Book Progress and Shout-Outs

FYI:  In case you have started to read or wanted to read my book, I've been working madly at the suggestion of +Michelle Lowery Combs and +Terri Weaver to get rid of the prologue.  I've done that and I've also taken to heart Jeff Cohen's appropriate criticism that Persis wasn't behaving very much like a (mostly) confident young lady when she first met Luke.

Most importantly, I sucked it up and switched to writing on my massive laptop that has Word on it, so I've caught many, embarrassing grammar mistakes (although Flavia Bitussi and Matt Luo were already helping me out with that).  I wanted to fight the corporate power by using OpenOfficeWriter, but it just wasn't getting the job done.

^The world's largest laptop^

Long story short, besides wanting to thank these helpful people, I wanted to let you know that while I've left the chapters in the original blog postings unaltered, I have updated the full text on the "Perdition: The Book" page.  If you hadn't started or hadn't gotten far, you may want to read the new and improved version there. I hope y'all will continue to help me out--it's been invaluable thus far!

To Prologue or Not to Prologue...That Is the Question

One piece of advice I've gotten over and over again is about the importance of having good Beta readers. I've been lucky enough to find a small group of serious writers and we're helping each other out.  When I posted the first couple chapters, I immediately heard from multiple sources to drop my prologue.  At first I thought, "no! That's my dramatic irony!"  I mean, what would Romeo & Juliet be like if we didn't know they were star-crossed?!

However, I realized a few things after calming down: 1) I am no Shakespeare and 2) they were right, especially because my prologue is only serving as a crutch.  

I have found that it's difficult to know what to tell when, but all good books and shows manage to do this well.  Just look at Lost...they kept us watching, no matter how ridiculous the show got, because we wanted those back stories.  And what would be the point of The Hunger Games if we [SPOILER FOR OBLIVIOUS PEOPLE] knew up front how Peeta really felt about Katniss and didn't have to experience her self-doubt as she did?  What if George R.R. Martin just included a list of everyone that was going to die? Oh wait, he did--it's called the "Cast of Characters."

^ OCSD Waiting to Happen ^

So, I know I have to do the right, albeit harder, thing.  My question is do I use this as an excuse to continue to stall on getting into the rising action or will fleshing out the exposition better lead more organically into the meat of the story?  I guess I'll worry about that after I watch Orange is the New Black, so I can understand what the hell all my friends are talking about.

Chapter Four

At the end of the day, our team is on the dock, cooling our feet in the water, listening to Sarah interrogate Jesse. The Trips are up in the tree house, refusing to come down to get ready for bed. Most of the older cousins are up with the aunts and uncles, catching up, drinking, and taking in the sunset.

“So where have you been all these years?”

“Living in Colorado, where my Dad's been too busy being a hotshot lawyer to come visit his family.”

“So you came to visit them? But aren't they gone this summer, to Europe?”

“So I've realized.”

Ellie cuts in. “What? You just flew out here, on a whim, without seeing if they'd be here first?

“I drove, actually. I wanted to take a road trip before I started school. I kind of went here and there and found myself in Georgia.” I'm as impressed by his spontaneity as Ellie is befuddled by it.

“Do they even know you're here?” Sarah asks, determined to get the attention back on her.

“Yep.”

“How? I thought you just showed up.” Ellie can't let the details go.

“Well, I got here early this morning and hung around their house, waiting. After a hot while, I decided to come here. I remember him and Grampa Joe being great friends. That's when I saw you all. He had their number and told me where to find the house key. When I went home and cleaned up after the match, I got in touch with them.”

“Where are they now? I just love your grandparents and miss them so much this summer.” Sarah's trying a new angle.

“Holland. Went to the Rijksmuseum today.”

Sarah looks like she's about to profess her love of Dutch art but Ellie switches gears.

“Let's talk about that match today.”

I groan. “We won...what's the big deal?”

“Barely. Pitiful. That's what it was.”

Sarah smirks, knowing she's landed on a better topic. “Persis was pitiful, you mean.”

“Don't worry Sarah,” I sarcastically console her. “It's all part of Ellie's plan.” Ellie had filled them all in. Herc and Sarah opposed it, preferring the more straightforward smash and grab approach that's worked well for them in the past, but even they can't put off Ellie.

I'm annoyed because even though I am not great at volleyball, I was also the shortest person on the court. Sarah is an outside hitter for USC. Herc, who just signed to play tight-end for Georgia and Thomas, Jenna's husband who played a few years in the NBA, didn't even have to jump to block at the net. Jesse's almost as big as Herc and proved himself to be a natural; he was everywhere, making digs and laying down crushing spikes. Of course I was the worst, I think.

“Thomas spraining his ankle wasn't part of the plan. Now we're a man down.”

I know how seriously Ellie takes this, so I try to console her. “He might be better soon. He's up there icing it.”

“Maybe. But what about the triathlon on Friday? He was one of our cyclists.”

“We'll figure something out.”

We all fall quiet, taking in the chorus of crickets and cicadas and the bellow of the bullfrog that's taken residence somewhere down the shoreline.

“I'm a little confused about the plan as far as Persis goes.” It's Jesse. Ellie's looking at him like he's slow.

“I told you, it's okay. Persis is supposed to play bad right now.”

