BOOK SAMPLE

Let us paraphrase the words of Rick from Casa Blanca, that great movie classic: "Of all the towns in all of America, we walked into this one." It's 1961 and here we have found, barely existing among small people with their small minds, Frances Westerly. It is she and her life we have need to focus on, for Frances, as it turns out, is of all the folks in this little town, the most interesting of them all.

Why is that? Well, it might have something to do with Shakesspeare who wrote, 'There is a tide in the affairs of men,' (Julius Caesar). Literary giants of no less stature than Thoreau and Lowell have been inclined to agree with the revered fellow. And while Frances is no man -- a reasonably attractive and handicapped teenager, as it turns out -- she was caught up in such a tide these several years ago and swept away. And when she was, she was changed forever.

And just as she was transformed, perhaps we could all do to be carried off in such a fashion while recalling the words of another sage, the present-day bard, George Harrison, who has now been caught up in that Eternal Tide to pursue his own endless quest:

If she could get her stupid crutches to work better she wouldn't always be late for class. But why expect more? Crutches were crutches, mere sticks of wood held together with bolts, after all. Hardly a substitute for functioning legs.

Not that being late mattered to the teacher -- even if the last bell had rung. The entire classroom would still be in chaos when she arrived. Trouble was, silence would greet her entrance, the thud of her heavy, orhthopedic shoes dragging across the floor for a dreaded moment drawing all eyes upon her.

She might as well have had a flashing neon sign stuck on her head. "Look at me: Frances the town freak has arrived!" To her mind a two-ton hippo would've made a more graceful entrance, perhaps even a less likly target for the expected missiles that came her from the back of the room. Oh, they didn't hurt. How could a wet paper wad or an eraser cause pain? Not in a physical way...but inside the hurt was as massive as that conjured up hippo.

"Little boy!" returned Madonna with a sneer as she ducked the wad directed at her. "When are you gonna grow up, huh?" She turned back around to face Frances as she huffed from her long walk. The previous class from the opposite end of the hall forced her to move faster and had left her winded. She reached her desk and dropped the necessary but disdained crutches to the floor and then caught Madonna's lovely smile. Frances returned the smile as she always did to this her only friend, but under the conditions it was a forced gesture.

While gazing at Madonna, Frances though again that one day this girl might become a famous model. Her full lips, beautiful teeth, silken black hair and wispy, waif-like figure were what all fashion magazines and agencies were seeking. The two of them may be only fourteen, Frances surmised, but it was never too early to think about such about such things, was it? Yet as someone from this backwater town, what was Madonna's chance? As for her own self, she tried not to think too much about her opportunity for escaping --chances far slimmer than her friend's model figure.

She took a firm grip upon the desktop edge with one hand and the chair back with the other, then slid into the seat in her usual clumsy manner. Getting seated could not be done in one motion like she'd seen "normals" do and several adjustments were required for her to be fully settled.

A wisp of Frances's bling hair had fallen into her face and Madonna reached forward from her desk to brush it back. She then used a hairpin to secure the tress in place while remarking, "One of these days that Arnie is really going to get it!" Yet both of them knew that would never happen. Arnie's father, Milton W. Loewlyfe, was the wealthiest and most influential man in town. His oldest son could do as he darn well pleased.

All of Arnie's antics had by convenience managed to escape the notice of the teacher, Mrs. Snapdoodle. But that was expected since Arnie's father was also the Stringville School Board president. Any teacher's present and future welfare was dependent upon his assessment of them and their performance as pertaining to his son. Emily Snapdoodle was in no different position. Not that she'd admit to the fact, nor would any other teacher, but every kid in school knew it, as well as did Frances.

"Now class," Mrs. Snapdoodle began in her characteristic, high-pitched nasal voice and while finally deciding to bring order to the room. "I want all of you to remember that your original essays must be grammatically correct with proper punctuation in order to receive a passing grade.

The morning sun certainly seemed brighter than usual. So much so that Frances couldn't remember when it shone so warm and direct upon her face, the strength of its radiance evident even with her eyes closes. Maybe she forgot to pull her shade down last night...or something.

And the bed -- it felt terrible! All hard and lumpy. Her parents had their breakfast at the Lodge on Saturday mornings allowing Frances to sleep in, yet how could she at this rate? She decided to just go ahead and get out of of bed.

Frances's eyes opened to bring a near scream into her throat. Where was her bed, her room -- anything? In a growing terror she realized she was perched upon a high limb of the huge elm tree just outside her bedroom window -- and about to fall off! Feeling herself slipping she flailed about for a handhold then seized onto a small branch jutting out to her side.

DO YOU LIKE THIS? IT'S QUITE A JUMP FROM FRANCES SITTING IN A SCHOOLROOM TO HER AWAKING UPON A TREE BRANCH, ISN'T IT? BUT IF YOU'D LIKE TO KNOW HOW SHE GOT THERE, ALONG WITH ALL OF THE INTERVENING EVENTS AND HOW SHE GETS OUT OF THAT TREE, YOU'LL HAVE TO READ THE BOOK. GO TO THE ORDER SECTION FOR YOUR COPY OR LOG ONTO PUBLISH AMERICA'S WEB SITE.