Read an Excerpt
Center of Gravity
By Laura McNeill Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2015 Laura McNeill
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7180-3091-9
CHAPTER 1
JACK
ONE MONTH EARLIER WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24
Every day, somebody somewhere needs a hero.
Think about it. The mom lifting a two-ton truck to save her son after a car crash. The dad—who can't swim—who jumps in the water anyway to pull out his drowning daughter. The guy who kicks down the door of a burning building because his friend's kid is trapped inside.
All of a sudden, getting hurt doesn't matter. There's no thinking twice. Just a gut-pumping, jump-off-the-cliff, no turning back.
For these regular people, thrown into crazy life-or-death situations, there's that one big moment. Then they go back to work, their jobs, or school.
And it's someone else's turn.
I'm only in the third grade, but I've been waiting for my whole life.
Waiting for my chance—my moment to be a hero.
An ear-piercing shriek yanks me back to the school playground.
My best friend Mo runs up, breathless. "Emma Dunlop's stuck up in the oak tree." He bends over, chest heaving in the humidity, and puts both hands on his knees. "She's freaking out."
Shielding my eyes, I grit my teeth. The tree's as big as a monster, with twisted brown branches that extend like arms, thick emerald leaves at the fingertips. Spanish moss hangs from the lowest limbs, the ends curling like a snake's tail.
Though I can't see her through the tangle of limbs, I picture Emma hanging on tight to the rough bark. Shaking. Really scared. Trying not to look down at the brick-red clay.
I run a hand through my hair.
She's in trouble. And I know why.
Legend says a man's head—a genie—is hidden in the leaves and branches. Weird, rough pieces of wood make up his face. He has knots for eyes. A bump for his chin. It's for real. I've seen it.
All the kids know the story. If you touch the genie's nose, your wish will come true. Of course my dad doesn't believe in stuff like that and says I shouldn't either. He's a PhD and does an important job at the college. So I guess he knows what he's talking about.
But that's not going to save Emma now. I start to jog, then full-out sprint. At the base of the tree, I push through a crowd of my classmates. Third and fourth graders, gaping, heads tilted, mouths open like baby birds. When I reach the trunk, I squint up and find Emma's brand-new saddle shoes dangling high above me. I see pale, thin legs and the crisp edges of her plaid jumper. And despite everyone talking and whispering, I hear Emma crying. It's a whimpering wail, like a hurt animal.
"Y'all go on back inside now. Go back to class," my teacher says, pushing the group back an inch or two. I end up jostled next to the school librarian, who's holding her hands like she's praying.
Our eyes meet. Mine flicker away.
"Don't even think about it, Jack," she warns.
But I kick off my shoes anyway and grab hold of the trunk. Deep down in my belly, I make myself act like I'm not scared. I don't like heights or even hanging upside down from monkey bars. But Emma needs me. And no one else is doing a thing.
Ms. Martin gasps, but she knows she's too late. I'm out of her reach before she can react. I think hard about one of my favorite superheroes, Daredevil. He's like an Olympic athlete and a master of martial arts. He's blind but uses his other senses to fight crime, beat up bad guys, and save the girl. If he can do it ...
When I look back down at the ground, my stomach churns like I've eaten too many Snickers bars and guzzled a two-liter of Coke. I push the feeling away. Climb, Jack, I say to myself. Just climb. When I start to move my legs again, the first few feet are easy. Soon I'm above everyone's heads.
"They're going to get a ladder," the librarian calls out. "Come on down here, Jack Carson, right this instant. Lord have mercy!"
At the sound of her screech, Emma wobbles. Her saddle shoes kick and knock some bark from a branch. I can't come down now. She's slipping.
"They've called the fire department," my teacher adds. "Truck's on the way."
I pretend I don't hear her and move closer. My head starts to hurt. My ears are ringing. But I take a deep breath and hold on tight to the tree, concentrating on Emma. She's tiny, a first grader, with brown corkscrew curls and a yellow bow pinned to the side of her head. Her pink cheeks are streaked with dirt.
