Splintered
an excerpt

Beginning is always the hardest part. How do I begin to tell this story—my story, and your story, too.

I suppose it began that first day I saw the boy. He worked behind the soda counter of the soda shop. It was hot that summer, and the soda fountain was one of the few places in that small town that had air-conditioning at that time. I told my mother I was going uptown to have an ice cream, to cool myself in the unbearable heat. She told me it would be okay, since I had all my chores finished.

I was fifteen years old that summer, and I thought I knew everything. Don’t we all at that age? But in reality, although I pretended to be worldly around my friends (I was one of the few girls whose mothers would let them read anything and everything), I really knew nothing about relationships. I read romance novels on the sly, the ones my mother ordered from mail-order houses, and some of them were pretty steamy. But I still didn’t understand the logistics. I lived a fairly sheltered life, being an only child, and one that was never quite far away from the family.

The boy was seventeen, and very handsome. We were in the same study hall in school. He sat in the back, while I, ever studious, sat in the front row, diligently doing my homework. I’m sure that he never noticed me. But I will never forget that day in the soda shop. These things always begin so innocently.