A.C. Brooke

The First Chapter of Seventeen Times Around The Sun

Hello all! Below, you can find the first chapter of my debut novel, Seventeen Times Around The Sun. After years of writing, re-writing and proofreading, I’m finally taking the next step of handing off to a professional editor and getting ready to query literary agents.

For those who take the time to read, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts–constructive criticism is welcome here! Feel free to leave a comment on this post, send me a message or, submit anonymously at the link below. If you’d like to learn more about the book and its inspiration, click here.

Chapter 1: The Girl with the Pastel Pants

I think I remember when I first met Molly. It was about a year ago now. I stood on the front porch awaiting the door to open. Little droplets of sweat collected on the back of my neck as the seconds passed by. Shade from an awning kept out most of the heat, but it was still a bad day to have worn jeans. Of course I had anyway–I liked them far too much to have chosen otherwise. I have a habit of forgetting that the end of August still counts as summer, which didn’t help, either. The weatherman on the radio had said it might rain, but nothing had fallen quite yet. Instead, the world was caked in a layer of humidity thick enough to cut through. There were worse places to be, however, like gym class in June. Or in those pictures of the Thar Desert in my dad’s office he’d cut out from old National Geographic magazines because he was adopted from India and pledged to visit one day. But here was not so bad. I would survive. 

It was a nice house, newer. I made a game out of seeing how many little things I could notice about the architecture. It was sort of like playing ‘spot the difference’ except there was no second picture, nor a set number of items to stop at. Instead, I made my own rules. Gray stone ran up and down the front with white paneling along the side. There were lots of windows– I counted eight on one side alone–but blinds hung in front of nearly all of them. It was the shutters though that stood out to me the most. They were burgundy;that deep kind of red that rose petals turn after they fall. I think that’s a pretty color. You don’t see it too often these days. 

I knocked twice but to no avail. Finally, after a few minutes of standing idly by, I mustered up the courage to ring the doorbell. Doorbells are unpredictably loud so I try not to use them when I can. Even when my presence is expected it makes me feel like an intruder. Despite some muffling, I  could still hear the melody echo behind the walls. I’d lucked out this time; the ring hadn’t been so abrasive. But again, no answer came. Am I too early? I leaned my face as close as I could without pressing against the glass. Vision was limited but I could make out some things this way. The place seemed still and empty, and for a moment I wondered if I was supposed to be here at all. The sound of wooden blinds banging against a nearby window caught my attention. My head pulled back and snapped around much quicker than a head should, but by the time I looked, whoever it was that’d caused the clamor was gone. Strange. 

It was about then that the door finally opened and a smiling face appeared: it was Mrs. Dwyer. My sister had described her to me when she first told me about the job.

“She’s a pretty woman,” she’d said, “Really long brown hair, down to her waist, looked like yours actually. It must be hard to keep up with. Is long hair hard to keep up with?” And I had of course told her that yes, long hair was hard to keep up with but no, my hair actually wasn’t that long. When you straightened out the waves, it just barely reached the top of my belly button, and that was on a dry day. I guess short hair is kind of in style these days so it makes sense mine would seem extra long by comparison, not to mention Anna has sported an ebony, shaggy bob for almost half a decade now. But the truth is years ago when I was in middle school, I watched this one episode of some talk show where they interviewed a girl who’d never cut her hair before–not even once. Even pulled back in a high ponytail, the ends stopped just above the floor. Everything is short to me now. Besides, my hair was black, and the woman in front of me’s hair was not black. In fact, it wasn’t waist length either. It stopped nicely just a few inches past her shoulders. She was pretty though, and her tall, lean build seemed to emanate a natural confidence. 

The woman shook my hand briefly introducing herself, a gesture I returned, and soon enough the two of us were inside. Their house was still unfinished then. Cardboard boxes littered the floor and in my mind I mapped out a million different ways they could be walked around. Blank white walls stretched around almost every corridor. It still had that stale smell to it, too: that new house scent that settles in as a symptom of air just sitting there unstirred for just a bit more longer than it should, like a mix of wood dust and rusted nails. It tickles the nose. 

