Free Spiritdell Book 1 by Dalya Moon Page A

James has gone out to ask a neighbor for a painkiller, leaving the two of us alone.
    “Julie, wanna know the truth about how James got his black eye?” I ask her.
    She pauses in chewing her breakfast, which is mayonnaise and potato chips on a bun—no hot dog. With a hand over her mouth, she says around the gummy food, “He didn't fall and hit a tree branch?”
    “No. Can you keep a secret?”
    At the word secret, the corner of her mouth turns up. I knew it! No girl can resist a secret, not even Julie, who pretends to be above such girly things. I pour us both some orange juice, lean in conspiratorially, and tell her the real story.
    Julie cracks a smile. “That's why he wants to go home early,” she says. “He's afraid to run into her!”
    “No doubt. She might ask to go for round two, and he'll go for it—because he's James—and she'll punch out the other eye.”
    “Serves him right, going off with some girl he doesn't know.”
    “Now, now, we don't condone violence, do we?”
    Julie snickers into her hand. “Of course not.”
    James walks in the door and stamps the dust off his feet. Julie and I try our best to look innocent as he eyes us suspiciously.
    “You told her, didn't you, Zan?” James says. “You two can be such gossipy girls!”
    “Calling me a girl, are you? I'll take that as a compliment.” I initiate the secret handshake with Julie, who accepts readily. Outside the window, the sun comes out from behind a cloud, bathing the breakfast nook in golden light. Everything's better now that Julie and I are back on track as friends.
    So, if all is good, why do I feel like things are about to go terribly wrong?
    * * *
    We grab our bags and load up the Jeep. Julie's been driving James nuts with her need to analyze what happened to him last night.
    “I've heard about this phenomenon,” Julie says. “The gender politics are quite fascinating. It started because of some TV show, where a young girl punches an older guy during sex. Someone started a web site. Facepuncher, or something like that. Lots of women sign on and post their own stories.”
    “You're making this up,” I say.
    She rubs her arm, which is still red from the bee sting yesterday, but less so. “Like you guys made up the story about a bee sting being lucky?”
    “Damn,” James says. “Now I can't remember if I made it up or not. It's all in my head together, like those urban legends about kidnappers posing as birthday party clowns.”
    “Who'd trust a clown?” I say as I put the bag of leftover buns and potato chips in the back of the Jeep. “Besides, kidnapping can't be so difficult. Just go to one of those big grocery stores and help yourself to some screaming brats.”
    “It disturbs me that you two put so much thought into such things,” Julie says. “Now, about this odd trend of young women embracing violence as a means of expression ... did she explain to you why she punched you? Is it for a performance art project or something?”
    “There wasn't a lot of talking,” James says.
    “Shotgun,” Julie says coolly, just as I'm reaching for the passenger-side door.
    I start to protest that Julie had the front on the way out, but instead, I hold the door for her. “After you, m'lady.”
    “Don't play like you're being chivalrous,” Julie says. “I called shotgun fair and square, just like a guy would. I demand to be treated equally!”
    “Yes, Sir. Uh. Yes, person.”
    Once we're all inside the vehicle, James says, “I think the real kidnapping money's in getting the rich kids. For ransom.”
    “Phew, we're safe,” I say. “I have nothing of value.”
    “Zan, your power's valuable,” Julie says. “I have nothing as good as that, whatsoever. If you wanted to give your power to me, I'd take it. I'd probably even pay you.”
    James starts the engine and drives the Jeep to the road exiting the lake. We spend the next half hour talking about ways to monetize my power, but most of them are pretty evil and involve