Thank You, Mr. Hookworm (The Good Vibes Series Book 1)

  Thank You, Mr. Hookworm

  Beth Lynne

  To Loki, the god of mischief, who inspired me by appearing in my backyard in the form of a cat with a case of hookworm.

  To “Bill,” the real Mittens.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Afterword

  Thank You, Mr. Hookworm

  The Good Vibes Series, Book One

  Copyright © 2018 by Beth Lynne

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity in name, description, or history of characters in this book to actual individuals either living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so much to my kids, Zach and Sydney, who encourage me and lie and tell me I am wonderful when I am actually having a meltdown. Thank you to my husband John, who shuts me up by telling me that wine does not make me gain weight and to have another. Thank you to my mom, who doesn’t remember what state we live in (“confusion,” she says) but always remembers who I am, for now. Thank you to my dad, who messes up my work schedule every Monday and Thursday to have lunch at 1:30 because he hates crowds. Worth it, though.

  Thank you, Craig Hart, at Northern Lake Publishing, for liking this project enough to publish it. And thank you to everyone working behind the scenes to get the book ready for publication.

  1

  Good Vibe One: Sidra

  Sidra couldn’t recall when she first fell in love with Smith. It just seemed to happen. She had never been in love before, but the way she flushed, and her insides burned whenever she saw him or listened to his voice—she just knew it was love. She had tried to resist his pull at first, since there had been so many others vying for his attentions, but she had been pulled in and there was no turning back.

  Smith was his last name, but it was the name by which he asked everyone to call him. “With good reason,” he would say in his teenage baritone voice. “My first name is Barney. What were my parents thinking?” Sidra laughed when she heard that one.

  “Barney,” she said out loud, trying it on her lips. She sighed and smiled, lost in her dream world. She was rewarded by a high-pitched giggle, which was joined by a second, and then a third.

  “Barney!” three voices sing-songed nastily in unison. The giggles sounded again.

  Sidra started, knocking over a juice cup that was part of the balanced school cafeteria lunch that was supposed to make her smarter. The rude giggles belonged to three of the foulest, sluttiest, rudest students ever to grace the halls of Lavender Central High School. Venti, London, and Delia had picked on her since sixth grade, about the time their boobs had come in and hers had not. The three had also grown to dizzying heights, the shortest of them being London at five-six. Venti’s real name was Wendy, but as her growth spurt started to take off in sixth grade and continued through middle school, one of her teachers had dubbed her “Venti” after the drink size at Starbucks. At sixteen, a junior in high school, Venti was now five-ten. Delia hovered exactly in the middle of the two friends at five-eight. Sidra sighed again, this time sadly, as they retreated, giggling copiously, but the sound fading the farther away they moved on their spidery long legs. With one word, they had annihilated her and made her feel as small as she was.

  Sidra was a petite sixteen-year-old, often mistaken for younger because of her height of five-one, tiny frame, and lack of mature looks, to put it politely and gently. Her hair was an untouched rich chestnut brown, her eyes a heavily lashed matching shade, and her skin had, on a good day when she was not experiencing a monthly breakout, a porcelain hue that, combined with her full rosy lips and high cheekbones, gave her a doll-like quality of which she was unaware. She wore large black hipster glasses that looked nerdy rather than trendy—she did not pull them off well at all. Sidra was her biggest critic, knocking each of her features one by one. Nose too big, legs too short, boobs—too depressing—and her height! To call her “short” was to become her enemy for life.

  Thank God she had Smith. He made some of the misery vanish and her spirits lifted at the sight of him. Tall, permanently rumpled ash-blond hair (she was sure it was dyed), and deep green eyes (a color not usually seen in nature and Sidra suspected contact lenses enhanced his vision and the hue) were placed above a lanky muscular body that was usually encased in skinny jeans and a tank top. He denied working out, but how was it possible to achieve those results without toiling for them? Sidra smiled at Smith again and then placed the notebook with his picture on it in her book bag as she readied herself for the next mind-numbing class.

