Snowed: Book 1 in the Bloodline of Yule Trilogy

Chapter 1

I want to kill the person who tore down my flyer.

The torn blue corners of my flyer are stuck under the brass thumbtacks, surrounded by cheery posters for bible studies and prayer meetings. We're in a public high school, but nobody complains. Nobody but me, of course: Charity Jones. Eleventh-grade troublemaker.

Anger mushrooms inside of me. Bell's about to ring and the meeting is this afternoon. People rush past me on their way to class, bursts of cold white mist escaping their mouths.

Screw this.

The backpack slides from my shoulder to the icy pavement. I dig into it for a spare flyer. I posted the information on the school's online activity board last week but nobody checks that. I tack up the new flyer and stand back to examine it.

'Tis the Season for Reason!

Have Doubts?

You're Not Alone

Join the Skeptics Club

In the Library

Thursday, November 6 at 2:30pm

My back bumps into a solid mass. The campus gorilla.

"Awwww, did someone tear down your Satan Club sign?"

Darren Jacobs. Blond-haired, broad-shouldered, senior quarterback. Leader of what I call the American Teen Taliban aka the "BFJs" — Bullies for Jesus. My throat tightens with fury. The gorilla's girlfriend, Beth Addison, sneers at his side. She's the cheerleading captain and editor of the yearbook.

My face burns as I heave the backpack up over my shoulder. I know I shouldn't answer. "No. But someone did tear down my anti-idiot sign."

As Beth scowls at me, Darren tosses the crumpled blue flyer over his shoulder. So he's the one who tore it down. "You're going to hell, fatso. You and everyone in your little club."

I plunge into the crowd and head over the dead winter grass. Why can't they leave me alone? For years at other schools I was teased for my smarts until I finally got into a magnet school, although sometimes I was still teased for being chubby. But now that we live here in Hickville? I get tormented for being skeptical—and smart and chubby—but mostly for not backing down.

Thanks to the flyer drama, I stagger into first period AP Calculus late, as everyone is already passing forward last night's homework.

"You okay?" Keiko asks as I drop into my seat and slip off my ski jacket.

"Douchebags tore down the sign." My face feels hotter and now leaky.

"Seriously? Isn't that vandalism? I told you we shouldn't have advertised."

Keiko's Smithsonian-grade brains and ethnicity provoke a lot of teasing, which sucks because she's already painfully shy. Her parents moved here from Japan when she was 8 years old. They converted from nothing to being Southern Baptists for unknown reasons. Maybe to fit in? It makes no sense. A non-believer, Keiko has suffered from the endless sermons and restrictions ever since.

As for "diversity," Keiko and I are pretty much it. Hey, at least today no one's called me a "beaner" yet. I'm actually mixed—my dad's black and my mom's white. I wouldn't mind people getting my ethnicity wrong if they weren't such racist jerks about it.

It's California, right? The home of hipsters, homeopaths and tech startups? Not here. Thanks to my dad's new job, we're stuck in the foothills of Sacramento—Oak County, where guns and God overrule science and compassion, and there's a church on every corner. No one here has voted Democrat in at least half a century.

"Charity? Five points off of homework for being late."

Crap.

Mrs. Stewart wrangles the homework into one papery heap. "Everyone take out a pencil for the not-so-pop quiz. Come on, come on."

We settle down for the test. The only sound is Michael Allured sniffing. I once asked him what he was allergic to. He said, "Only two things."

"Only two?"

"Yeah. The air and the ground."

I've had a crush on Michael since I arrived last year. Like most of the guys I have crushes on, he doesn't know this. Also, he's the smartest guy in school. I don't have a chance. He's always been involved with older girls or someone outside of school. Or so I've been told. I like his dark brown eyes and how his mousey brown hair splays forward over his forehead. His decided lack of athleticism hasn't won him much favor with the girls here, but it scores with me for sure.

I make good progress on the quiz before I hear a buzzing in my bag. It's my cell phone on vibrate. It buzzes. And buzzes. Mrs. Stewart glares at me over her reading glasses. Keiko's bag is buzzing out of control, too. We're only required to mute the ring tone, not turn off the phone, but this is distracting.

"Turn it off, Charity," Mrs. Stewart orders. "You too, Keiko."

We shut off our phones.

After class is over, we compare text messages in the hallway. Multiple unknown phone numbers were texting us over and over: Satan. Burn in hell. And various bible verses. Fifty-six messages so far...

I turn off my phone, wondering if I'll ever be able to use it again.

Keiko looks like she's going to cry.

The day rattles on until the last bell rings. I shuffle down the hallways, slouching as if an extra inch of protruding scapula will somehow keep people from staring at me. My younger brother Charles tumbles past me, a flash of white paper between his fingers as he pulls it from his leather jacket. He passes a cigarette to a friend as he presses one between his lips. One of his friends croons, "Hey, man! It's Cherry!"

I walk faster.

"Hey! Shit stirrer!" Charles runs up alongside, cigarette dangling between his lips, his black hair wild. His Vin Diesel complexion and light green eyes are a total win with the chicks. His sloped forehead and permanent squint remind me of a demonic hedgehog.

"What do you want, hoodlum?"

"What the hell did you do to the library?"

I slow down. "What?"

"You can stop embarrassing me any day now, loser." He spits on the ground and marches off.

I hear Christmas caroling. Who is singing? I hurry toward the noise.

Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright.

As I round the music building, I see the library. The carolers flank the front door, holding signs.

JESUS (HEART) YOU

ATHIESM = SATANESM

JESUS IS THE REASON FOR THE SEASON

STOP MILITENT ATHEISM

The crowd shoves signs in the faces of entering kids. Everyone is annoyed, both sign feeders and eaters. As I approach the scene, I vow to be cool, even though I just want to die. I started this fight. I've got to finish it.

I've got to be brave.

A murmur of recognition. They've noticed me. Darren and his church friends are no longer singing "Silent Night" but "Onward Christian Soldier."

"Stop persecuting Christians! You're going to hell, you atheist whore..."

It's not all sweet church words like those.

The shouts are deafening. My whole body feels like collapsing into itself to escape the thousand prickly pins of red-hot hate. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on not caring, on knowing I'm right. On anything except the crowd.

And then I notice her.