"Hey, Emma," I say, making my voice calm. "Whatcha doing up here?"
She flushes pink. "I wanted to make a w-wish. For my birthday."
A breeze ruffles the leaves, cooling the sweat on my forehead. My hands, gritty with dirt and bark, inch closer. I can almost reach her. "Well, let's make sure you get to your party."
"But I haven't found the genie." She begins to cry, which makes her body wobble. The branch moves up and down, and she starts sobbing harder.
"Emma," I say. "It's okay. I'll help you."
She snuffles and blinks a few times. "I'm scared."
"I know. Me too," I tell her. "But I won't let you fall. Give me your hand."
Her palm is slippery wet. I grip it and try to smile so that she's not so nervous. "Slide your foot toward me. Then the other one."
I watch Emma drag one foot about an inch. She tries the other one but gets her shoe caught on a bump. I inhale sharply, the scent of dirt and sweat filling my nose.
"Wait. Don't move," I say, squeezing her hand.
Sirens wail. The crowd below grows bigger. I swallow hard. Daredevil. Be like Daredevil.
"Hold on," I tell her. "I won't let go."
After what seems like forever, Emma moves her foot closer.
"Can you think of something great, like going on vacation or your birthday?" I ask.
"Or getting a pony." For a moment, she sighs dreamily.
"Right," I say. "Now, let's go."
We begin to climb lower, inch by inch, but my arm muscle cramps. Emma hesitates. I squeeze her hand. I need to get her down. And fast.
"Emma," I whisper. "Look to the right."
The face of the tree genie is right there.
"Oh," Emma breathes.
"Touch his nose, quick."
She reaches out a finger and brushes it, then giggles. Right then, another gust of wind blows through the branches. Her curls tickle my cheek. I almost want to laugh. But I can't. Not yet.
Climbing down is simpler now; the limbs are wider, sturdier. The voices right below us are louder. The last big branch, large enough to hold both of us, is about ten feet up from the ground. We stop here, gasping for breath.
Firefighters are waiting underneath us with a blanket. An ambulance is there with the back door open. Teachers are waving their hands. And saying something.
Jump. They want Emma to jump.
"All right." I use my most grown-up voice. "Emma, I need you to do one more thing."
Her chin moves up and down.
"They want you to let go. So they can catch you."
Emma's arms and legs get stiff. Her eyes widen, and we both swallow a gulp. We're taller than the high dive at Spring Hill Swim Club. I try not to sway when I look at the ground.
"Maybe pretend," I tell her, thinking fast, "that you're a butterfly. Or an eagle."
"How about a unicorn?" She gives me a lopsided grin.
I bite my lip. Enough with the horses. I want to get down. This rescue stuff isn't for sissies.
Emma looks at me.
"They're waiting for you, Emma. On the count of three, okay?"
When the firefighter below calls out "one," she jumps, and her uniform billows open like a plaid parachute. She lands square on the blanket and beams in delight. A firefighter reaches in, grabs Emma, and scoops her up.
Emma waves good-bye to me as the firefighter carries her to the ambulance.
"Think you'll get the pony?" I yell after her.
She shakes her curls. "I can't tell you my wish. It won't come true!"
Emma's mother runs up then, crying, hugging, and kissing her.
With Emma okay, the grown-ups turn back to me. Most of them have their arms crossed and don't look happy. No doubt the principal is ready to dish out a detention or two.
"Dude, your dad's going to freak when he finds out," Mo says and rolls his eyes. "He hates your superhero stuff."
"Don't remind me." Inside, I feel sick. I know that I am supposed to get good grades, play sports, and be polite. My dad isn't a fan of making big scenes.
"It was pretty cool anyway." Mo cocks his head. "Who are you today?"
"Daredevil."
"Nice." He grins and leans against the tree below me, waiting. "You coming down now, superhero?"
I lean back against the trunk, waiting for the firefighters to come back with the blanket. "Yep."
"Go ahead," Mo dares me, raising an eyebrow and grinning.
