I've mentioned before that I started writing HUSH, HUSH when my husband enrolled me in a writing class for my twenty-fourth birthday. After digging through my computer files, I found this document, dated February 19, 2004. It's not the earliest draft of HUSH, HUSH (I started the book in the fall of 2003) but it's pretty close. I'll admit, the writing is terrible. In fact, there are a few parts that made me burst out laughing, mortified. But if you want to see how HUSH, HUSH went from an early draft six years ago, to the story it is today, read on...

CHAPTER ONE

Trying to keep my eyes off the front of the room, I walked into first hour biology. The letters S-E-X, each three-feet high, were printed in pink chalk. Pink!

At my side, Vee Sky rolled her green eyes and for the millionth time I thought: just like cat’s eye marbles. She is like a cat in many ways.

McFarland thinks he can teach me something I don‘t already know?” she said, cocking her head at the cloudy pink letters.

I laughed. But I knew her heart was pounding from doing laps around the possibility of learning more about sex. She is a virgin and so am I.

The bell rang.

Coach McFarland grabbed the whistle swinging from a chain around his neck and blew it. “Seats, team!”

Vee and I passed a smile. Aside from coaching varsity football, Mr. McFarland teaches tenth grade biology.

“It may not have occurred to you kids that sex is science,” Coach continued. “And what is science?”

“Boring,” some kid in the back of the room called out.

“The only class I’m failing,” another said.

Coach McFarland looked down the front row. He stopped at me. “Noelle?”

“The study of something,” I said casually.

“What else?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “New discoveries.”

“And how do you discover something?”

I touched the tip of my tongue to my upper lip. What was he looking for? If this had been English or history, I’d have known. But biology, with all those squirming organisms too small for the naked eye...

“It’s about sleuthing,” he said, sanding his big hands together. “Team, that is what leads us to the goal line. The ability to dig around.”

Put that way, science almost sounded fun. Juicy, even. But I‘d been in Coach‘s class long enough to know this: never get your hopes up.

“And good sleuthing takes practice,” he continued.

“But sex doesn’t,” came another back-of-the-room comment. Most everyone laughed after that. But not me and Vee--we yawned. We were mature; we were supposed to be too cool for that stuff.

Coach McFarland turned back to me. “Noelle, you’ve been sitting next to Vee since the beginning of the year.” I nodded. You never knew where this guy’s road was leading. “And both of you are on the cheer squad together, correct? So you probably know quite a bit about each other.” Vee kicked my shoe under our shared table. I knew what she was thinking. That he had no idea how much we knew about each other. I mean, if one of us ever disappeared, the detectives would probably come to the other of us before they bothered with our parents.

Coach McFarland looked out at the rest of the class. “In fact, I’ll bet each of you know the person sitting beside you pretty well. After all, you picked the seats you did for a reason, right? Because of familiarity. Too bad that doesn’t leave room for good sleuthing. Which is why, today, we are creating a new seating chart.”

I opened my mouth to protest. Vee scowled at him, and she is famous for that look. It is a look that does everything but audibly hiss. I guess it passed him by because he brought his whistle to his lips and we got the idea.

Tweet, tweet.

“Every partner sitting on the left-hand side of the table--your left--move up two seats.”

Vee shoved her biology book inside her backpack. I bit my lip and waved a small farewell.

I’d never taken the time to look over my shoulder and figure out who sat in the rows behind me. I’d never cared--until now.

I turned my head back slightly. Several students stood in the aisle, waiting to move forward, or busied themselves collecting their books. One boy with dark wavy hair and cold black eyes grinned at me.

I looked away. It wasn’t a grin that said, “hope to get to know you.” It said, “Trouble.” With a promise.

The boy dropped his notebook on the table beside me. It echoed louder than all the talk in the room. I focused on the chalkboard. The S-E-X in pink stared back, so I looked down at the floor tiles. Next came the smell.

