This excerpt is also from my current w-i-p PLATNIUM DIARIES. Sayra (16yrs old) is at school talking to her best friends Ivan and Penelope about the dream she had last night—the first violent dream she has ever had.
Ivan sat beside me again. “Haven’t you ever had a dream that was just a dream?”
Again, I shook my head. I couldn’t recall a single dream that hadn’t come true. In fact, I had no memory of ever having a dream before I turned eight.
“Maybe this is the first,” Ivan said hopefully.
“Yeah,” Penelope added.
They were trying to make me feel better, and I loved them for it, but there was no denying it. I’d dreamed the murder and it was going to happen. The diary was snatched out of Penelope’s hand before any of us knew what happened.
“Dear Diary, I think Chaz Bishop is ever-so dreamy.” Hillary giggled while she walked up the steps as if no one would dare rip out her hair, which was exactly what I’d planned to do. I dashed after her, ignoring the jackhammer attacking my head and the greasy ball of nausea in my stomach. Maybe I’d puke on her.
Tag grabbed the diary from Hillary, laughing like the oaf that he was. He looked at Hillary for approval and when he got it, held my dairy out of reach.
“Give it back, you idiot!” I might’ve felt like the walking dead, but nothing lit a fire in me like someone touching my diary without permission. I jumped for it, but as one of the few people taller than me, Tag managed to keep it just out of my grasp. Then his free hand was caught and bent behind his back. The glee on his face quickly turned to terror as Ivan gripped Tag where his neck and shoulder met, bringing the big guy to his knees.
A hush fell over the front steps as nearly the entire school watched. One of Tag’s cronies ran up, ready to swing, but Ivan only kicked out his long leg and tripped the guy, sending him sprawling across the steps.
“Give her back the diary,” Ivan said quietly.
Tag’s face had turned a purplish-red and a vein in his forehead bulged, but he held out the diary.
“Asshole.” I snatched the book.
Ivan released Tag and danced back quickly, anticipating the attack. Tag had to save face, after all. He swung wildly, but Ivan sidestepped, ducked, pivoted and managed to avoid both throwing a punch and having one land. Somehow Tag still ended up on his ass looking dazed.
Every so often some testosterone-head would try Ivan, unable to resist his gangly build, his glasses, his ja-fro and his affinity for electronics. They always seemed to forget that Ivan was a second-degree black belt until they were staring down the business end of his fist or foot. His parents put him in the classes when he was seven to give him confidence. In all the years I’d known Ivan, I’d never seen him start a fight, but he’d always finished them.