I hesitate, thinking I'd be crazy to jump. But superheroes take chances, don't they? I'd seen Daredevil jump from this height before. So holding my breath, I let go. Somehow, though, I twist midair and land smack down on my face. Hard.
The belly flop knocks the breath from my lungs. Time stops.
The smell of cut grass makes me want to sneeze. And someone's wearing really, really bad perfume. At least I'm not dead. Everyone is shouting and my ears hurt. There are hands touching my legs and arms. I roll my head an inch to one side. All I can see are shoes. A pair of black heels come closer.
"Jack, sweetheart, can you hear me?"
I push myself up with one arm and swipe at my hair with the back of my hand. "Sure thing," I answer, jaw set at the ridiculous question. Even superheroes stumble sometimes.
"Jack—"
"I'm fine." To prove it, I try to jump up and get to my feet. But like Superman with a mound of Kryptonite in the room, I am so weak that I almost fall over.
The office lady's mouth stretches wide and yawns.
My brain won't work. What is her name? Two of her now? Ink-stained fingers snap in front of my nose. My brain starts to rewind. My knees give out. Everything slides to the right and goes black.
CHAPTER 2
AVA
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24
Life never quite turns out the way you plan. Take my first attempt at gourmet cooking. The twelve-week-long class was a wedding gift from my husband, Mitchell. I think he secretly hoped the instruction would uncover my amazing talent and I'd be the next Giada De Laurentiis.
So armed with a new apron, thick, glossy new cookbooks, and dazzled by my new home's professional kitchen—full of gleaming stainless steel utensils—I bounced fearlessly into the day of instruction.
I proceeded to set both oven mitts on fire, much to the horror of nearby students. The next week, my crème brûlée singed into a charcoal volcano. Week number three, the heady scent of cloves caused a wave of nausea so strong I had to run outside and gulp fresh air. I turned out to be pregnant, of course. So much for the Food Network and my budding career as a chef.
Since then, we keep a fire extinguisher handy, and I work from a collection of standby, no-fail recipes. We've decided that I do excel at comfort food: chicken salad, tacos, and oatmeal cookies. Tonight's plan: fresh vegetables and pasta.
With baby Sam on my hip, I maneuver down the clean, gleaming aisles of Fresh Market, chatting on the phone with our contractor.
"Heart Pine?" I echo, leaning over to pick up fresh broccoli florets. "Isn't that ... really expensive?" I pause and wince when he tells me the cost.
At Mitchell's request, our contractor is building us an amazing staircase in the foyer of our hundred-twenty-year-old home. Crafted to mirror late eighteen-hundreds décor, it will be quite the showpiece. Lovely and very, very expensive.
"So the down payment? You'll need it this afternoon?" I ask, selecting a ripe, ruby-red tomato and holding it up to the light like a jewel.
The contactor confirms that he will, in fact, need quite a large sum. I almost drop the fruit but manage to set it carefully in the buggy. Mitchell hasn't left me the cash or a check. To withdraw it from my household account would take every last penny. The pennies I've been saving, in secret, for the boys' swing set. The swing set I haven't told Mitchell about yet. Mama always says it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, after all.
I stop wheeling the shopping cart to rub the back of my neck. "And if we miss you today?"
His answer is clear. He'll be gone, out of the country, for a week. We'll be behind schedule, and Mitchell will be less than pleased.
"I'll meet you at the house in thirty minutes."
Throat tight, I hang up and check the time on my phone. Sam breaks the tension with a giggle and presses his cheek to my chest. He's flirting with the produce clerk, a cute redhead with big blue eyes. Sam's the most sweet-natured child, and his blond curls, pink cheeks, and dimples draw a bevy of admirers. Of course, as his mother, I'm unduly biased. He's always had my heart.
As I lean to press my lips to his head, my cell buzzes again. It can't be the contractor again. With a small sigh, I answer and press the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
Urgent and clipped, the voice on the phone stops my world. A comet screaming toward Earth, bent on near destruction.