I’d never been inside the Dwyer’s house before, but now that I was, I could see that the foyer sectioned off into four directions: a room on either side of the front entrance, a short hallway leading down to what appeared to be a kitchen, and a somewhat modest staircase almost directly across from the front entrance. But the room to the right didn’t have a door. In its place was an open frame and a short, white barred fence that came up about two and a half feet tall. It was the one thing in the house that seemed old. I attributed the silver spots to where the paint had chipped off. Peering over the baby gate, I could just catch two tiny legs running rampantly around the playroom, a blur of little limbs and pink pastel pants. Her hair was short and messy, flinging loosely around the shoulders. 

“Sorry, we’ve really got to get rid of this thing already,” Mrs. Dwyer let out something akin to a sigh and flipped up the child-lock latch. A remnant from the last owners, I thought. James had told Anna and Anna had of course told me that The House with the Burgundy Shutters was actually quite young, a year or two old, maybe three. But the new owners had decided to move anyway, something to do with a job promotion, or being closer to family–maybe both. Nothing about that is particularly interesting but I found it funny to live in a house for such a short span of time. We’d lived in ours for what felt like more than forever, if such a thing existed. But I guess this was all good news for the Dwyers, even if they had to remove an old, battered baby gate. James said the house had sold for fifteen grand less than what it was first put on the market. You could buy a car with that. Maybe two or three if they were used. 

As the chestnut haired woman and I were making our way into the adjoining room, a ring broke out from somewhere else in the house. Telephone. Her candor changed just slightly while I watched in silence. She didn’t seem like the type of woman to be flustered easily, but today must have been different. She apologized and excused herself momentarily as the ringing continued to bounce from one hall to the next. I couldn’t tell if I were to follow her or not. She was headed to the kitchen. Or at least, that’s where the noise seemed to be coming from. I trailed behind about halfway, stopping somewhere between the middle and the end of their hallway. This would be an ok place to wait.

It was here that more of the layout of the first floor could be seen–a little bigger than I anticipated. I’d been right about the kitchen: It was ahead, though I couldn’t spot Mrs. Dwyer from here. On the other side around the edge of the wall, I could make out most of what must’ve been the living room. Either the afternoon rain had started or the curtains were drawn–or both– because most of the details of the place seemed to be obscured by the dark. But I supposed it was also possible that there were no details to be seen–this place was barely home to them, after all. 

But there was one thing that could be made out. Deep in the corner sat a piano. It was rather small, sitting upright, a tiny golden skyscraper. The wood must’ve been what caught my eye. Yes, it had been dim, and yes, it was hard to see, but the honeycomb color had somehow managed to make itself known even through the darkness. 

We had a piano. It was a little bigger, probably much older, too, and it wasn’t tall like this one. Ours instead stretched out backwards like most pianos do, and in place of the Dwyer’s golden spruce (or what I was guessing was spruce–I’m not an expert on the different types of wood) ours was a solid black all over.  There’s not much I could recall other than that. It’d been hidden for half a decade now sleeping under some thick  tarp my mother had forced our father to seek out from the depths of the garage. After the tarp was laid down, a layer of dust soon followed. Just from a distance, I swore that if you swept your finger ever so gently across the top, it’d come back coated in an inch of gray or more. I’d never mustered up the courage to try. Instead, the blanket was left alone, and the instrument beneath it rotted in silence now, a process no one dared to disturb. But it was definitely a black piano. That much I could remember. It would’ve melted right into the walls here. I never would’ve seen it.        

Click. The familiar sound caused my head to turn. I was facing the other direction now. The call had been quick, a minute or so. Given I’d been lost in thought I didn’t actually pick up on what was being said, but from the “Alright, see you soon. Love you!” whispered at the very end, I figured it was from Mr. Dwyer, a man I’d yet to meet. 

Within a moment Mrs. Dwyer appeared again and she led me back to the room we’d been in just minutes before. She flipped a light switch on and even though the extra lumination wasn’t needed, the place felt nicer this way. The room was yellow all the way around–the only part of the house I’d noticed with a distinct color. Sometimes people say yellow is too loud, and I suppose that sometimes that might be true. But this was a nice yellow, soft. The kind no one dislikes looking at. The sort of shade that might remind you of freshly dyed easter eggs and cut daffodils in the springtime. My mother used to take my sister and I to pick those when we were little. A wild field of them spring up almost every year behind our house. You have to trek through a thin layer of woods first to get to them, but they’re always there, and they’re always yellow.  The best way to make bouquets, she said, was with whatever you could scavenge from the world around you. 

