Touch of kindness, p.1
Touch of Kindness, page 1
Published by 5310 Publishing Company
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This is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. All of the situations, names, characters, places, incidents, and scenes described are imaginary. None of the characters portrayed are based on real people but were created from the imagination of the author. Any similarity to any living or dead persons, business establishments, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by R. Loomis and 5310 Publishing Company. All rights reserved, except for use in any review, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Reproducing, scanning, uploading, and distributing this book in whole or in part without permission from the publisher is a theft of the author’s intellectual property.
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TOUCH OF KINDNESS (1st Edition) - ISBNs:
Hardcover: 9781998839148
Paperback: 9781998839155
Ebook/Kindle: 9781998839162
Author: R. Loomis | Editor: Alex Williams
Cover and Interior Design: Eric Williams (@eric5310pub)
The 1st Edition of Touch of Kindness was released in June 2024
YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / General
YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Romance
YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Contemporary
Narrative themes explored may include: Teenage fiction: Fantasy romance; Coming of age; Identity and belonging; Self-awareness and self-esteem;
After Dori is captured and taken to the Otherworld, a place full of romance, magic, and fantastical creatures, getting back to her home in Texas will be harder than she could have ever expected. A chain of events will change her life forever.
For my niece, Ava.
Be kind, be brave, and never forget there is strength in compassion.
And for you, reader. Without you, my words would simply fade into nothingness. Because of you, Dori’s story has a voice.
Thank you.
1
“And they all lived happily ever after.”
I close the book with a snap and roll my eyes. It’s always the same. Boy meets girl. Girl falls in love. Girl gets married. Boy carries her off into the sunset, not a care in the world.
It’s a fantasy. The sunsets may be glorious here in Texas, but I haven’t found a single prince or even a cowboy to sweep me off my feet. Instead, I’ve got a slew of things to do and not enough time to do them.
Welcome to senior year.
The bell rings and I stuff the book in my bag before I leave, carefully sliding it between my laptop and my script of Hamlet. Ms. Petite, my theatre director, might kill me if I bend the pages… or worse, make me pay for it when I turn it in. If I want to be able to go to college next year, I can’t afford any extra expenses. I’ve got the job at the nursery, but I still don’t know if I’ll be able to pay my tuition. Gardening isn’t a lucrative gig.
Heading down the main hallway, I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the person in my way until I bump into them. My bag slips off my shoulder, scattering pens and papers across the tile floor.
I drop to pick up my stuff and mutter, “Sorry, I—” My words fade as I lift my eyes to stare at the girl I ran into. Pale skin. Flowing silvery-blonde hair all the way down her back. And an iridescent-white dress that looks like it could have come straight out of a fairy tale. It even has a short train attached to the back, sparkles glistening in the fluorescent hallway lights.
Behind the girl stands Mrs. Hernandez, the school secretary. She peers down at me and smiles a smile I know all too well. “Oh, Miss Livingston, you’ll be perfect. Dorcas, this is Charlotte,” she says, gesturing to the beautiful girl. “She’s new here and needs a friend to help find her classes. Now, I know you’re a senior and she’s a sophomore, but it would be so kind of you to help her out. Could you do that?”
There’s a look of pleading on Mrs. Hernandez’s face so I reply, “Sure, but it’s Dori. Nice to meet you.” I stand and hold out my hand, but the girl doesn’t take it. Instead, she curtsies and lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes are bright silver, glittering with a magical glow. Maybe she’s got colored contacts? That’s gotta be it because those eyes aren’t natural.
“Hello, Dori.” Even her voice sounds otherworldly as if she’s speaking in an echo chamber.
Mrs. Hernandez gives me a thankful wink and heads back to her office, leaving me alone with Charlotte.
“What’s your next class?” I ask. She tilts her head and wrinkles her little nose, so I reach across to grab the schedule in her hand. She offers no resistance as I take it and read aloud, “Algebra 2- Mr. Sharp- Room 112. That’ll be down this hall. Go to the left and it’s the second door on the right. Got it?” She simply stares at me with those silver eyes. I don’t think she understood a word I said. Maybe she speaks another language? Then, it hits me. “Have you ever been to school before? Like this one?” She worries her bottom lip. “Were you homeschooled?”
She looks confused about the word then says, “I have never been to school before. I never needed to.”
That’s weird. Maybe she’s from a farm where they work half the year gathering crops, so they don’t send their kids to school. But she’s not dressed like she came from a farm. She looks like she came from a castle.
I stop myself from diving into the abyss of questions with a deep breath. This isn’t some mystery I’m trying to solve, and I’ve got a class starting in less than three minutes. It’s time to move on.
“I’m gonna be late to Theatre Tech if we don’t hurry. I’ll take you to Algebra and show you the other ones along the way. Most sophomore classes are in the same hallway.”
I point out English and Biology as we pass them, gesturing to the rest of her classes as being farther down the hall. We get to Algebra 2 and the bell rings, making me bite my cheek. Why’d I have to agree to help Mrs. Hernandez? Mom would say it was my kind-natured heart. I’m more inclined to believe I’m just a people-pleaser. Another annoying attribute to add to my growing list.
