Unconventional Read online

  UNCONVENTIONAL

  J. J. Hebert

  MINDSTIR MEDIA

  Unconventional is Copyright © 2009 J. J. Hebert.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected].

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN-10: 0-981964-80-X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9819648-0-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009901524

  Published by Mindstir Media (USA), www.mindstirmedia.com

  Cover and Interior Design by: Jeremy Robinson

  www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

  Kindle produced by: Stan Tremblay, www.findtheaxis.com

  Visit J. J. Hebert on the World Wide Web at: www.jjhebert.net

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  For the love of my life

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Contrary to popular belief, producing a novel isn’t a one-person project. Sure, I spent countless hours writing and polishing Unconventional, but many people helped along the way.

  I am grateful to Brook and K. L. Going for editing, critiquing, and proofreading. Both of you offered invaluable advice. I’m a better writer because of you.

  I am also thankful for Jeremy Robinson, a great author and cover designer. Working with you is an honor.

  Gemma Halliday, thanks for being one of the first to read this tome. Your kind words mean more to me than you know.

  Last, in no particular order, thank you Mom, Dad, Jennifer, Corky, and the Hannons. You’ve shaped my life.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “The greatest and most inspiring achievements are not produced by those who conform to society’s idea of normal, but by those who courageously adopt the unconventional.” Mitch’s eyes brighten behind oval-shaped glasses, then he smiles the way he used to when I got a hit or struck someone out when I played on his Varsity team a couple months ago. “Tell me, James,” Mitch continues, “have you adopted the unconventional yet?” Grinning, Mitch takes the first step toward Robert Frost’s house, the white museum, leaving his Cadillac behind on the gravel driveway.

  I follow Mitch as a shadow, and two long strides later, I’m walking alongside him. As Mitch repeats the preceding question, I feel like he’s the teacher, I’m the student, and he’s giving a pop quiz. At the rusty metal mailbox affixed atop a tree stump, Mitch stops and faces me, waiting for a reply.

  I come to a halt, and instead of keeping my eyes on Mitch, I examine the mailbox to his left. R. FROST, painted in black, decorates the box’s side. The flag is down, the lid open a crack. “I think I’ve adopted the unconventional,” I say, the words ambivalent, then I turn my gaze to his aged face.

  “You think?” Mitch’s eyes show hints of disappointment. “James, are you unconventional or not?”

  I consider the question. His face blurs as I focus on the house behind him. “Yeah, sure, I’m unconventional.”

  His tone is vivacious. “Well? Let’s hear some examples for once.”

  As though I’m back in school, pondering A, B, C, and D, I choose what I believe is the correct answer: “While most kids in school were worrying about superficialities, I was working on my poetry anthology.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mitch says, dissatisfied.

  I see Mitch’s face clearly now. “I penned a new poem each week, instead of drinking or partying or—”

  “Okay, okay. James Frost wants to be Robert Frost.” Mitch puts his hand in a front pocket of his khakis. “That’s all nice and sweet, but I’m looking for something deeper.”

  I incline my head. Apparently, I’m failing this quiz. “Deeper? Like what?”

  “Writing isn’t necessarily unconventional,” Mitch says. “In fact, most people have written poetry and quite a few have written short stories and novels. So, what is it that’s made writing an unconventional choice for you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What have you overcome?”

  I flash on Brad from Langwood High School. “Ridicule. Pessimism.”

  “Care to expound upon that?” Mitch adjusts the collar of his Izod shirt.

  Maybe I can pass the quiz after all. “There was this jerk in school named Brad. I can still picture him with his malevolent grin and spiky blond hair and expensive clothing and unkind eyes. He was part of the so-called cool crowd. The elite. . . . One day, Brad and his following sat next to me in Study Hall. I had my notebook spread open and I was writing a poem. Brad looked over and saw what I was writing and he started to laugh. Before I could close my notebook, he tore the sheet out and proceeded to read the poem aloud in an effeminate voice. Brad’s friends laughed and he called me a loser and a sissy.”

  “Then what happened?”

  I think of the poem-filled binder on the floor in Mitch’s Cadillac. “I didn’t let Brad steer me away from writing and—”

  “You made the unconventional choice.” Mitch smiles. “Very good, James.” He hands out an A in his own words.

  Mitch spins around, waving me forward, and begins walking toward the barn behind the house. At the barn, he points to the mountains in the distance, and together we admire the view. “Just think,” Mitch says, “Robert looked upon these same peaks.”

  Inside the barn, we watch a slideshow about Robert Frost in Franconia, New Hampshire. One particular slide depicts Robert in a drab suit sitting in a Morris chair (an antique recliner) with a writing board across his lap, fastened to the armrests. The image doesn’t leave my mind as we exit the barn and go inside the house.

