JamieFrei

OPENING SCENE - Introduces protagonist, protagonist sympathy, setting, and tone CHAPTER ONE I held a stunning, white vintage gown to my neckline and gazed at myself in the mirror, the corners of my mouth curving into a subtle smile. I could almost feel the weight of its past in my hands as the feeble dress hung warily beneath a thin layer of plastic. Imagining it glistening under ballroom lights, I mourned for the garment cast out for a few loose threads, a broken zipper, or love gone wrong. With its exquisite lace and hand-sewn beads, the gown was glamorous and elegant, two things I was not. Although different, given that we were both in a lonely secondhand shop that morning, we were the same—abandoned. I had faith that there was still a place for it in the world, and perhaps, there was also a place for me. I put the gown back on the crowded rack but kept an inner glow that would carry my spirit through the rest of the day. Catching my reflection again, I barely recognized the woman in a button-down flannel shirt and skinny jeans staring back at me. Despite only thirty-two years on earth, my worries had etched tiny creases around my eyes, and my once vibrant, blonde hair hung limp and lifeless. I had asymmetrical freckles—more on my left cheek than my right—a quirky feature I always hoped to grow out of. As if I had traveled forward in a time machine, I had nothing to show for the last decade of my life—ten sedentary years. I could understand how Rip Vann Winkle felt when he awoke, a sense of lost time and missed opportunities. It was another overcast day in a gloomy week in a string of months that felt like years in a small town in New Jersey. Second Chances, a quaint thrift store, opened early on a Saturday to accommodate the young, thrifting moms and retired women who met for coffee and antiquing while their husbands sat at Burger King complaining about socialist politics and inflation. I didn’t like the morning shift, but I enjoyed seeing the sunrise over our little town before the cobblestone streets were filled with mopeds, brunching friends, weekend tourists, and prowling panhandlers emerging from the shadows. Freeman, New Jersey's historic backdrop was magnificent but eerie on a foggy day, as if ancient ghosts were coming out to play. Downtown had a certain charm, a beauty often overlooked but still there, waiting to be appreciated. Old brick buildings with peeling rustic shutters sat between newer structures with clean lines that fit the modern world. The juxtaposition of the architecture perfectly represented the town's inhabitants– transplants from neighboring towns mixed with deeply rooted, flawed families who had always been there and would never leave. It was the tenth anniversary of my cousin Sarah’s disappearance. My mother started the morning by nervously pacing around the kitchen, searching for words to fill the void. She would stay busy cleaning the house all day until her fingertips were raw. The ripple of pain ran heavily through our home, but we never spoke about it, each of us handling the day with our preferred coping mechanism. Since my Aunt Clara was gone, there was no one else to grieve the empty spot in our family tree. With no grave or closure as to what happened, she didn’t know how to mourn or pay her respects, so she hid the emotions that wanted to erupt like an angry volcano. Sarah was only twenty-two when she went missing, and instead of the focus and urgency her case deserved from local authorities, it was met with indifference. With her party-girl reputation and frequent run-ins with the law, Sarah’s disappearance gave the police relief rather than remorse. “I heard Claire McWilliams just had a baby,” my mother said as she cleaned the kitchen counter for the fifth time, scrubbing feverishly at a speck in the granite. Her eyes were bloodshot. “That’s nice,” I replied, taking a bite of cereal. “Joanne is so happy to be a grandma. Now I’m the last in line,” she continued in a high-pitched tone that made my skin crawl. She waited for a response, but I had none. “Betsy told me yesterday that your old friend Marissa just got divorced from Jeremy Hoffman. I always thought you and Jeremy would make a better couple. You remember him, right? The altar boy,” she asked, examining my face for a reaction as she pulled on yellow latex gloves. “Maybe he wasn’t as perfect as you thought. You didn’t even know him,” I replied, thinking about his racy high school reputation. “Well, he always seemed like a nice young man." “They always do.” “Oh, Fiona, you’ll never marry with that cynicism.” There was no use in arguing. A bucket of water overflowed in the sink as I excused myself, brushing past my father as he meandered into the kitchen with little life in his step. “Good morning, dear,” my mother said, forcing a smile. He looked at her dirty blouse and the rows of cleaning supplies stacked on the kitchen table. “Where’s my breakfast?” he responded. I stepped outside and began fishing through tied-up garbage bags in the Second Chances donation bin. Two baby raccoons frolicked by the dumpster, and I stopped momentarily to admire the nocturnal creatures scurrying around in the fog. How sweet they were when no one was watching. The larger one used its human-like hands to hold and nibble a milk carton while the little one clawed the side of the green trash container. When I took a step closer, the mother’s head shot out of the dumpster, hissing at me with its pointy fangs. Its black-striped eyes stared me down like a bandit, and I immediately turned and rushed to get the donated items in the doorway. After carrying stacks of donations into the stockroom, a group of stylish older women entered the shop. Busy discussing an upcoming auction at a historic mansion on the other side of town, they ignored my attempt to greet them. The deceased woman had apparently left her estate to charity, leaving elitists in shock and