
my single dorm room in tempo. The dark cream colored plush carpet tickled the bottoms of my feet. I stopped for the hundredth time this morning in front of the full length mirror hanging on the closet door. Despite the smeared and scratched up surface, I could still see myself just fine in the reflection—a nervous smile spread on my pink cheeks (courtesy of some light blush), and green eyes almost
hidden under thick, wavy auburn
colored bangs.

Brushing away the obnoxious hair did little to help. People often assumed that just because I hid my eyes from the world meant I was shy and vulnerable and insecure. Well, they were wrong.
Dead wrong.
Despite how annoying the bangs tended to block my eyesight, that’s
just
how I liked my hair. It was
me
—
Emery. A little unique, just like my name.

Besides, nothing a few cute glittering purple flower barrettes (
a parting gift
from my
best friend Rachel
back
in my hometown near Albany
—
the
capitol of New York, for those who…didn’t know.
It honestly surprised me thought I lived in NYC; I’ve only been there, like, once in my whole life, and that was during a middle school field trip) couldn’t fix as I snapped them neatly in place, making sure not a stray hair was sticking out of place. Hair and Make-Up: Check.

The
scarlet colored
jacket felt awkwardly stiff and a size too big on my body, and the black pleated skirt felt like it was made of a very rough material as it scratched against my legs. But I’d taken any slight discomfort (heck, I’d walk around the entire school with rocks and needles in my shoes!) to wear
the
emblem of St. Mary’s Academy
—a
golden insignia
of a small, beautiful magnolia flower
stitched perfectly over the left breast pocket.

Wearing this uniform meant you were part of the privileged.
The fortunate.
The elite
.
             

And I, Emery Miller, was an official St. Mary’s sophomore student!

Okay, well, I wasn’t exactly considered “elite” in such a glamorous, posh school, considering 95% of the student body was insanely rich (mostly from old money) and gorgeous, being one of the few scholarship students auspicious enough to even
breathe
on St. Mary’s finely trimmed Southern grounds.

I tugged the edge of my skirt one
last time, forcing a bright and cheery smile on my face as I posed. The black buttons of the jacket gleamed like prized gems against the morning light illuminating from the window that portrayed a small glimpse of the school grounds—the back of t
he girl’s dormitory, Moore Hall
, which led to a collection of trees that swayed in a gentle sunup breeze.

With one last double take—dress shirt neatly tucked in, jacket wrinkle free, buttons in place, skirt the right length (required by St. Mary’s rules) and the black tie snug nice and tight under the crisp white shirt. Uniform: Check

I glanced over at the framed picture on top the oak nightstand table—the artificial light from the bedside lamp cast an unfriendly glare over the picture of me, a then five year old graduating from kindergarten, hair sticking out from underneath the little
square-tussled
hat decorated in Hello Kitty stickers and glitter, my mouth wide open, showing my missing front three teeth (yes, three) from an unfortunate accident on the swing sets; my proud father wrapping
his big arms around my tiny body, our cheeks pressed together like putty. His smile was so wide it looked like his reddened face was split in half. There were even tears in his eyes.

I haven’t seen my father smile like that in years. Not since my mom just up and left one night—ironically, the week or so after that
kindergarten graduation photo
.

Times had been tough. Really tough, and it didn’t help
that
the small town I lived in
breathed
gossip like a fish breath
e
s water. One week, my mother ran off with another man. The next week she ran off with another woman. The third week, she was a secret Russian spy, planning to overthrow our government—which is so stupid, considering that my mother had never been to Russia (that I know of). The weeks after that were just endless, trashy rumors, ranging from secret affairs to possible murders—but no one really wanted to just accept that she had grown tired of us and left in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye, only on a scribbled message on the back of a grocery list while Dad had gone to pick me up from a sleepover at Rachel’s house .My father especially didn’t seem to want to except such a humiliating way that the love of his life left him with no reason, and the fact that she had done it while I wasn’t even there. He’s had it far worse than me; considering I don’t really
remember much about my m
other, save for the few pictures I found hidden in Dad’s bedroom closet and the occasional remembrance of her vanilla fragrant perfume that drifted around the old house.

My
Dad had come from a pretty prosperous family—he was expected to follow in the family business—but all of that had changed when he met my Mom. After getting her pregnant when she was only seventeen, he dropped out of high school to take care of her, thus getting disowned by his own family
—and that may have been why she was ne
ver liked well in our old town. People assumed she was some horrid gold digger, after his family’s wealth.