He must’ve chewed a cigarette for breakfast. I wanted to plug my nose, but it was the kind of message a girl like me didn’t stoop to send. I knew he was studying me shamelessly. Not that I expected him to show manners.

“All set?” Coach asked us. I kept my lips unmoved and held my chin high. “Human reproduction can be a sticky subject--”

“Ewww!” said a chorus of students.

“It requires mature handling. And like all science, the best approach is to learn by sleuthing. For the rest of class, I want you to practice this technique by finding out as much as you can about your new mate, er, partner.” He gave a dry laugh. I felt like finding a trash can--quick. “Think of probing questions,” --unison groaning-- “look for the unordinary. Try to uncover something. Learn to sleuth. Then tomorrow, bring a typed page with your discoveries. Go to it.”

Tweet, tweet.

I folded my arms away from the table. After class, I would tell Coach this wasn’t working. If he wouldn’t listen, maybe the front office would. Or the Superintendent.

I found the clock. Fifteen minutes gone by and I still hadn’t looked sideways at Pack-a-day. But he was there--I could smell him. I reached into my backpack for a tube of chap stick.

“Here we go,” he said, moving his pencil over a sheet of paper. “She likes strawberry-flavored things.”

Cherry, I thought.

“And the clothes. Daddy must wear a suit to work.”

I sighed and looked his way. Not at him, just his way. “You’re on the wrong trail, Sherlock.”

“And she speaks English.”

“Why don‘t I do the asking?” I said in my best exasperated voice. After all, I was the one with the 4.0 G.P.A. I was the one who knew what teachers looked for.

I glanced up just in time to catch a new grin. This one seemed to dare me to try prying anything out of him.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Call me Patch. I mean it, call me.” He winked.

“How about...never.” With a certain aloofness, I continued. “What are your hobbies, if you know what the word means, and how do you waste your free time?”

“I watch you. I’ve been stalking you since seventh grade.”

I gave him a hard look. “I’m assuming this assignment is graded, so do me a favor?”

He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “I like to take pictures.”

I printed photography on my paper.

“I wasn’t finished. I like to hang them in my room. I collect pictures of cheerleaders who drive red cars.”

My pencil stopped moving. But just as it did, my heart took off. I looked at him alarmingly quick.

He laughed. “So I guessed the right color?” He grabbed my pencil out of my hand. “Let me give it a try. Tell me about your parents.”

“They're divorced. Dad lives in Vegas.”

“Divorced.” He snickered. “Did Daddy break your heart when he left? I mean, would you have chosen him if the judge hadn’t made the decision for you? Would you have chosen him, if he‘d have taken you?”

“That’s pretty personal.”

He shrugged. “Ever been to a shrink?”

“No,” I lied.

“Done anything illegal?”

“No.” Breaking the speed limit wouldn‘t count. Not with him.

The bell rang suddenly, and I let go of a deep breath. I thought that I now knew what an FBI interrogation felt like--and I would’ve given anything for a hot bubble bath sprinkled with lavender oil.

Patch worked his way toward the door.

“Wait!” I called out. He didn’t turn. “Hey, you!” He was through the door. “Patch,” I said. He glanced back over his shoulder. “I didn’t get enough information about you.”

He raised his eyebrows, walking back toward me. Taking my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought to pull away. “I‘ll be waiting for your call.”

I looked down at the seven numbers written in red ink on my palm. I made a fist around them. I wanted to tell him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell him it was his fault for taking up all the time questioning me. I wanted a lot of things, but the truth is, I just stood there looking like I didn’t know how to open my mouth. With another dark grin, he joined the hall traffic.

“Hi, babe.”

I turned to face Vee.

“My new partner,” I said, pointing into the hallway at the back of Patch‘s tall frame. He had an annoyingly confident walk--the kind you find paired with faded T-shirts and a cowboy hat. Patch wore neither.

