Chapter 1

My name is Shana Carr and I’ve always been a very rational person. Sure, my entire wardrobe consists of black with tons of rainbow accents, and yes, I am very loud and expressive, but I really am very rational. First of all, I hate books. Well, most books. I don’t dislike reading, not at all; I just dislike all the things that authors insist on putting that could never happen. Oh really, you went on a train and found your long lost love who was once your best friend in another life and your twin in the life before? Well wow, because that’s possible. Note the sarcasm. So obviously, my least favorite genres include fantasy and romance. Fantasy speaks for itself, filled with faeries, unicorns, and vampires. Of course I would hate it. “But romance?” you ask. Well, yes, romance. Actually, I have a rather lengthy and detailed list:

Romance authors are always determined to break the walls that stereotypes create. “Then the boy who she had always thought was a bully, cried. It was a moment in her life that she would never forget. To see the biggest, toughest guy that she had ever known to break down a cry like that was life altering. Sheets of tears fell as he cried uncontrollably.” Bleh. Come on, how gross can you get? All the bullies I know are tearless asses. All the preps I know are stuck up losers. It’s the circle of life, my friend.

They’re always so sappy! Love filling their eyes while he strokes her hair and she caresses his face. I mean, really. Why? Does this kind of story entertain some people? If this is how people get their entertainment, I pity them deeply.

All the stories are alike. The boy and girl meet. At first they don’t like one another, he doesn’t like her, or she doesn’t like him. As the story progresses, they start to truly understand each other and see what’s deep down in their soul.

That’s another thing! How in hell can you see what is in someone’s soul? I mean without actually tearing open their chest and ripping their heart out. I thought this was a romance, not a horror story.

They’re always running around changing one another. I mean their personalities, not their clothes. Well, maybe their clothes too. Sorry, but I am never letting a guy change my personality… Nor my clothes.

I fear the effects of love. From what I hear, love renders you useless and confused. Who wants that? If I ever fall in love, I will surely shoot myself.

Actually, the list goes on and on, though it’s sometimes pretty repetitive. Okay okay, it’s really repetitive. But these things really bug me, so it’s acceptable. What’s an irrational fear of romance called? Romancaphobia? Romantiphobia? I should look it up. Maybe I will.

I stood up and headed for the long row of blue dictionaries.

“Sit down, Miss Carr,” my English teacher, Mrs. Breen, scolded me. Darn. I forgot I was in school for a moment. Literally two seconds later, the bell rang and I gave her a triumphant glare, “Don’t forget to work on your fantasy story tonight,” she smirked at me as my face fell. Damn that woman. She knew how to get to me.

The run home was uneventful and brisk, despite the knee length black skirt, the rainbow knee high socks, and the rainbow shoelace (the same as the laces on my black shoes and the lace holding my shoulder-length brown, curly hair from my face) tied around my neck, hanging down the front of my black spaghetti strapped top. Probably because the apartment I shared with my grandmother was right behind the school. But whatever. I like to think it’s because I am so in shape, though my lean body is mostly due to the fastest metabolism known to man, but who will know?

“Grandma, I’m home!” I yelled as I stepped in the doorway and threw my (you guessed it) black book bag with the rainbow strap to the side of the door.

“Hey Honey!” Grandma said, wrapping me in a hug. Let me explain. First of all, ‘Honey’ isn’t used here as a name for a loved one, she really means Honey. Honey is short for ‘Honey Jar’, a nickname I received from my extreme love of Winnie the Pooh and, of course, honey. Yeah, you heard me. I’m a rainbow Goth who hates fantasy but loves Winnie the Pooh. “But Shana,” you ask, “you know bears can’t talk, right?” Of course. I know that I am contradicting myself, and usually I never ever do that, but this is a special occasion.

This brings me to my second point. Why do I live with my grandmother? Well, after I witnessed my parents’ death—murder, in fact—at the tender age of five years, I had to move in with my grandmother. I cried and cried, always babbling about the ‘scary shadow man’ and refusing to eat. That is, unless I had a jar of honey. I don’t know why I loved the stuff so much, neither did my grandmother, but she realized that the honey was the only thing that would make me shut up, so one day she said, “You know, there’s this bear, and you are a lot like him. His name is Winnie the Pooh, and he loves honey too.” Of course, with my fives years of experience, I was easily awed with her story and her accidental rhyme. I’ve been hooked since. And quiet, to my grandmother’s relief.

My third point can be seen from the memory I just shared with you a moment before. My grandmother is the coolest person in the world, especially for a grandma. She understands me so well. She doesn’t question my odd fashion choices, nor does she find it odd that I have that extreme fear of romance and extreme dislike of fantasy. She doesn’t try to fit in with my generation and learn the ‘hip lingo’. She just cares about me, unconditionally.

“Hi Grandma,” I said, smiling as she released me, “I’m going into my room, okay?”

“Sure, but don’t forget your homework. If you just buckle down and do it, it will be over with. Fantasy isn’t that painful if you use my plug and jump technique. It’s all just cold water,” she reminded me, winking a surprisingly wrinkle-free eye. Grandma has always said that life is like a cold pool. If you just hold your nose and jump in, you will find that you’ve gotten used to the water before you had time to realize how cold it really was.

“Thanks Grandma,” I said, running to my room down the hall. Guess what color the walls are! Come on! Do it! Nope, not black and rainbow. I know, freaky-odd, right? Actually, the walls are this really shocking red. When you walk in, your eyes just pop for a moment. Even after all these years of living here, my eyes still pop. My furniture, to add even more of a shocker, is this really mellow blue. Sometimes, if the wall color—or more often, my English homework—is giving me the biggest headache of my life, I can just lay on my stomach on the bed and look into the calming blue beneath me. It really works.

“Ahem,” someone said behind me. I turn to meet a backpack in my face, “Homework.” Rapture.

I jump into my computer chair and open Word on the screen. By the end of the night, I’ve had an instant message conversation with a stranger from Canada, I’ve read seven short stories, and I’ve done a lot of unnecessary surfing on the world wide web.

Thank you internet. Philophobia: The fear of being or falling in love. Shana Carr in a nutshell.

A/N: This story was inspired by a necklace I just got. Strange, I know, but I just really wanted to write a story like this. This one is going to be more fun than my other, trust me. Don’t be confused, this is only the first chapter. She will explain her parents’ death more in depth as well as tons of other things!

Disclaimer: Don’t get mad at me! I don’t agree with any of the things that Shana said in the above chapter. Really. I love romance and fantasy. This is a romantic fantasy after all. It’s this thing called irony.

Nicki