  Sidra shared Smith with many, although she had not yet come to terms with that fact; he was the front man for a boy band called Four Ugly College Kids. They were supposedly edgy and controversial with their naughty band logo (tiny naked male silhouettes in somewhat provocative poses) and initials (figure it out). Many of their American album covers had a letter missing and one of the “boys” featured posing as the missing letter, and that was acceptable to the censors. The other members of the band were: Levi Storm, drummer; Coyne Baron, bass guitarist; and Lincoln Loggs, lead guitarist. Each member had his own distinct identity and cadre of groupies. Levi was the mischievous one with red hair and freckles and an irrepressible sense of humor. Lincoln was the sexy man-whore who was hooked up with a different model or actress each month. Coyne was all seriousness. Tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed, he was the writer of their edgy and double-entendre-laced songs. He was as responsible for their fame as Smith’s sultry renditions of the tunes. Coyne had written their first hit “I Love You for Your Hair but You Don’t Care.” The band had paid for their own recording studio, had friends create the video, which featured longhaired girls in bikini bottoms and nothing else (their hair covered most of their torsos) hanging all over silhouettes of the boys as each member was revealed. The boys were introduced on YouTube wearing thong underwear and the video went viral for the song, the hot guys, the (almost) naked girls, and the name. They were naughty and daring and became famous with the twelve-to-seventeen age group literally overnight. They were signed under an aging rapper’s label and toured with a very famous female singer who left each of the band’s then-inexperienced members breathless, knocked for a loop, and nearly at each other’s throats. The rapper had to fly to New Zealand, where things had come to a nasty head, and set them all straight. The female singer had to actually pay them off to avoid a scandal since the four were supposedly underage at the time. Now, a year later, their current hit, “Your Seven Zones,” had zoomed past hers and they cons
idered that fair revenge for playing them against each other. However, the band had announced a hiatus a month ago and, while the other members had been prolifically featured on their respective social media pages, Smith had virtually dropped out of sight.

  Meanwhile, as the Four Ugly College Kids were each counting their ten million and teasing and taunting their fans, Sidra sat in her history class, pretending to listen politely to the drone of her teacher. American history did not come alive in this class—even if the Battle of Gettysburg was being acted out before her, Sidra still would not have been able to concentrate. The other students were a little more blatant in their disregard for the teacher’s offered knowledge; texting friends, listening through earphones to their music, even watching videos. Sidra wondered how any of them passed this class. Cheated, obviously. The teacher just continued on talking like no one was in the room. He had been defeated long ago. Sidra’s attention wandered, as did her eyes. She caught Venti’s eye. The stuck-up blonde met her gaze briefly for a second and gave her the stank face, then went back to texting whomever. Sidra couldn’t believe how far they had drifted from being best of friends in fourth grade. It was one of those sad facts of growing up that her mother had warned her about. Their mothers were unfortunately still friends and that made things worse, as Sidra had often been dragged to holiday parties and other events at which she knew she was unwelcome. However, if Sidra’s parents had a gathering of friends, Venti’s parents always gave an excuse for her lack of attendance. Sidra was certain it was Venti’s refusal to associate with her that was the reason behind her absence. It hurt because she felt that Venti did not give her a fair chance to fit in. Paradoxically, she couldn’t stand Venti and her group of friends, so why did the rejection bother her so much?

  Sidra shifted her eyes to the person to her other side and just as quickly turned away as the classmate smiled at her. Hammond Dunfry was a fellow nerd, listened politely to the teacher, took notes, and was respectful of others…which of course meant that he was dumped on and the butt of jokes. He was slight as Sidra was petite, not topping five-foot-five at the most. He had a dreamy poet’s faraway gaze but a killer’s instinct in physics class, which mainly meant he was threatened for his homework answers by not very bright but self-preserving students. He and Sidra had so much in common: a love of manga, a lack of social skills, and a tendency to be picked on by the other students. They would have been a perfect couple, but Hammond was unable to express this desire and Sidra was too wrapped up in her imaginary love affair with Smith.

  The clock showed Sidra that there were still forty-five minutes left to this class before the next rollercoaster ride. Her mind drifted away from the Civil War and her vacant stare dropped to the cover of her notebook. Smith’s piercing green eyes glowered back at her and she lost herself in them…

  “Here, take this! Hurry!” The sword was shoved at her and she grasped the handle expertly although she was certain she had never touched any such weapon before, not to fight in a battle anyway. She had no time to spare as she realized that she was about to be attacked by…something that appeared to be red and black and dressed in a loincloth. It leapt at her and she instinctively fought it off, parrying with her sword in moves that astonished her. She swung the sword in tightly controlled moves, jabbing at the supposed enemy and warding off its counter-attacks. She resisted the urge to look at her ally, who she vaguely perceived was fighting off his own opponent. She could also sense that her body was different from what she was used to, as was the clothing she was wearing. For one thing, she had a little cleavage, and it was showing…

  “Eyes up, Sidra! Watch what you’re doing!” Too late; the creature nicked the meaty part of her arm and she dropped her sword. Her ally pushed her back against the cave wall (cave wall?) and she fell against it, scraping her shoulder. He side-kicked the creature she had been fighting and finished it off by severing its head from its body in one swoop of his sword. The blood from its neck spurted on him, but he ignored it. His foe was similarly crumpled in a disgusting pile.