  My heart hammers as we walk to a Morris chair similar to the one in the photograph, and I imagine Robert sitting in it, fountain pen in hand, his face taut and ghostlike. I see him vividly: a wide nose, intense eyes under thick eyebrows, wavy, brown hair, and pouty lips. On the wooden board over his lap sits a sheet of paper, corners curled up. He jots down a few words on the sheet, stops, and holds the pen poised over the paper. Idly tapping a booted foot, he stares into the sheet for a couple of seconds, then he begins writing again. I feel as though I can reach out and touch the legend, speak to him even.

  Outside, in the wake of the buildings, we walk a half-mile trail t
hrough the woods, birds warbling and squirrels chittering from every corner of the path. Every now and again, we encounter plaques of Robert’s poetry posted on trees along the trail. We stop at all of the plaques and read the poems. We take pictures and talk about Robert’s poetry. Then, after some silence, Mitch brings up college. I roll my eyes. He says, “Well, do you think you’ll ever go?”

  I tell Mitch that I can’t fathom being confined for another four years, under the thumbs of professors, told where to go, and when, and how to get there—wherever “there” may be. “I can’t imagine becoming a collegian clone,” I elaborate, picturing scores of college kids, each with a bottle to their lips, pie-eyed, neglecting consequence.

  I feel ill, thinking of how contradictory I’ve been. Last month, I crossed paths with some acquaintances from school. They invited me to a party where we smoked some weed, and I even got laid, which was a terrible sexual experience, to say the least. Weed doesn’t exactly enhance a certain piece of the male anatomy. I was like Bob Dole before the little blue pill. Afterward, the images and emotions attached to sex with Molly were almost too much to bear. I vowed to stop acting the part of cloned adolescent and inadequate presidential candidate.

  I promptly severed all communication with those people and walked away intact, before I became a drug addict. Before I woke up in jail, before I impregnated someone, caught an STD, or died. I didn’t get away unscathed, though. My self-esteem is shattered due to the Molly episode, and I’ve done something totally unconventional: I’ve deleted sex from my life. No sex again until marriage. I know, I’m like a walking abstinence brochure. Don’t have sex because . . .

  “Any idea what’s next for you?” Mitch asks.

  “I think I wanna try my hand at a novel.”

  “Really?” Mitch sounds both excited and surprised.

  I nod. “I’ve been going to the library lately, and I’ve fallen in love with the genre of fantasy. When I read that genre, brilliant otherworldly landscapes, elves, gnomes, and giants suddenly surround me, and I’m able to escape the mundane.”

  Mitch says, “Good. We all need to escape sometimes.”

  At the end of our hike, we amble to the Cadillac, and I pull out one of my typed poems from the binder.

  Mitch slants his head. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.” I wink, then walk to Robert’s mailbox, a man on a mission.

  Making sure no one is looking other than Mitch, I pop the poem into that venerable gray box, close the lid, lift its flag, and take a step back, coming to grips with the fact that my poem is in the same place where Robert’s award-winning poetry once sat. Wherever my unstamped poem ends up, I don’t care. My reason for submitting this poem is out of hope that whatever amount of lingering magic remains in the mailbox, it will rub off on my writing and, eventually, on me.

  When I return to the car, Mitch pats my shoulder and says, “I’m sure Robert will enjoy your poem.” He pauses, then grins. “I know I did.”

  I let out a laugh. “Thanks. I hope so.”

  The magic of the moment makes me think of fantasy. Ideas swirl in my mind. Thoughts mushroom out of control. If I don’t start writing my novel soon, I’m going to burst.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’ve written six drafts of my fantasy adventure novel, The Forsaken World. Each draft is about one hundred thousand words, four hundred manuscript pages. I pay an editor, Arthur, every now and again to have a look at my work and polish it. He says I have a bright future as a novelist. I hope he’s right.

  My life is currently no fairytale. For a living, I mop floors, scrub toilets, and carry out other janitorial chores, having no formal education beyond high school. I still live at home with Dad. I’m twenty-one-years-old, three years removed from school, and I hope to play pretend on paper for a living someday. I guess some people consider that a pipe dream, but they just don’t understand.

  It’s partly because of my decision to adopt Mitch’s idea of unconventionality—and because of a plethora of other decisions, for sure—that ultimately I find myself in this car. We’ve been on the road for nearly nine hours, an eternity. My legs are cramped behind the passenger seat; the air-conditioner is busted, so I’m sweating and the back of my shirt is stuck to the leather seat; and nausea is beginning to form in my stomach, a touch of carsickness. I’m six-foot-two, long and lanky, and I’m a trapped animal. I’m trying to think of a way to get out of this cage. Maybe I’ll escape at the next stoplight. I could walk the rest of the way. I’d be able to stretch my giraffe-like legs, take in some fresh air, and get the nausea under control before it takes a turn for the worse.