envy. They were stunned that her possessions would soon be in the hands of the highest bidder. What a shame. Like all small towns, gossip was always brewing. It was difficult for people not to be connected in some way. If it’s true that everyone on Earth has six degrees of separation, then it was more like three in our town. “Excuse me,” a sassy grey-haired woman called out. “Hi. What can I help you with this morning?” I answered as cheerfully as I could. “Do you have any fur coats? I’m going to a Great Gatsby theme party. I’d love to find one to wear over my flapper dress—It’s been getting chilly in the evenings,” the woman answered, partially talking to me but more so to her friends. She was right. It was barely October, but Winter was creeping in. I thought for a moment, carefully choosing my words. “No, we don’t carry fur. Sorry. Margaret is a vegan,” I responded politely, nervously fidgeting with my hair. The woman muttered something to her friends and they shuffled out, annoyed by me or animal welfare. Perhaps I was self-conscious, but I felt like customers often smiled at me with pitiful faces, wondering why I wasn’t doing something better with my life. Those who knew I was connected to the infamous missing girl, Sarah Wegman, were even worse, their expressions judgmental and accusatory, casting a shadow on my character and future as if her bad behavior was hereditary. The news had positioned Sarah as a troublemaker, leaving out the warmth of her personality that would have made the residents of our small town want to search for her. She wasn’t perfect but she deserved justice just as much as anyone else. Guilt ran through me as I regretted my lack of effort to sell the ladies something. My lack of focus came from my twisted stomach and distracted mind that wouldn't stop replaying my parent’s conversation from the night before. “It’s time, Laura,” my father said. “I’m not supporting her any longer.” “She’s doing her best, Bill. You know she’s fragile. You can’t just throw her from the nest,” my mother argued. “She’ll figure it out. We can’t prop her up forever.” “I wouldn’t say that’s what you’ve been doing.” As I leaned in to listen closer, the stairs creaked beneath my feet, and their conversation abruptly stopped. I popped outside to clean the front windows and a police car sped past me with its lights on, piercing the silence with its siren. Before I could wonder what might have happened, I noticed an old woman hobbling across the street through the misty air. A strong odor of patchouli came over me as she approached. “Hello, would you like a fortune reading?” “Sorry, that’s not really my thing.” “You can’t change the future, but there’s no harm in being prepared,” she murmured with a raspy voice. I examined her long yellowish-grey hair and cracking olive skin as she studied me with dueling eyes. “I like to be surprised. Thanks anyway." I couldn’t handle any bad news. “Suit yourself.” The woman continued past me toward a small storefront down the block. A warm breeze blew, and I wondered if it was a full moon. I continued squeegeeing the windows until every streak was gone. That afternoon, my boss, Margaret, and I unpacked a dozen bags of wrinkled clothing. We examined each piece for holes and stains, steamed and tagged every item, and then hung them all in their designated areas in the store. Margaret was a fifty-five-year-old widow with a zest for life and a passion for bringing the past into the present. Well-known for her eccentric personality, she was an icon in the downtown community. Every day, Margaret ran the shop wearing colorful garb, her reading glasses hanging off her nose with a bedazzled strap holding them on her face, her hair in a messy bun. Her energy was youthful, but her stories and wisdom made her seem ancient. She had an intoxicating laugh and a generous spirit that gave me hope during a time when I needed it most. “Someone must have cleaned out their entire attic,” I said, cringing at the dust-covered boxes. Clay pottery, handwoven baskets, a framed oil painting of Cape May, and a ship in a bottle were some highlights. Stacks of antique plates, wine glasses, handmade quilts, embroidered pillows, vintage handbags, and a pile of gold picture frames with the original stock photos were sprawled out in front of me. We opened a velvet box with several gold necklaces and an antique turquoise pendant. “Head up, Buttercup! We hit the jackpot. We have some real gems here!” Margaret beamed, throwing a black feather boa around my neck. “Yeah, neat stuff!” I responded, digging deep to match her enthusiasm as my eyes glanced at the clock. There was one box left. It was beat up and separate from the rest of the boxes we opened. I cut down the cardboard seam and was pleasantly surprised to find a few trendy boho items like dreamcatchers and macrame wall hangings. “Oooh, what’s this?” “Let me see. I wonder where this stuff came from. You finish sorting that clothing over there, and then you can go home.” I shifted to the other end of the store and sifted through more bags of donations—sweaters, stretched-out tees, and sun-bleached swimsuits. Sand fell from the pocket of a sheer cover-up, spilling all over my lap. I watched from afar as Margaret delved through the mystery box. She didn’t look impressed. “This is all junk. No one wants to buy some trendy Made in China art they could’ve bought at Target a year ago.” “Well, even these things need a second chance, right?” “And that’s why I’m the owner, and you’re not." When Margaret disappeared into the stockroom, I felt my energy draining like a slowly deflating balloon. After what felt like my thousandth bag, I found a small antique wooden box that piqued my interest. It must have gotten separated from one of the larger bins. It drew me in like a magnet. Gently lifting the lid, I saw a piece of woven fabric thoughtfully wrapped around an object. I raised the corner enough to see a wooden sculpture inside. “Fiona, can you grab the step stool?” Margaret shouted. “Sure! Be right there!” I yelled back. I tucked the box between a stack of sweaters to examine it later. I didn’t want Margaret trashing it with the other junk. