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Here’s a paragraph and then a quick scene that takes place soon after Kristy suffers a concussion while playing soccer. It’s the “inciting event” that propels the novel forward.
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Light breaks through the curtains, bringing with it a sharp pain to her forehead. Kristy imagines a jagged crack running from eyebrow to hairline. She can’t bear to call out her mother’s name. So she waits, eyes squeezed shut, pillow over her face, like an aphid on the underside of a leaf. A black dot of silence. She’ll be better soon. As good as new. Running the field and scoring goals. This is the worst of it. Yes, she tells Megan Rapinoe, who is staring back at Kristy from a soccer poster on the wall, this is the very worst.
—
It was the first time Kristy was alone for the day in an empty house. No problem. She’d just take it slow, recover.
That was the word, over and over, recover.
“That’s your job now,” her father advised. “Just get better, a little bit better each day.”
Sure. Okay.
But how do you do that when your head feels like it’s covered with bubble wrap? When your brain doesn’t feel right? When it hurts to think? Every time Kristy turned her head, it took an extra second for her eyes to focus. For a moment, it’s just blur.
Kristy padded softly downstairs, moved into the kitchen, slid two pieces of cinnamon raisin bread into the toaster. The room smelled like coffee and eggs and it turned her stomach. There were a few dishes in the sink and for some reason this unsettled her. But why? Who cares? She stood by the counter holding a knife.
Time passed. She blinked. Looked down.
A knife was in her right hand.
There was a window above the sink overlooking the backyard. Trees, grass, the deck. Leaves beginning to change colors, drop down to the ground. No action at the bird feeder. It was empty, anyway. No seed.
So this was what it was like to stay home on a school day. For two weeks straight. The big echoing house. The world of nothingness outside. A voice in her head asked, Is it empty, or full of nothing?
Oh, how very zen.
Kristy noticed that the faucet was running. She shut it off.
Why was a knife in her right hand?
The smell of cinnamon. And something else—a burnt, bitter aroma. Kristy remembered the toaster, the toast, the butter, and the reason for the knife. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Didn’t bother, even, to remove the blackened bread from the toaster. It could wait. It could all wait. She placed the butter knife on the counter and headed back upstairs. The bed beckoned.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow will be better.
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