  I’m full of it. I’m not bold enough to throw this door open at a stoplight and jump out. It’s not going to happen. I’m not Tom Cruise in one of his action movies; I wouldn’t land gracefully on the pavement, hair unruffled. I look over at my best friend, Sam, who’s sitting in the seat to my left. His forehead glistens with sweat but he doesn’t appear uncomfortable. He has much more foot room than I do because his father, the driver, was considerate enough to bring his seat up a bit when we began our trip in New Hampshire, unlike Sam’s mother, the person perched in front of me. Sam is also shorter than me. When we stand side by side, we look like DeVito and Schwarzenegger in that movie. What’s it called? Not the one where Arnold’s pregnant. The other one . . . Sam’s height works to his advantage in this case. He’s in First Class and I’m in Coach.

  Our destination is Pennsylvania but it feels like we’re traveling the world. Here I am, a modern day Columbus, save the ship and mythic persona. So far, Sam and I have discussed music, movies, and other superficial topics—and, of course, we’ve cracked countless jokes. At the moment, he and I are silent in our own worlds. His parents, on the other hand, are talking about politics, mostly regarding their respect for Bush and their unwavering faith in the Republican Party. A couple minutes ago, they discussed religion, their love for Jesus, and their belief based on Biblical prophecy that these are the End Times. Before that, the topic was work. And prior to work, they chatted about Sam’s high school years, the whirling blur of events.----

  A hush finally falls over the car and I look out my window, swallowing hard. I feel like an awful person. Why can’t I be completely happy for Sam? My self-centered side experiences no feelings of joy, no unspeakable elation. I think about what Sam has said numerous times: I don’t belong in New Hampshire . . . I need to leave and start over with a clean slate . . . Here is his big chance. College. Part of me, the selfless side, does rejoice for his dream. Sadly, at the moment, that side pales in comparison to the other.

  I close my eyes, trying to keep the queasiness at bay, and imagine him in his new life, the people he will meet, new girls and new friends. Sam is the last of my friends to leave for college, all the others having set off on journeys of their own.

  “So, James, when are we going to take you to college?”

  His mother’s voice rouses me from my thoughts. I open my eyes and turn away from the window. I speak to her headrest. “College isn’t for me, you know?”

  “Yeah, okay, James. Whatever you say,” she says, unconvinced.

  Sam’s father looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Weren’t you writing a book? How’s that going?” His tone telegraphs skepticism. I know he doesn’t really care about my novel. As far as he’s concerned, I tinker with words and nothing is going to come of it. He’s probably never seen magic in his life. People like that, the play-it-safers, feel threatened by the unconventional. They share an idea that if magic didn’t happen for them, it can’t happen for anyone else.

  He continues to stare at my sallow face. Judging by his knotted brow, I suspect it bothers him that I haven’t answered yet. A portion of me waits for him to say that I’m wasting my time with the idea that I will ever be published.

  I focus on his reflection, those tufty eyebrows and his lined forehead, and finally respond, “Yeah, a sample’s sent off to publishers in New York and a bunch of agencies. I’
m waiting to hear back. Hopefully I’ll get some good news.” I can’t see his eyes, but I notice him nod.

  “What is it about your novel that’ll make people want to read it? It’s fantasy, right?” Sam’s mother joins the conversation, cynical.

  I jump into defensive mode but respond devoid of anger. “I think people will read it because it’s fresh. There isn’t anything quite like it.”

  Sam watches and listens. It bothers me that even though he’s read excerpts of my novel, and claims he really digs my work, he says nothing to his parents now to assure them that I have talent and I haven’t squandered my time.

  Sam’s father shifts his hand on the steering wheel. “But what happens if the book doesn’t do well?” He glances up into the mirror. “Then what are you going to do?” His eyebrows lift, then drop back into place. “I mean, it’s a tough business to get into. Thousands of books are published. Your odds aren’t good that you’ll sell millions of copies.” His eyes settle on the road. “You don’t want to become a starving artist, do you?”

  I lower my head and look at the floor. What does he want to hear from me? Yes, you’re right, Mr. Nuggett. It’s a tough business to get into. I should give up. I should conform to society’s idea of normal by following in your son’s footsteps and going to college. It’s the only way. The conventional way. I release a barely audible sigh. What I want to say is—Odds are based on averages, and I’m not average.

  Sam’s mother clears her throat. “I guess you could always fall back on your father’s company,” she says. “I suppose that’s all right as a last resort.” She chuckles; her husband follows suit; Sam remains silent, afraid of defying his parents.

  I don’t respond to her familiar sardonic witticism. The thought of working for Dad’s janitorial company for the remainder of my life churns my stomach.