  She swung her view up to her partner. Her mouth gaped open in surprise. It was…

  “Smith!” she yelled out loud, bolting upright in her seat. Hammond ogled her, startled, and Venti snickered.

  The teacher beamed. “Yes, Sidra, General William Farrar Smith’s poor leadership of the Union army was a contributing reason to the defeat at Fredericksburg. But please raise your hand next time and give other students a chance.”

  Sidra looked around, bewildered. Did anyone notice that she had been gone? The sword fight had felt so real. “Yes, Mr. King.” Her shoulder was sore and later on, she would notice a small amount of blood on her upper arm from a small cut.

  2

  So was it a daydream or what? The cave had felt real against her back and there was a black and blue mark on her shoulder from where she had fallen against the wall. She saw this that evening in the bathroom mirror when she pulled off her shirt, turned, and held up a handheld mirror. And she had smelled the creature’s foul, fetid odor. As far as her partner-in-arms, she was certain it had been Smith. But how had he known her? And what had he been doing there, fighting weird things in a cave?

  Sidra felt a frisson of fear grip her. Suppose she had a brain tumor or something? Suppose someone had roofied her at lunchtime and she was hallucinating? Suppose her imagination was more fertile than it was right now as she was imagining tumors and roofies? No, she told herself sternly, it was nothing more than a vivid daydream brought on by boredom and desire.

  Grabbing her iPhone, Sidra flung herself on the bed in her room and chose some Four Ugly College Kids’ songs. She pulled the Smith notebook out of her book bag and stared at the object of her affection with a half-smile as she listened to him sing “The Best of Me I Give to You” from the Kids’ most recent album. She did not use the notebook for any school subject, but to draw her own anime characters. They all amazingly resembled the Kids. In fact, she had to admit that the man she had helped to kill the creature during history class was attired in the same outfit she had drawn him in. It had all seemed so vivid and real, she mused for the nintieth time.

  She tossed the notebook on her nightstand. One of the manga books she was currently reading was there and she grabbed it. She started to read about a particularly stimulating kendo battle—some hardcore swordplay. She loved all things Japanese and had styled her room in that way. Her mother had stopped rolling her eyes when coming into her room at least, and last Christmas, her parents had bought her a replica of a samurai sword, which hung over a Four Ugly College Kids poster above the headboard of her bed. Sidra stared at the sword, then the poster, kneeling on the bed. Smith’s eyes met hers and followed her as she swayed back and forth with a dreamy expression, trying teasingly to lose his gaze.

  Mittens, the small-sized gray tabby that had been her constant home companion since Sidra was thirteen, about the same age puberty robbed her permanently of her friends, appeared from under the bed. Mittens meant a great deal to Sidra, and she often spoke to Mittens as if she could understand everything she said.

  “Hey Mitty,” Sidra greeted the sweet-faced feline, who stretched then sat and watched as Sidra continued her eye contact with Smith.

  “Hey Siddy!” the cat responded.

  Sidra did not hear this response, however, as she had her earbuds in her ears and her music volume pumping. She saw the cat’s mouth move but shrugged it off as a hairball about to make its way up Mitty’s throat.

  Mittens was not about to stand for that treatment. After all, she had been waiting patiently to talk to her human slave—for her to ignore her master for a mere boy band was unconscionable. She stepped up to the impudent human and swiped the cord of the earbuds so they were yanked out of Sidra’s ears, falling onto the bed. The buzz buzz of tinny music could be heard from the tiny buds.

  “I said hey, Siddy!” the cat enunciated loudly and clearly as Sidra began to say something like, “You little devil—” but she stopped and stared a
t the cat with her mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

  “I am really losing my mind today,” Sidra muttered as she began to place her buds back in her ears. She shook her head slowly as if to clear her mind.

  “It has been deteriorating since you first entered puberty,” Mittens informed her.

  “Oh my God!” Sidra yelled, dropping her iPhone and its components on the floor.

  “Oh my God!” Mittens mimicked, dancing about on the bed on her hind legs.

  “You…you can talk?” Sidra asked the cat.

  “And I can dance! Isn’t that more fascinating and harder than speaking?” Mittens stated mockingly.

  Sidra sat on the bed, staring at her little furry friend, who had been there through thick and thin. “So why don’t you also use the toilet instead of forcing me to clean your litter box?”

  “Really? You have a freaking cat that speaks to you and that’s one of the first talking points you bring up? What about ‘how is it that you can talk and are only doing so now’?”

  “Um, sure, that’s a good one…do I need to ask all my questions now or will I still have early onset dementia and hallucinations tomorrow?”