I hand Charlotte’s schedule back to her. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll try to catch you later, okay?”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Dori. Thank you so much for guiding me,” she says in her ethereal voice and curtsies again before entering her classroom.
Guiding me? Dashing back to the main hallway, I put the strange girl out of my mind and decide to avoid the hallway in front of the office for the rest of the year. Solid plan.
I slip into the Theatre room as Ms. Petite hollers, “Quiet on the set!” She’s been running the Hamlet and Ophelia scenes every day for the past week. For some reason, Gracelyn is making Ophelia sound like a southern belle.
“Think she’ll get it right today?” Zyph asks me as I slip into my seat between him and Rory.
“Doubt it,” Elin cuts in from where she’s sitting on the other side of him. “She’s more likely to start fanning herself and swooning when Hamlet enters.” She jerks her head at Rory. “You should’ve been cast as Ophelia, not little miss perfect up there.”
Rory blushes, batting her hand in the air. “Stop it. I’m not that good.” She’s being modest and we all know it. She could act circles around Grace. But she’s never been cast as anything but an understudy. I doubt Zyph or Elin know why. I also doubt they noticed the bruise on her arm when her maroon sweater sleeve rolled up.
Leaving class, I corner her by the lockers. “When did that happen?”
She knows exactly what I mean. She yanks her sleeve down to cover the blue and black spot, glancing around nervously. “It’s nothing. You know me. Clumsy as ever.”
I give her a hard look, seeing past the fake smile and too-bright eyes. “Aurora Steele, don’t you dare lie to me. Did your dad do that?” She stares straight ahead and won’t meet my gaze, finger combing a clump of her red hair. “He did, didn’t he?”
“Even if the answer was yes, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You can call the cops.”
She huffs a laugh to hide her frustration. “Really? What are they gonna do?” She closes her eyes and leans her head against the lockers. “We both know it won’t solve anything. I just have to last seven months until I graduate.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.” I hate it, but Rory’s right. Last June, I drove her to the ER with a vicious black eye after a nasty fight with her dad. He’d been drunk and came home to find she’d forgotten to take out the trash. When asked what happened at the hospital, I told the medics her dad beat her up before she had the chance to concoct a story. The police investigated but ultimately ruled it an accident, suggesting to Mr. Steele that he should consider joining Balfour’s alcohol recovery group. He didn’t. Instead, he switched up where he hit his daughter to more inconspicuous places.
I sigh inwardly. Only seven more months and she can get out of this town and away from this life.
Maybe I can too.
***
At the end of a long school day, most students pack up and go home. Not me.
October is in the middle of One Act Play season and I’m at school until rehearsal is over at eight o’clock.
Zyph and I are heading down the stairs from the light booth after a mediocre run-through when he asks me, “Got any big plans for the weekend?”
“Just work. You?”
He shakes his head of shaggy black hair and scratches at his beard, his light-brown skin catching in the glow of the ghost light on the stage. “Not really. Want to come over and watch a movie tomorrow night? Mom is making tamales and Jose and Maria would love to see you,” he says, mentioning his younger brother and sister.
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.” It’s a noncommittal answer and he knows it. Zyph tries and fails to hide the disappointment on his face, but thankfully lets it go. He’s been asking me for weeks to watch a movie with him. I keep avoiding it because if I agree, he’ll think it’s more than two friends hanging out.
When we dated for a whopping two months of sophomore year, there wasn’t a spark for either of us. So, we called it a mutual breakup and returned to being friends the same day.
That’s the entirety of my love life.
I’ve always wanted to like someone, or better yet, for someone to like me. It just hasn’t worked out that way. Dorcas Livingston has never been someone to be desired. I’m not ugly, but I’m not a pretty girl, either. I used to have braces, and add in my brown, curly, crazy hair, and… you get the picture. I now have perfectly straight teeth—thanks, Dr. Orzo—and since I started running, I’ve gotten curves instead of the rolls of fat that plagued me in junior high. My best feature are my green eyes which Grandpa said would one day snare me a fine-lookin’ young man. Still, I’m not in line for Miss Texas, and the negligible list of boys lining up at my door is proof of that. It’s not like I’m asking for a fairy-tale knight in shining armor. That’d be ridiculous.
I just want what every girl wants: for someone to like me for me.
It’s drizzling when we get to the parking lot, turning my curly hair into a frizzy mess. Zyph jumps in his red jeep as a streak of lightning crosses the sky. I wave bye to him and get in my pickup, praying I make it home before the storm gets worse. My windshield wipers have never worked quite right. “Part of the joys of owning an old truck,” Grandpa would say. I flick on my headlights and that’s when I see her. There’s a white figure by the front doors of the school. At first glance, I thought my eyes were playing tricks with me. No one’s at school this late and all the other Theatre kids left before Zyph and me. But sure enough, when I drive over to investigate, I find Charlotte shivering in the rain.
Rolling down my window, I call out, “Did your parents forget to pick you up?”
She shuffles to the truck, rain dripping down her pale face. She doesn’t have a jacket, bag, or anything other than the thin dress on her shivering body. Even the train of her gown is waterlogged. “I was walking around inside when a man with tan clothes told me I had to leave because the building was closed. I came out here to wait for it to open again. It was open this morning…” She trails off, twisting her hands and glancing at the doors.