“Here, have a seat,” Mrs. Dwyer gestured to two couches lining the room. I picked a sunken spot on a crayon stained cushion that sat backed against a window. She took comfort in a chair on the other side. “I really apologize for the mess in here,” the last word was consumed by a quiet laugh. It really wasn’t all that messy: a few toys scattered off in the corner, but that was it. I suppose everyone says that kind of thing to guests visiting for the first time, an unspoken rule of sorts. Little bags hung underneath her eyes: they were the faintest of purple. Her knuckles were chapped and dust covered, and I had to wonder just how many boxes she must’ve unpacked in the last few days. She seemed to be the type of woman who prioritized everything and everyone but herself. But that was just my snap judgment. 

You analyze too much, Anna would tell me, You’re turning into dad. And I would concede and say, Yes, maybe. But better dad than mom. And she would roll her eyes and tell me to not take life so damn seriously. 

That was about when the actual interview started. ‘Interview’ may be too strong a word. It was more like  when your friend introduces you to someone at a party and you’re forced to make small talk. It wasn’t horrible, but it couldn’t quite be labeled as enjoyable either. But as the questions progressed, my body felt increasingly relaxed, and my fingers finally ceased at the urge to tear each other apart. It was really just all the basics: 

So you’re going to be a senior this fall? 

Yes. 

Do you have any plans after graduation? 

Not yet. 

Have you babysat before? 

Yes. 

What’s your availability like? 

I told her I was free any day she needed, that school ended at 2:30 but I could be there by 3 at the latest. She said she needed someone for Tuesdays and Thursdays. She worked the evening shift that part of the week and Mr. Dwyer didn’t get home till six. 

“Do you think you could do that?” she leaned in earnestly, “Just those three hours, twice a week?” 

I nodded my head. “Ya, I can.” Mrs. Dwyer sat back and smiled. For the first time that day, she seemed somewhat relaxed.  

“Great!” with a newfound zest, the chestnut haired woman stood up, “You wait here. I’m going to go grab something.” 

My shoulders barreled forward  instinctively until I forced them back down again. I was half tempted to go with her. There was more of the house I wished to see. Something about its emptiness was fascinating. We’d lived in ours for too long for any corner to be left uncluttered. But what I really found my mind being pulled back to was the piano. It seemed out of place, and yet permanently fixed with intention, as if it were the walls themselves that must move. Perhaps it was merely some forgotten artifact, a token the previous homeowners deemed too large to take with them. They do tend to be fairly large–pianos, I mean. 

My mom signed me up for lessons when I was about nine. I hated it of course, as any nine year old would. Not the instrument itself, but the idea of classes. Anything that involved being told what to do and when automatically became a source of lament. I had this awful teacher too, Mr. Schneider. Well he wasn’t awful, but he smelled awful, like stale cigarette smoke masked by cheap cologne, which I’m pretty sure is what it was. He was nice though, and good at what he did. He only had nine fingers–I remember that well. When I complained about a sheet being too hard he used to hold up both hands and say, “If I can play, anyone can.” I think that was his schtick. 

I only lasted a few weeks. It wasn’t that I couldn’t play, it’s just that he wanted me to play boring tunes, like “Red River Valley” and “Ode to Joy”. When I asked to play real songs, he just shook his head and said that those were real songs, but if I was looking to play something more complicated, I wasn’t ready for that yet. 

My mom was upset when I quit. I guess that makes sense considering she’d been the one who paid for the classes. Early on, my sister had picked up gymnastics so I reckon I was her only hope of doing anything slightly music related, and oh did our mother love music. She kept a CD player and a stack of disks in the kitchen to play whenever she made pancakes. I hated it and loved it at the same time because I’d never seen her so happy as when she was dancing but she got so caught up in the moment that breakfast would burn. With a fork, I’d scrape off the thin layer of char that covered the middle. They fell like little black snowflakes. 

But that didn’t mean the playing stopped, at least not yet. It was nearly 8:00 on a Saturday morning when I was pulled out of bed by cold hands with skinny fingers. 

“It’s time for lessons.” My mother stood back up, hands sternly at her sides, already dressed for the day. Her blonde hair would be braided neatly down her back, porcelain skin washed and moisturized. 