It's about Jack. My third grader. There's been an accident.
I leave the groceries, stammering out an apology to whoever can hear me. My shopping cart, filled with organic chocolate ice cream, soymilk, and Mitchell's favorite whole grain bread, sits behind us, forgotten. On my budget, it was wishful thinking anyway.
I dash for the automatic doors, which open with a hiss and a jolt. Luckily the parking lot's not crazy, and I make it to my Jeep in a matter of steps.
As I buckle him in, Sam gurgles and bats at my face, wanting to play. With a shaking hand, I rub and kiss the top of his sweet head, move his very necessary fuzzy brown bear close, and shut the door. I sprint to the other side of the Jeep, jump in, and almost lose my shoe.
My Jeep's old engine cranks on the first try. Thank you. I give the dashboard an affectionate pat. This is no time to be temperamental.
The wheels groan and grab gravel, throwing it like confetti as I drive out of the parking lot. Sam claps his hands at the clatter of stones and pebbles. My cell phone slides to the floor, out of reach. The slip from the dry cleaners falls between the seats.
Around a curve, the folded pink heart I keep tucked in the visor flutters to the seat beside me. Jack and Sam's homemade valentine. Construction paper, glue, and crayon—more precious than any gift. Two small stick figures, a taller one in the middle with a hair bow. I press two fingers to the soft paper and say a prayer.
* * *
The road rushes under the wheels. I rearrange snippets of the frantic conversation. Gash. Some blood. Breathing fine. Emergency room. A few more miles to the hospital.
I flash back to this morning. Packed sack lunch, flop of dark hair across his bare forehead, navy backpack slung over one shoulder. A surge of pure love courses through my heart. A stab of worry steals my breath. I force myself to focus.
The traffic light ahead flashes green to yellow. Intersection's clear. I push the accelerator to the floor, glance in the rearview mirror. Air from the open window catches Sam's wisps of hair. He smiles, showing off his first few baby teeth, and reaches a chubby hand at the rays of sunshine streaking by, trying to catch the light.
Thump. Thump. The Jeep jerks to the left. I guide the wheel, hold it steady, and take my foot off the gas. When I pull over and brake, the abrupt stop sends up a dust cloud.
"Uh-oh," Sam says.
I unbuckle, jump out, and survey the damage. A glance at the tire confirms it. Flat. Dead.
Hands on my hips, I bite my lip.
Tentatively, I grab the jack from the back of the Jeep, the weight of it solid and heavy in my hands. I can fix this. After all, in my former life, as a school counselor at Mobile Prep, I was the problem-solver, crisis manager, and shoulder to cry on. I always handled situations. And I didn't need help.
Then my eyes fall on Sam as he babbles and blows bubbles in the backseat. I hesitate, gripping the metal between my palms. As the sun beats down on us, heating my skin, my pulse begins to race. Maybe I was fearless because I didn't know any better. I wasn't a mom then. I didn't have two children depending on me. Trusting me to do the right thing, be on time, and not screw up.
I catch a whiff of gasoline and hear the faint rumble of an engine behind me as I open the red Jeep door and stretch for the cell phone. I dial quickly, hoping that my husband answers.
"You've reached Mitchell Carson ..."
A heavy footstep crunches on the pebbled pavement behind me. I hang up and whirl around, nerves already frayed.
"Ava?"
Disbelief hits me. I take in the broad shoulders and smartly pressed uniform and erupt with emotion at the pure, dumb luck of finding Officer Mike Kennedy next to my broken-down Jeep. Between sobs, I squeeze out an explanation. "Jack ... the school ... accident."
Mike holds up a calloused hand to stop me. He's rescued me more than once. "Whoa! Slow down, Ava." His forehead wrinkles. "He's at Springhill Medical Center?"
Throat tight, I nod, trying to process what to do, what to say. Fingers trembling, I reach for the pink heart. Something to hold on to. A piece of Jack.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill. Copyright © 2015 Laura McNeill. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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