I’m to the point in my Jayne novel where I am actually writing individual scenes. Since the last time I posted an excerpt, I’ve been in plot planning bliss, or something like that. All the plotting led to quite a few changes in the direction the novel is taking. Jayne is no longer a MG novel, but a YA novel. It just fit the personality of her better.
So, the following is my first scene. It’s not done, it hasn’t been revised or added to, but it is there and it is on paper. Hope you enjoy!
The bedroom was almost empty. There were no paintings or posters on the walls, only holes, vague reminders that someone had once lived here. Jayne Eyre Bishop sat in the corner, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, head tipped over so her long, wavy black hair covered her legs.
“Jayne! It’s time to go! Hurry up!” a melodic voice rang from downstairs, but Jayne didn’t move. Not yet at least. Slowly, she sat up, allowing her hair to uncover her angular face. She stood up, walked to the window and looked out.
Her home was a Southern plantation style home in the middle of nowhere. It was painted white, with a huge front porch and a porch swing. The front door and shutters were all a fresh shade of navy blue and the cracked steps had been filled with quick crete and painted gray. I don’t want to move, she thought, emphatically stamping her right foot and turning to walk outside.
Jayne walked down the stairs and a tiny woman hunched over a box saw her coming downstairs. “Hey sweetie, are you about ready to go? Car is packed,” she said before looking back down at her own box.
“No, I’m not ready. I haven’t found Meow yet,” Jayne responded. Her face was pink and splotchy from all the recent tears. She didn’t want to move, not to a new house, a new life, but definitely not to the suburbs. Without another word she picked up the pet carrier by the front door and stomped out, slamming the door behind her.
Jayne walked around the side of the house, the pet carrier dangling from her left hand, hitting her leg with every step. The grass was crunchy from the morning frost and Jayne’s bare legs were covered in chill bumps. Her mom had wanted her to wear pants that morning, but she had refused. Jayne had been refusing on just about every request and issue since she had been told that they were moving.
“This is my home,” Jayne had told her, hoping that this was just a not-funny joke.
“I know, sweetie, but we have to move. You’re going to go to a new school, make new friends, start fresh. I know it will be tough, but you need to be around people your own age. I’m only doing what I think is best for you,” she had said, pushing her mousy brown hair off of her forehead.
“Best for me,” Jayne grumbled, making her way to the barn where she hoped she would find Meow. Meow was a tomcat that Jayne had adopted without anyone knowing. Mom only realized what was going on when dead birds and field mice kept getting left by the front door.
The barn was large and looked like every other barn, except it wasn’t red. The paint was chipping off the sides in gray cascades, the blue tinted wood all that remained. Jayne stood there, her neck bent back, trying to see the rooster on the top that told her the direction the wind was blowing. All of Jayne’s greatest adventures began and ended with this barn, until now.
“I don’t want to leave,” Jayne said as she sat down on the hard clay, waiting for Meow to show himself.
Jayne heard the footsteps before the person walking said anything, and she knew it was her mother. Jayne’s mother was a professor of literature at the local college, and she spent most of her days reading and writing essays. Why anyone would choose that profession was beyond Jayne.
“I know you don’t like this,” Meredith Bishop said as her footsteps stalled, “but I just know that this is the right thing for all of us.”
“Whatever, Mom,” Jayne countered, picking up the cat carrier that held a very unhappy Meow. Jayne didn’t look back as she slid herself into the back seat of the Volvo.
“Ready kid?” her dad asked her.
“No,” Jayne replied, putting in her headphones and blaring her music.