We’re happy to share this post from our sister site, Kids Corner @ Kindle Nation Daily, where you can find all things Kindle for kids and teens, every day!
Last week we announced that Freedom Road by T.M. Souders is our Kids Corner Book of the Week and the sponsor of our student reviews and of thousands of great bargains in the Kids Book category:
Now we’re back to offer a free Kids Corner excerpt, and if you aren’t among those who have downloaded this one already, you’re in for a treat!
A father’s selfish demands, broken booze bottles, and unconscious mothers are everyday fixtures in eighteen-year-old Samantha Becker’s life. Armed with her guitar and music to keep her comfort in a volatile world, Sam’s one dream to study classical guitar at Juilliard may very well be her salvation. But when her father’s careless actions lead to an “accident,” Sam’s ability to play the guitar dies along with her dreams of attending the renowned school. Losing all confidence in her future, Sam hides behind the emotional barriers that have protected her for years.Just when Sam has given up, a budding friendship and an unexpected romance give her the hope she needs, forcing her to reevaluate all she’s ever known. With fresh conviction, Sam battles her father’s plans for her future, band mates using her for personal gain, and a permanent injury. But will it be enough? Julliard auditions are almost here. Time’s running out, and Sam must re-learn to play the guitar or give up her dreams forever.
And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
Two days. That’s the length of a hospital stay after your father lops your finger off with a kitchen knife.
I remembered the morning clearly. Maybe I always would, or maybe with time the memory would fade and be one of unimportance as everyone wanted me to believe. The scent of rain and decaying leaves wafted through the open windows. Cool air whipped inside, diminishing the stench of burning oatmeal from the kitchen. I hurried into the room, my guitar case slung over my shoulder. I glanced up at the clock and grimaced. In twenty minutes my presence was expected in Mr. Neely’s classroom for one of our practices. Time is of the essence, he told me. And how could I argue with that when the single most important day of my life approached?
“Damn it!” my father cursed. He tore the pot of burning oatmeal from the burner and threw it in the sink with a bang. Waving a towel, he attempted to hasten the foul air out the window.
I brushed past him with my head down. When I opened the refrigerator door, I grabbed the first thing I saw. A carton of strawberry yogurt would have to suffice. There was no time to be choosy. Besides, the longer I stayed in the kitchen, the more I risked a confrontation with him or my mother.
The shattering of glass cut through the silence, followed by a low guttural moan. I gritted my teeth and rounded the corner into the living room to the sight of my mother splayed on the ground, the empty bottle of some form of spirit broken at her feet. She rolled over. Pieces of glass stuck to her robe. I covered my nose, trying not to gag at the sour smell of alcohol.
My father’s clipped stride resonated over the hardwood floor as he entered the room. He knelt down beside her and began to pick up the shards of glass off the floor. Oblivious, my mother stood up, gripping the wall for support, and stumbled her way to the couch. I took this as my chance for escape and started toward the door, hoping my exit would go unnoticed.
“Samantha, I need to speak with you for a moment. In the kitchen.”
Wincing, I turned. The plastic shopping bag in my father’s hand was heavy with glass. With his gaze still on me, he nodded toward the kitchen and left the room. For a moment I debated sneaking out anyway, but I followed him, saving myself the lecture later. I walked up to the counter. The strap over my shoulder dug into my skin, a reminder of the time—and how I didn’t have any. This had better be fast.
“What?” I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at the clock.
He tossed the bag of glass in the trash can and moved to a cutting board on the island. “I wanted to let you know that I’m signing you up for a class this summer at the American Banking Institute. It will be good for you to build up some knowledge before you start working for me.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. It was only October, yet he planned my summer. “I already told you I’m not doing it. I won’t work there, and I’m eighteen now. I can make my own decisions. You’re wasting your time.”
Taking a chopping knife out of a drawer, he sliced through the apple in front of him, halving it in one clean swoop. “This isn’t up for debate. You’ll have to get used to the idea.”
I shook my head. This argument could wait. All I wanted right now was to feel the smooth contours of my guitar in my hands, to feel the chords of the music as I played.
