enamoured | right now I am so far behind I will never die.

Today I finished chapter two, and I finally have a preview that I'm satisfied with enough to share with everyone. This is basically when things begin to go horribly wrong for my characters. The story shifts from character to character, but for now, it's mostly related to Jason, the local piano man.

Trinity Heights was a picturesque suburb in Westchester. The community was divided into smaller developments: Oak Grove, the strictly middle class group; Maple Forest, the upper-middle, and Pine Hollow, the oldest and most upper class of the homes. Somewhere along the main street that went through Trinity Heights, Pine Hollow and Maple Forest intersected, and homes in the hundred thousand dollar range meshed with homes that had an estimated value of nearly a million dollars. It was in this neighborhood, at the intersection of Clearview Lane and Harmony Drive that all hell was currently breaking loose.

The explosion had occurred at eight twenty-two that morning. The fire department came first, then came three ambulances, and finally, at nine fifteen, the police pulled up to chaos. The burned shell of a compact car sat in a driveway of one of the smaller houses. That house had suffered the most damage: the front windows were shattered, and the roof was on fire, burning bright and spreading quickly to the pine trees. Frightened families stood on the curb, confused and talking amongst themselves.

Jason had seen the explosion as it happened. The breakfast nook in his house faced northeast—he'd known this ever since fifth grade, when he was preparing for his first camping trip by figuring the directions of every room in his house with a compass. The breakfast nook was almost parallel to the McLean's living room. If Mr. McLean left the blinds open yearlong, Jason was able to see into the window all the time. He was looking out the window when he saw the black Mazda pull into the driveway. He wondered whose car it was. The McLeans were a couple in their fifties whose youngest daughter had graduated from high school in May, and they didn't own a black Mazda. Janine, their daughter, drove a blue Camaro. It definitely wasn't her.

Jason shrugged it off at first, until he saw the driver get out of the car. The driver was tall and dressed in a tan raincoat. Another anomaly. It wasn't raining. Curious, Jason squinted a little, attempting to make out who was getting out of the car. Why aren't they going to the door?

He had just picked up his empty cereal bowl and was starting to go into the kitchen when the explosion happened. The floor had trembled and the force of the explosion caused him to fly forward and smack his forehead against the refrigerator. He heard the distinct sound of glass shattering and suddenly, everything was quiet.

Then came the screams.

Now outside, Jason was holding a pale green wash cloth filled with ice to his head, looking at the damage in disbelief. The front of the McLean's house was being hosed down by the fire department. Mr. and Mrs. McLean were standing on the curb next to Jason's family, looking bewildered. Their bedroom was in the back of the house, and they had luckily escaped without being harmed. The Mazda was now a burnt shell sitting ominously in the driveway.

"Jason!" Bailey Kennedy sprinted down her front steps and over to him. "Hey, what's with the bath cloth?"

Jason pulled the wash cloth away from his forehead. A lump was forming, and his temples throbbed. "I was going into the kitchen before the explosion happened," he explained. "I got thrown into the refrigerator, hit my head."

"Ouch." Bailey stood on tiptoe and gently touched the bruise, making Jason flinch. "My mom kept telling me that a water heater broke or something and I had to sneak out to see what was going on."

"Aren't you cold?" Bailey was still in her pajamas: a gray t-shirt with "THE ROLLING STONES"—the name of some old band—screen printed across the front, and green and white plaid pajama pants. Jason would have given her his own fleece jacket if he didn't have to balance the bath cloth on his head.

"I'll live. Hey, Ericka!"

Ericka Miles lived near the end of Harmony Drive, almost four doors down from Bailey. She jogged over to the patch of sidewalk that Jason and Bailey were standing on. "Hey. What happened to your head, Jason?"

"Hit it on the fridge when the bomb went off."

"Do we know that it was a bomb yet?" Ericka asked. She reached into the pocket of her gray hoodie and pulled out black knit gloves, then slid them over her hands.

"The cops haven't said anything," Bailey supplied. "They're mostly checking out the scene now that the fire's been put out."

A paramedic walked past. "Are you okay, kid?" she asked, glancing at Jason clutching the ice-filled wash cloth.

Jason nodded. "My forehead's frozen, but I'll be okay."

"Let me see," she said, coming close to him. She was about twenty-five or so, and wore her curly blonde hair back in a ponytail. She held the wash cloth in one hand and gingerly touched the lump on Jason's forehead. He moaned. "That's a nice lump," she said. "Keep the ice on it."

"I could've told him that," Bailey scoffed, watching her leave.

Mrs. Hathaway walked down the sidewalk. "There you are!" she said. "Did a paramedic look at that bump on your head, Jason?"

"Yes Mom, and she told me to keep the ice on it."

"Well, that's good. The police want to ask you a few questions. Let's go in the house, they're all in the living room anyway, looking at that thing that flew through the window when the explosion happened." She stopped mid-sentence. "Hello Bailey, Ericka."

"Hi," Ericka and Bailey responded.

Jason turned to face them. "I'll see you guys later," he said. "And call me if you find out what…"

Before he could finish his sentence, there was another explosion.

Of course, feedback is WONDERFUL. Even if this isn't exactly the most brilliant thing ever. Yeah.