Even now, while I was snuggled safe and secure under the roofs of St. Mary’s buildings, my father was probably still sleeping on Uncle Ben’s scratchy and smelly couch, trying to get a little sleep before his part time job at the gas station started. And then after that, it would be flipping burgers at Wendy’s. I don’t care what anybody said—I loved my dad, even if he did smell like sweat, burnt rubber and greasy fries. Those were the smells of
honest work and
love.

Despite all of the rough upbringings, he always put me first. Even when
I
thought I would never be qualified or good enough to come to St. Mary’s, he was the one who went above and beyond to get all the recommendations I had needed, applied
for
any student loans I might need, and even drove me to all of my after school clubs and volunteer sessions
that would
look good
on the St. Mary’s application. (A difficult task, considering we always borrowed Uncle Ben’s car and the fact that bus fare was far too expensive; not to mention that Dad, as much as I loved him, was a little too cautious than most parents should be, refusing to really let me walk to school by myself unless with friends).

Now here I was—thanks to him, and the generosity of a St. Mary’s alumni’s scholarship, which played a
huge
role in me being here. If it wasn’t for the scholarship, I’d still be waking up to the smells of oil, men’s soap and burnt scrambled eggs every single morning, preparing to go to the same boring, rambunctious excuse of a high school where half the kids my age didn’t even give college a second glance; just waiting for the day where they can hitch up and have kids.

I didn’t want that kind of life, to be dependent on somebody and stuck at home taking care of kids when I was barely an adult. Maybe it was
my
way of me trying
not
to make a mistake like my
parents had
, which was why, when my sweet Grandma had told me all about her life, and her mother’s—my great-grandmother’s—life at St. Mary’s, I knew I was destined to go there and make something of myself.

And there was no way I wasn’t going to make my Dad proud. I was going to make sure all of his hard work wasn’t for nothing. I wanted him to smile and cry from joy at how well he raised his only daughter during such hard times. I want to say “See Dad? Look at me! You have nothing to be ashamed of anymore! I did it!”

I smiled to myself as I retrieved a small band next to the picture and slipped my Grandmother’s bracelet on—a silver band with a beautiful crimson stone in the center with silver flowing etchings around the sides, gave me even more confide
nce as it dangled carelessly on
my thin wrist. It was an old family heirloom that Grandma had given to me on my eighth birthday. I clutched it to my chest, staring into the tiny stone, wishing she were still alive so I could hold her instead of a piece of jewelry. It still hurt so much to know that I couldn’t tell her I had gotten into St. Mary’s, just like she had. Even my Mother had come to St. Mary’s once, a long, long time ago, and would have graduated if my Grandparent’s didn’t have to move to move up North during her freshman year. Sometimes when I had visited my Grandma
,
whenever
I ever mentioned my Mom, she would have this lonely, glazed look over her eyes, as if the whole move was the reason why her daughter had gotten pregnant so young without graduating, and then just…left for good.

Grandma never blamed Dad for what happened. If only I could convince him that nobody really did.

But I would.

“That’s right,” I said, clutching the worn frame in my palms, feeling the years of hard work and forlorn swirl inside me, “I’m going to be someone great, Dad. Just you wait. I’m going to make you so proud.”

◊◊◊◊◊

“Wow,
Em
, way to get ready—
too early
.”

The digital clock on my nightstand flashed 7:16 a.m. Orientation (only required for freshman and new transfer students like me—the school day didn’t actually start until tomorrow!) didn’t start until 8:30 am.

I grabbed the campus map from my folder and smoothed it out of the desk’s surface. St. Mary’s school grounds were
huge
, even for a school in a historical city like Savannah. It was almost like a college campus, with the typical administrative buildings, dormitories (t
wo sets for the boys and girls;
no such thing as a co-ed
dorm here, despite the rumors)
a gym (with a pool, tennis court and soccer/football field), as well as a few other buildings for classes like science
and art. Even a four-
story library with a built in coffee shop for hard working students like
myself
, and I couldn’t wait to check that out!

The tip of my index finger traced a pathway from
Moore Hall to the auditorium
which practically led to the front of the campus. Since most of the dorms were
older buildings
they were
located
near the back end of the campus
, while places like that auditorium and the teacher’s officers, newly built and refurbished buildings, were more towards the front
. A regular paced walk all the way across the grounds would have gotten me there in
fifteen minutes
or less. I glanced at the clock again: 7: 20. I still had plenty of time. Why not go explore a bit?