“He gives me the creeps,” I continued. “I’m going to tell Coach he has to switch us back.”

“You never know,” Vee said, hugging her books against her chest. “Might be fun bumping shoulders with the other half.”

The other half.

It bothered me more than I let on when she said that. Because I am the other half, though I pretend Vee has the sensitivity not to mention it.

Vee lives on the West side of town. So do I, but not on the West, West side like her. Not on any of the hillside streets. My street is so flat you can’t get a ball to roll down it. And that’s how everyone in this town figures out if you’re going somewhere in life, or not.

Vee’s hinted more than once that if I don’t get a scholarship to cheer, she‘ll be flying out to the University of Miami without me.

But it’s not Vee’s fault she’s loaded. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault.

When the final bell of the day rang, I didn’t bother stopping by my locker. I hurried toward fresh air. Coach McFarland had shot down my plea to rethink the seating chart. The office had referred me back to Coach. And the Superintendent was at a district meeting.

“Hey, Noelle,” a couple of boys said as I made my way down the hall. I nodded, but kept moving. I had business to take care of.

I was half-tempted to walk over to the edge of Sifted Dunes Park--the pot-heads’ hangout. Their turf, and probably Patch’s. The day would end on a mostly-good note if I could get this assignment out of the way quickly.

Outside, I squinted over at Sifted Dunes Park. I didn’t see anyone tall with unruly dark hair balancing a joint between his lips.

So much for that idea.

The only other place I could think of to look for the kind of guy I imagined Patch to be, was under the bridges on the wrong side of town, or down by the tracks. I would’ve cheerfully taken an “F” on Coach’s assignment rather than go to either of those places.

Vee found me in the student parking lot.

“What’s the rush?” she said, taking a comb through her hair.

I watched as strands of her summer-white hair fell to the ground. She’s got beach-bronze skin to match it--all year long. The kind of look most guys cave for. You know what I mean. Vee has told everyone since sixth grade that it’s in her genes, but I’ve seen her BMW parked at the Sun Hut on Jefferson Street more than once. I’m not going to argue it. Since she drives halfway across town to tan, I know it’s important it be kept secret.

“Just one of those days,” I finally answered, unlocking my car door.

“Stay with me. Just ten or fifteen minutes. Please?”

I wasn’t looking at her, but I knew she had a pout on her lips by the way her words stumbled out. That’s a thing about Vee: she always wants me around when she talks to boys. She knows most of them are crazy for her, but she can’t perform without me in the audience.

I sighed. “Ten minutes, tops. I have enough homework to keep the whole school busy.” That was not a lie.

Inside the building, we made our way down the seniors’ hall. That’s where you go if you’re looking for older boys, especially athletes. I knew we were welcome from the moment heads turned and eyes lit up. By the way Vee’s voice went up a key, I knew she felt it to.

In truth, though, my heart was preoccupied. With Izak Albertson. Tall? Oh, yes. Dark? His eyes are two shades deeper than sapphire. And handsome? Well, yes, in a very intelligent sort of way. Izak is supposed to be in our grade, but he received all kinds of scholarships and went out to some big school in Massachusetts for college last fall. I know, real smart. One of those child-doctor types. It makes me laugh just to picture him. Imagine sitting down for an annual check-up and having some sixteen-year-old walk in with a stethoscope around his neck.

Vee was the only person I’d confided to about Izak. To my surprise, she didn’t protest, didn‘t brand me crazy. Probably because it ruled me out as competition with other boys. Boys here and now, not a thousand miles away at medical school.

Vee had stopped walking and I knew very well why. Two words: Mitch Bauer.

“Got plans for tonight?” Mitch asked me, resting his elbow on my shoulder.

“She’s keeping her schedule open for the best offer,” Vee said for me. Honestly, I didn’t care. Vee’s got a knack for lightning lines.

“Maybe we’ll see you at the lake?” Mitch tried again.

“Keeping my geometry book company,” I said.

