Preface

Welcome to the only serial mini-novel I currently have up here. "The Vorpal Library" isn't actually its title, but I needed something to tag it with and it has been called this by other readers in the past. The entire thing is really only a draft, so please be gentle when it comes to grammar errors and random tense shifts. If I ever have time I'll go back through and clean them up, but in the meantime don't expect high polish. I do this for fun, not to be published!

It is also currently unfinished. I've blocked out roughly thirteen chapters total, but have only written four. I'm getting ready to start it back up, and will likely manage a chapter a week once I do.

Before you ask-- Yes, this is somewhat autobiographical, though Chris should by no means be considered me. Lily is completely based on my best friend from high school, while Heather and Chloe are bits and pieces of other girls I have known through the years. Many of Chris' experiences are my own, but not her thoughts or actions. Many people who read my work confuse the first person and take it literally, which I think cheapens Chris.

With all that in mind, welcome. Please give me feedback, if you wish, as long as it doesn't involve grammar! That I can take care of on my own.

I don’t know why I can’t resist the smoke and throbbing bass of Miami-Dade’s night clubs. Most of my friends go down to Coconut Grove at night and party at the restaurants there, but I go off to any place that has a good beat and a lot of booze. It’s a bad idea, I know; a college junior pulling a double major who can barely afford her share of rent, let alone food, has no need to be going anywhere with a cover charge. But, night after night, I still go- somehow I always have the five dollars it takes to get in and mix sweat with total strangers.

It’s the dancing that draws me. Ever since I was little I’ve been obsessed with it. All excess money that should go to clothe me normally is spent on fabric and beads to trim the newest costume I came up with in my head. My roommates tease me that I’ve missed my calling: Instead of being a Biology and Journalism major, I should have gone into fashion and clothing design. Trust me- if my parents had been willing to pay for the tuition, I would have. But Daddy is heart-set on me “making something of myself”, and it is evidently impossible for me to do it in a way that would have been perfectly normal and respectable for a woman thirty years ago. My father is the only feminist I know; when I asked him to let me take my first dancing class (jazz), he told be to take a martial art instead (judo). We compromised with capoiera- I got my music, he got his strong, kick-ass daughter.

Two weeks ago my father and mother came up to visit and see the flat I was sharing with three other girls. The rent is insane, but we all agreed that we had to have it because the living room is gigantic- and it has a hardwood floor that dances well. It’s also on the ground floor, so Lily, my flamenco-obsessed best friend of three years, doesn’t have to deal with angry neighbors who get sick of her constantly stomping around above them.

My mother took one look at the floor when she walked in and squealed in delight “Chris, this place has to be so expensive! How can you afford this?” I smiled vacantly at her and muttered something about four working girls, we split the rent, etc. Earlier she commented that I was looking thin; she has yet to realize that the two are directly related. All of us have lost weight to keep this apartment, and each night we eat a half-course meal we remind ourselves of how cool the living room floor is. So far we feel that it is an even trade.

Daddy grunted appreciatively when Mother started asking him what he thought of the apartment, then asked me “So, are you doing well in school?”
I nodded meekly and decided not to ask him to define ‘well.’ “Yes, Daddy.”
He grunted again. “Not failing any classes, are you?”
Not yet. “No, Daddy.”
“Ah.” Then, the inevitable question: “So, how’s the car?”

And there we have it. No matter how much Daddy may want his little girl to succeed, the car came first. It’s a Saturn SL2, not even anything fancy, but he acts like I own a Rolls. If I do end up failing a class this year, all I’ll have to do to break the news is say “Hey Daddy, I wrecked the car.” Once he found out that I had lied he’d be so relieved that he wouldn’t care if he’d just wasted a few thousand dollars in tuition on me.

I should be careful about saying things like that, though. It has gotten me into trouble before. Freshman year, when I went home for Thanksgiving, my sarcastic sense of humor got me into a lot of trouble. I had gotten my tongue pierced the month before, and managed to go two days before they noticed. When they did, my father just sighed and asked me if I was masochistic, but my mother went ballistic. “What did you DO?! What if that gets infected! Couldn’t you have chosen a better way to rebel?”
I was in a bad mood and was annoyed by her reaction, so I responded a bit rudely. “It’s not rebellion, mom. It’s good for business. A career move, if you will.”
“WHAT!” She stared at me in stunned silence.
“And it’s past the point where infection is an issue. That was last month. See, I got drunk and woke up the next morning in some guy’s dorm with my hands tied together by my pants and a safety pin through my tongue. I decided I wanted to keep it, so he lent me his old nipple bar to replace the pin. I should give it back to him soon. What was his name…”

In retrospect I know I should have kept my mouth shut. I was just angry that she automatically assumed I hadn’t put any thought into it at all. I spent a long time researching piercers, and made sure the one I chose used sterile methods. But, had I told her all that instead of being an ass, I might not have been forced to pee in a cup for a drug test every two weeks for the next year.

We haven’t had a fight like that for over a long time, thankfully. They’ve started to realize that I make my own decisions now, for good or bad. Even still, I was glad when they left. They may be my parents, but right now I feel like they don’t belong in my life. When they come here, they bring Ohio with them, and my new little city loses some of its charm.

That’s probably why I’m headed to the club again tonight when I have that midterm in three days. Normally I’m not quite that irresponsible about my schoolwork.
Before leaving, they gave me money to “go buy myself something nice for the apartment.” If tonight is any indication, I’m probably going to end up spending it on clubbing, vodka and iridescent purple satin for my new bellydancing costume.

I feel justified, though, when I look at the car.