“I quit?” I whispered confusedly. My eyes were half closed and there was nothing more I wanted to do than bury my body deep into the comfort of the blue colored blankets. I’d gone to bed the previous night under the impression I’d finally get to sleep-in that weekend. But she just repeated herself. 

“C’mon, get up. It’s time for lessons.” Within ten minutes I was sitting back on the bench that I, for a brief moment, believed I’d escaped. 

Now in place of the nine fingered man who smelled like cigarette smoke sat my mother. I never knew she played up until that point. She told me she couldn’t read music well. Neither of us could. But there was one song she knew like the back of her hand, the one where it talked about all those nursery rhymes. “Cat’s in the Cradle”, I think it’s called. As we sat on the bench together she’d recite the lyrics and I mumbled similar sounding coo’s until I picked them up myself: 

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon

Little boy blue and the man in the moon

When you comin home, dad? I don’t know when

But we’ll get together then

You know we’ll have a good time then…

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my pants. I looked down: it was The Girl with the Pastel Pants. Her entrance had slipped my notice. 

“How old are you?” That was the first thing she ever spoke to me: a question. Her little head fell to one side, and I did the same with mine. Not one for formal introductions, I suppose.  

“Guess.” She looked confused for a second. I could tell she hadn’t been expecting to attempt to answer her own inquiry. She held up all ten fingers. I smiled. “That’s close. You’re pretty smart, huh?” I said. “I actually just turned seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

“Ya,” I began, “But I don’t think you have enough fingers for that.”

“Is that old?”

I sat and thought about that for a while. Is seventeen old? Sometimes I felt old. Sometimes everything felt far away, like the memories of my childhood should belong to someone else. But other times I felt so young–too young–a still blooming flower incapable of fulfilling shoes that I would soon be expected to dance in. My sister said that you feel younger as you get older.

“Life is weird like that,” she’d told me. “You get older and realize how young you were when you thought you were old.” Being eight years my senior, I took her word for it even though I didn’t know what she meant. I looked back down at The Girl with the Pastel Pants. She looked like her mother, except in place of Mrs. Dwyer’s more angular nose was a short and rounded one that pointed upwards, like kids’ noses often do.

 “I think it depends,” She didn’t seem satisfied with my answer. 

“You look old.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” That’s still considered a compliment, right? “And how old are you?”

“Six.” her chin titled just a little bit upwards, as if this was some great title that’d been bestowed upon her. 

“Wow,” I began, “My name’s Alex, by the way.” I extended my right hand. 

“I’m Molly” she replied, giving me a firm shake. 

“So I’ve heard.”

“Do you have a brother?” Molly didn’t seem to miss a beat. 

“No,” I shook my head. “I have a sister, though. Her name’s Annabelle, but we usually just call her Anna.”

“How old is she?” 

“Twenty-five.” Her birthday had just passed last week. It was just a month or so after mine. 

That was about when Mrs. Dwyer came back in.

 “Oh good,” her hands clasped together, and with it, the smallest puff of dust escaped back into the atmosphere. “You two met.” She sat back down in the chair across the room as she’d done earlier. This time there were no interruptions. She ran through all the standard protocol: where the afternoon snacks were, the number to call in case of an emergency, what TV shows that could and could not be watched. With each piece of information I made a little bullet point in my head. Molly stayed in the corner over by a small, but well stocked, shelf, which held a colorful array of books and toys. She entertained herself quietly, an impressive feat for any six year old. 

Within ten or fifteen minutes, we’d wrapped up the info session. Mrs. Dwyer led me past the baby gate once more and back into the foyer. It’d stopped raining, if it had been before, that is. She slipped a little yellow note in my hand as we reached the door. It was a phone number.

“Call me anytime.” I didn’t have a phone yet but I was supposed to get one really soon. There was always the landline but something about that felt superbly lame to use. I thanked her again before stepping back out into the late August air.

“So, see you next Tuesday?” I heard the woman speak. My head turned back towards the house again. The burgundy shutters looked more red than they had before. Out of the corner of my eye I could make out the little girl in the pastel pants pushed up against the window. Perhaps it had been her who made that clamor earlier. 

“Next Tuesday.” I agreed. That was the first day of school. I wouldn’t forget that.  

“Three o’clock?” 

“Three o’clock.” 

And with that, I continued down to the sidewalk, glancing backwards just one more time before hopping in my car and driving away.