Mitch smiled. He pulled a Reese’s out of his backpack, looking straight at me. “Anyone hungry? The vending machine gave me the wrong--”

“My favorite,” Vee said, snatching the orange package. “Must‘ve read my mind.”

Mitch blushed, and I would have too, if Vee had used that same velvety tone with me. She was amazing. And I guess I felt like I was too, being her best friend.

Below is part of the prologue that was eliminated durings edits.

PROLOGUE

Loire Valley, France

November 1565

Rain pattered down on the darkening countryside surrounding Château de Langeais. The castle's towers were barely visible through the brewing nightfall and looming trees. From one of the high windows, a nursemaid's lullaby floated down to the stables, catching the ear of the groom whose hearing had been sharpened by the loss of sight in his left eye last winter. He shifted in the direction of the castle.

Squinting for a better look, he thought he saw a white cloth trail from one of the windows; it spiraled in the air briefly before the branches from the forest snared it. It writhed a moment until the trees dragged it down, locking it away in their depths. An explosion of ravens took to the sky, crying out and flapping their wings to the north.

The groom shuddered. Haunted, that's what the forest was. And every creature that dared enter it. There were worse things than ghosts drifting through the forest, though to be sure there were plenty of those. If there were such things as evil spirits and dark angels, and The Bible itself declared there were, the groom was certain they kept the forest as their own.

The sound of footsteps striding across the slate courtyard brought the groom to attention. The young master came into view, slapping a riding crop in his left hand, seemingly unaware of the rain peppering down around him, the mud slinging on his boots. He wore no hat; his hair clung to his face, wet and disheveled. His eyes reflected the blackening sky above.

Though he had loved the young master's father, the groom felt little warmth for the sixteen-year-old heir. The groom had no patience for mystery, and there was plenty of it lurking around Chauncey Philippe Lucien Bastien, the new Duc de Langeais.

The young master ducked under the roof of the stables, breathing irregularly. Bracing one of his gloved hands against a wood beam, he gave a terse nod in the direction of the stalls.

The groom blinked. “My lord, it's raining heavily—”

“Horse.” The young master's voice sounded rough, strained.

“It will take a minute, my lord.”

“I haven't got a minute,” he snapped.

A bolt of lightning crackled through the sky. The groom lifted his eyes and quickly crossed himself. He caught his master glowering at him.

“Am I to tell the dowager duchess where you'll be, my lord?”

“I am the Duc de Langeais,” his master said coolly. “My lady mother's influence over me ended some time back.”

“Forgive me, my lord. But . . . if she comes looking?”

“Tell her what you like.” He sank suddenly to one knee, panting.

The groom cautioned a step forward. “My lord?”

“Horse!” he choked.

Minutes later, the young master rode from the stables, whipping the gelding to breakneck speed. He headed straight for the forest.

The groom's good eye followed him to the edge of the trees. He shuddered. Haunted, that's what the forest was. A place not even God's own sun could penetrate.

Here is the ARC (advance readers copy) ending to HUSH, HUSH:

A few hours after the detectives left, the doorbell rang again.

“That must be the alarm system company,” Mom said, meeting me in the hall. “I called, and they said they'd send a guy out today. I can't stand the thought of sleeping here without some kind of protection until they find Miss Greene and lock her away. Didn't the school even bother to check her references?” She opened the door and Patch stood on the porch. He wore faded Levi's, a snug white T-shirt and he held a toolbox in his left hand.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Grey.”

“Patch.” I couldn't quite nail my mom's tone. Surprise mixed with discomfiture. “Are you here to see Nora?”

Patch smiled. “I'm here to spec your house for a new alarm system.”

“I thought you had a different job,” Mom said. “I thought you bussed tables at The Borderline.”

“I got a new job.” Patch locked eyes with me, and I warmed in a lot of places. In fact, I was dangerously close to feverish. “In security,” he said.

THE END