“Fine. Whatever.”
What happened in the seconds following this exchange blurred into a single moment. My mother crashed into the kitchen, knocking over the wine glasses nestled on the hutch. A string of obscenities followed, along with accusations that someone rearranged the furniture. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the raised knife poised above the apple. My father said I shifted my hand on the island, distracted by my mother. A totally plausible explanation—if it were true.
My eyes flew open as I stared down at the halved fruit, now drenched in my blood. Then the pain came. A sharp stabbing sensation overtook my entire hand, and my heart threatened to crash through my chest. I vaguely recalled screaming in the background. Where it came from I’m still unsure. Possibly me, or my mother. My father’s panicked voice rang in my ears as he squeezed something over the finger, causing the pain to shoot through my arm. When he shifted, revealing my hand, I don’t recall moving. I don’t remember speaking or moaning in pain. All I remembered was staring at that blood soaked cloth, thinking This is my fretting hand.
CHAPTER TWO
The plaster in the ceiling had two tiny cracks in it that joined together just at the edge. I knew this because I had been studying it for hours. It seemed all I could do to keep from staring down at the wrappings on my left ring finger. The ones that hid my stub. The doctors had been unable to reattach it—something about frostbite damage from the ice my father put the finger in.
Someone rapped on the door to my room—probably the nurse. I think the doctors and staff were worried about me. Or at least that’s what I got from the multitudinous visits and the way they stared at me with a million tiny wrinkles furrowing their brows and the spaces between their eyes. Something like pity shone in there as well. No matter how hard they tried to hide it behind perky voices and soft smiles, I saw what they weren’t saying—that I was a freak. After a while, I avoided looking at them much.
The door creaked open. Still, my gaze remained on the ceiling.
“Ugh. It smells like sick people in here. I hate hospitals.” The voice was unmistakably Lauren’s. I turned and watched my friends enter.
“Shut up, Lauren,” Derek said.
Derek, my boyfriend, headed the pack of four. Lauren, Faith, and Ron trailed behind him. They walked up to my bed. Each of their gazes darted to my hand.
“Hey, babe.” Derek leaned toward me for a kiss.
I took the opportunity and slid my injured hand under the thin blanket. His lips brushed my lifeless ones. When he pulled away, I tried to smile, but the muscles surrounding my mouth stiffened.
“You guys didn’t have to come. You could’ve just seen me in school.”
“It was Faith’s idea.” Lauren nodded toward Faith, who waved, fluttering her fingers and reminding me I was now one short.
Ron flicked his long bangs out of his eyes, then nodded toward my arm. “Sucks that it was your fretting hand. I mean, if it were just your right hand then who cares? You can learn to strum and pick without it.”
Faith nudged him in the ribs. “You’ll adjust, Sam.”
“Yeah, but how soon?” Lauren asked. Her hazel eyes bore into Faith. “I mean, I don’t think she’s going to be playing “Stairway to Heaven” anytime soon. Or at least not killing it.”
That’s what this was about, I thought. They came to see how bad off I was. My injury was a threat to the band, considering I was an integral part of the group. With our plans to leave for New York City after graduation, my missing finger meant a setback. Were they thinking of replacing me? Did it even matter? Little did they know, I never intended to go with them. Sure, I had planned to go to New York, but for something altogether different. A dream more important to me than life itself. Juilliard.
Just the thought constricted my chest until it ached. With auditions only six months away, I had to get used to the idea that I was going nowhere.
“Maybe she could adjust to playing right handed?” Derek suggested.
“Not so easy, man. After years of playing, a lot of people find no luck in adjusting that way. Especially not in only a few months,” Ron said.
Faith rolled her eyes. “You guys are acting like she died. For God’s sake, it’s just a freaking finger. She’ll be fine.”