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. A young woman sets out to find a missing girl to try to forgive herself for the cousin she couldn’t save a decade ago. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: sketch the antagonist. The antagonist of my story is a drug dealer named Lucifer. He is the one that Fiona witnesses kidnap the missing girl, but a twist comes in the final battle scene revealing who he is conspiring with. Lucifer is an antagonist to two women that Fiona becomes, giving her two perspectives of him and his capabilities. He’s a tattoo-covered skinhead, small and scrappy, seeking power and control wherever he can get it. The reader also learns about Lucifer’s back story through third-person POV threaded throughout the novel, which gives insight into who he was before he went “bad” ahead of when the protagonist figures it out. The third person POV gives more information about Kevin, the supporting character/love interest/missing girl’s brother, and informs the reader that Lucifer was Kevin’s best friend turned nemesis. Lucifer kidnaps Kevin’s sister (the missing girl, Hannah) in retaliation. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: BREAKOUT TITLE The Vicarious Life of Fiona Ferguson The Lonely Life of Fiona Ferguson The Mystical Mind of Fiona Ferguson FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Two smart comparables for your novel. Genre: Magical Realism (could be marketed as Mystery or Book Club fiction) Comps: Oona Out of Order by Margarita Montimore meets All the Missing Girls by Megan Miranda FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound. When a socially awkward young woman gets the power to immerse herself in the past lives of clothing in a secondhand store, she accidentally witnesses a missing girl’s kidnapping and descends into a web of small-town secrets and lies as she tries to find the girl and battle her inner demons. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. The primary conflict is finding Hannah, the missing girl Fiona witnessed being kidnapped. Fiona feels more like an underdog than a heroine, but her cousin’s unsolved case drives her forward despite her lack of confidence. Inner conflict: After being depressed for a decade, Fiona struggles with self-doubt and insecurity. After ten years of seclusion, she feels left behind by her peers who have all grown up and built lives for themselves. Due to her lack of real-world experiences, she's older on the outside but still feels like a child within. When Fiona runs into an old friend and hears about the girl’s family and career, Fiona feels small, unaccomplished, and insecure. While others were building their lives, she was secluded from the world and missing out on life. She must grow beyond her victim mentality to become a victor, move forward, and get what she wants out of life. Secondary Conflict: Fiona and her mother have a difficult relationship. Her mother's neurotic behavior and hypervigilance toward her daughter strain their ability to connect. This conflict is subtle, but their interactions are ungenuine and forced when they see one another. Fiona's mother never gives her the encouragement she needs to become the woman they both want her to be. As Fiona grows throughout the story, her mother stays the same, but Fiona's newfound understanding of her heals their wounded relationship. Core Wound: Much of Fiona's social struggle and years of depression resulted from a secret she had kept since childhood. After accidentally witnessing her parent's friend sexually assault her older cousin, Sarah, at a family party, Fiona lives with immense guilt and shame that she didn't tell anyone what she saw. After the assault, Sarah begins to spiral out of control, partying and getting into trouble with the law. When Sarah disappeared, Fiona couldn't forgive herself for what she knew, and she felt that if she had reported what happened, things may have been different for Sarah. The pain Fiona felt drove her into a clinical depression that put a pause on a decade of her life. In order to heal and move forward, Fiona must forgive herself. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. The setting of my novel takes place in a small town in New Jersey. Freeman is a made-up place modeled after a little town along the Delaware River just over the border from Pennsylvania. Built upon Native American soil, the town is filled with ancient stories about early settlers who built their fortunes by establishing the area’s first railroad system, their ancestors continuing their legacy of wealth and power, generation after generation. The town is similar to many small American towns where everyone is connected somehow—through work, school, church, etc. My story is set in the present day, but I chose not to use modern technology heavily to make it a timeless story. Much of the story occurs at Second Chances, a thrift shop where Fiona works. Here, she finds the enchanted sculpture that turns her life upside down. Fiona’s apartment is also part of the plot. It is a little garage that she moves into early in the story as her parents urge her to be independent. Many other settings in my story are briefly visited as Fiona travels into the lives of others—an alleyway, a burger joint, Princeton, a lavish estate, a nightclub, and a gym, to name a few. The settings change to different places, periods, and seasons in New Jersey, with one exception briefly taking Fiona to the West Coast. When Fiona travels into the former life of donated merchandise, each new setting is vividly described as she experiences the moments she’s vicariously living, embracing them with all of her senses.