It takes me a moment to process what she said. “You mean the janitor kicked you out while you were waiting for school to start tomorrow?”
She considers and nods.
“But it’s Friday. We don’t have school on Saturday.” Why would she think we had school on the weekends? And why didn’t anyone pick her up after school?
Wrinkling her nose and looking down, she rubs her arm.
I rush to think of something to say. Something to do. “Can I drive you home? I’d be happy to drop you off.”
Her wide eyes meet mine then dart to the concrete. In a voice barely louder than the rain she says, “I do not have a home.”
At this point, it’s raining steadily, and she’s soaked to the bone. I do the only thing I know to do.
“Hop in.”
***
We get to my street as the sky breaks loose with another torrent of rain. The only difference between my house and the others in the cul-de-sac is the chipped blue paint and pink crepe myrtle in the flower bed. It may not be much, but it’s home.
I rush inside, bringing Charlotte with me and dripping water all over the Howdy Y’all front mat. The smells of tomato sauce and garlic permeate the entryway as we enter through the crooked screen door.
“Hey, baby, I’m making spaghetti. Just gotta get the Texas toast in the oven,” Mom yells from the kitchen.
“So, this is my house,” I say, getting Charlotte situated on the tufted blue sofa and handing her a plaid blanket to wrap around her shoulders. “I’m gonna tell my mom you’re here. Make yourself comfortable.” She stares around the room curiously, not bothering to reply as I head to the kitchen. My stomach makes its presence known, a loud grumble sounding in the cramped hallway.
“How was school, Dori dear?” Mom asks, sliding the frozen toast into the oven. My mother is a plump woman in her early fifties, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. She dyes her hair platinum blonde and wears it like an old Hollywood movie star, pin curls and everything. She’s always wearing some kind of pantsuit in a bright color. Today, it’s teal. Mom looks at me for my response, her honey-brown eyes taking in my rain-speckled form.
I lean my shoulder against the fridge. “I brought a friend home with me for dinner.”
“Oh, how nice! Elin or Rory? Or is it that cute Zypherus boy?” She gives me a look and I roll my eyes. Would she give it a rest? Zyph’s mom, Mrs. Aguilar, and her have been scheming to get the two of us together since elementary school.
“No, Mom. This is a new friend.” I walk toward her and speak in a quieter, more serious voice, “She was standing outside of the school in the rain and told me she didn’t have a home. I didn’t know what to do so I brought her here. Was that the right thing to do?”
My mom, without even stopping to think, replies, “Of course, honey. What an odd thing for her to say, though. We’ll have to get to the bottom of it after some supper. Where is this friend of yours?” Mom heads out of the kitchen to meet the strange girl in our living room, drying her hands on a dish towel before throwing it over her shoulder. “Hello there! My name’s Beatrice, but you can call me Bee. What’s your name, sweetie?”
Charlotte stands from the couch and curtsies deeply. “Hello, Bee. My name is Charlotte.”
“Well, it’s mighty fine to meet you, Miss Charlotte. Now, I hope you like spaghetti because I always make way too much for the two of us. It’ll be ready in about five minutes. Dear heavens, you’re soaked through. How ‘bout you and Dori head upstairs. I’ll bet she can find you some dry clothes to change into. Hurry back, and we’ll have some dinner.”
I lead Charlotte upstairs as Mom heads into the kitchen.
“I’m not sure I have anything in your size, but I know there’s a sweatshirt and leggings that should fit you in here somewhere.” I rummage through my dresser, handing Charlotte a yellow hoodie with the words Don’t Mess with Texas emblazoned on the front and a pair of cropped leggings.
“Thank you,” she says, considering the clothes like she’s never seen anything like them before. I show her to the bathroom and tell her she can throw her dress over the pink-polka-dot shower curtain, though I bet it’ll take days for that gown to dry.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” I pop back into my room to swap my wet hoodie and jeans for a pair of sweatpants and a vintage band T-shirt. Can’t beat a comfy pair of pants and a tee. After changing, I sit on the couch, tapping my bare feet on the wood floor. I holler at Mom, “Need any help?”
She hollers back, “Naw, almost ready!”
A couple minutes later, Charlotte walks down the stairs in the oversized hoodie and the leggings. “Are you sure this is a proper thing to wear? It is so formfitting.” She twirls around and touches the black pants with a look of wonder.
“Everyone wears leggings. Haven’t you?”
“Oh, no. I was never allowed. I… I think I like them! Thank you,” she says cheerfully as she clasps her hands together.
No home and no pants. This is getting stranger by the minute. Also, the way she says thank you makes me think of a damsel in distress or some fair maiden lost in the forest. I can almost imagine birds singing to her from the windowsill and her singing back to them, a few woodland creatures gathering by her feet.
The oven’s timer goes off, bringing me from my momentary daydream. You need to get a grip on yourself. This is the real world, not some fairy tale. I shake off the crazy ideas and go to the kitchen, followed by Charlotte who seems to glide across the floor.