I wanted to be grateful to Faith. She was the only one yet to write me off, but I wasn’t. I listened as the minutes passed and my friends discussed my fate as a musician like I wasn’t even present. Eventually, I curled up on my side and closed my eyes, blocking out the noise of their arguing. I barely noticed when they left some time later. What tipped me off as to their absence was the scent of a greasy burger next to my bed. I opened my eyes. A metal tray sat next to me with my dinner. I had no urge to eat. The scent of food made me nauseous, so I called the nurse to take the tray away.
“Your father called,” she said. The nurse’s soft gray eyes moved as her gaze searched my expression. “He’s leaving work now and will be here in a bit.”
I said nothing. Just stared at her.
“While I’m here, I need to change your bandages with fresh ones.” She moved to a cart I hadn’t noticed, and grabbed a pink bin, the color of Pepto Bismol. Pushing the blanket aside, she lifted my arm and rested it on the rail of the bed.
I turned my head away as she began to unravel the soiled bandage. The sensation in my hand was slightly numb, likely from the local anesthetic they had given me, rather than the pain killers. I expected pain or pinching as she unraveled the cotton, but there was nothing.
“So…you play the guitar?” she asked.
Her question caught my attention enough to break my silence. “Who told you that? My father?” I glanced at her.
She frowned and hesitated. “No. You came in clutching it in your arms. You wouldn’t let go of it. The doctors had to tear it off of you.” She covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” She moved away from me and after a moment, said, “Do you need anything else, Samantha? Something to drink?”
Shaking my head, I rolled away from her. The image of me hugging my guitar case to my chest, smeared in blood, remained in my thoughts the rest of the evening. When my father arrived, he touched my side and called my name, but I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to sleep. Even through his talking to himself, murmuring something about my mother startling him, about the knife slipping, even through his crying, I pretended to sleep.
* * *
A week had gone by and yet I still hadn’t gone to school. My friends had called me nonstop since I left the hospital, asking where I was and when we were going to have a practice session. I wondered whether they even remembered I had been injured.
The days dragged on. My only company when my father was at work was the sound of my mother’s drinking. The thumping of the kitchen cabinets, the clinking of glass, and her clomping around in her bedroom. I alternated between sleeping and staring at my guitar, which remained propped up in the corner of my room. My gaze lingered on the strings and fretboard. I pictured my fingers moving skillfully over them, playing by memory and feel. I envisioned song after song, particularly the ones Mr. Neely and I had been practicing for my Juilliard audition. Ones which were difficult with all my fingers. I did this until the ache in my gut grew so strong I had to clench my sides to ease the pain.
The night before, my father must have decided my silence had gone on long enough. When he got home from work, he came to my room, where I had remained since coming home from the hospital, to talk.
“It’s been a week, Samantha. It’s time you go to school. You need to get on with things. You’re upset, I understand, but you can’t sit in your room the rest of your life pitying yourself.”
I said nothing. Just listened, wondering what he knew about self-pity.
His gaze moved to the floor before returning to my face. “I know you loved the guitar. I’m sure some day you can figure out how to play again. In the grand scheme of things though it’s really not important. There are far worse things in life. A lot of people with bigger problems. Besides that, I think you need to focus on graduating and your position at the bank.”
The image of the halved apple, mingling with my blood, flashed in my head, followed by his words. I think you need to focus on graduating and your position at the bank. And there I was, once again, wondering if maybe in the seconds before he brought the steel blade down on my finger, he saw it there. Maybe he didn’t mean to sever the finger. But maybe for just a second, he figured…
His eyes, as cool as water, moved over my face. “So…school tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
After that, he left my room and didn’t return.
* * *
School sucked. As to be expected, I endured countless questions. “How did it happen?” “Was there a lot of blood?” “Didn’t they try to sew it back on?” Among my favorites were the dumbest ones. “Did it hurt?”
Unaffected by the questions, my friends enjoyed filling everyone in on how pale and sick I looked at the hospital. They relished creating stories about bloody bandages covering my hand when they saw me. I didn’t correct them, nor stop them from telling their stories because it took the heat off of me. When they asked me to practice after school, I agreed. Not because I was actually going to practice, but because a jam session in Ron’s basement typically meant weed and alcohol. And right at the moment, something, anything to numb myself was welcome.
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