He pauses for a second, then. “Right. But it seems like it didn't really play out that way.”

Ellie looks at his thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

“I'm pretty good with numbers.”

“And?” She asks impatiently.

“I was kind of mentally keeping stats and Persis had the least amount of unforced errors.”

Sarah's shaking her head. “No way. She missed that easy short set to me and she went for that one that was clearly going out and...well, she sucked.” She turns to Ellie and Herc for affirmation, but they're both clearly replaying the match in their head. They eventually look at each other and then Jesse.

“You're right.”

Sarah doesn't like this. “What about her underhanded granny serve? They were so weak they were slamming them home first touch.”

Herc, who isn't the most intellectual, but has sports smarts all day is the one to respond. “What do you expect? She doesn't play college volleyball. Come to think of it, she did her part. You were the one going for the big kills and hitting them wide. I hit two easy put-aways into the net. Ellie's setting was ham-fisted. Tom was as useful as a tree after the first set.”

“Don't forget--I hit two serves into the net.” Jesse added, smiling over at me.

Sarah looks poisonously at all of us. I'm enjoying this shift of blame, but it isn't good for the team, so I speak up, trying to smooth things over. “Look, it was our first match. We have four more. Maybe we can get together and play after breakfast?” I look to Sarah. “Maybe you and I can get there early and we can work on an overhead serve?” I'm bolstered by the possibility that I might not be permanently terrible.

Sarah's ego recovers. She's self-centered but she's not totally evil and definitely wants to win. “Sure, Persis.”

“Great. Thanks. Well, I'm gonna head up to my cabin. I've got some Hawthorne to read if I'm going to be of any use to y'all at Enlightenment tomorrow night.”

“Good thinking.”

“How're you getting home, Jesse?” It's full dark now and the moon, a sliver of what it will soon be, is starting to crest over the hills. Sarah's face is full of concern.

He points to the boat that's tied up on the far end of the dock. She clearly wants to talk more, to linger, but he's already pulling the tie off the cleat and is stepping into the john boat. “See you on the volleyball court.” He looks right at me. I can't help but smile back.

Before I have to deal with Sarah, who's no doubt soured again, I start up the small path that will take me along the lake to my cabin. Roscoe, my grandparents' border collie, comes trotting down the hill to escort me. I pat his head. “Thanks boy.”

I walk slowly, enjoying the cooling breeze. When I get onto the porch and open the door, I turn to Roscoe. “You wanna come in?”

His stretches and sniffs the air. I know better. He's no inside dog. He waits until I close the door and then trots back down the trail, ready to protect the next person he comes across.

I realize then what a long day it's been. I want to climb straight in bed, but instead, I climb up into the loft. I open the window to let in the balmy night air. I sit a moment and admire the stars that have grown brighter even in the last five minutes. I switch on the reading light and turn my attentions to the collection of Hawthorne short stories I've been reading. They are strange, magical stories and before long I am somewhere else, in the dark, malevolent forest, filled with dim figures and mists, obscuring the lights that glimmer on the horizon.  

Chapter Three

Hours later--meals in our family are a European affair--Ellie and I are in the kitchen with the Trips while the rest of the family sits at the long farm tables that're out on the deck. They're supposed to help us with the dishes but are instead busy scooping out handfuls of soap bubbles and giving each other beards and mustaches.

“Hey squirts! Get over here and start drying.” Ellie's burning nervous energy. She's ready to get the day started.

They respond by coming up behind us while our hands are in the sink and slap bubbles on our face instead.

“I'm gonna kill you!” Ellie yells, running out of the kitchen after two of the Trips. One stays. Jaime, I'm assuming. He's the least mischievous of the three.

“I'll help you Persis.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

I go to wipe off the bubbles, but he looks at me solemnly. “I think you ended up with the best goatee; you should leave it.”

“Oh really?” I change my voice in terrible imitation of a Bond villain. I pass him the dish and pretend to stroke my chin. He laughs and turns to dry and put the dish on the stack. When he turns back, I'm ready with a handful of soap.

“You know what? I think you have the face of a pirate, matey.” I give him soap mutton chops and a thick mustache.

“Argh, I do. I even know a pirate joke. Ready?” I nod. This is definitely Jaime. “What did a pirate pay for his corn?”

“I dunno.”

“A buccaneer.”

I respond with my best “mwahhaha.” Jaime launches into a series of ridiculous pirate jokes. We touch up each others faces as we work through the mess. I'm evil laughing so loud, I don't realize that something is going on. He's the one that stops and breaks character and asks, “who's that?”

I look out the sliding door to see a man with his back turned to us. Grampa Joe is slapping him on the back like a long-lost friend. He's as tall as Gramps. I try to place him. Everyone seems to know him. Ellie comes back in from the front door: “I lost our help.”

“That's okay. Jaime and I have pretty much finished up.” I nod my head towards the deck. “Are we expecting someone? I thought all the transients were here already.”

“I thought so, too. Unless...is it your boyfriend?” She pokes me in the side.

“Who? That guy from this morning? He was like three inches shorter.”

Jason and Justin peek around the edge of the island.

“What guy? Who did you meet?”

“Nobody. Don't worry about it.”

“Ooh...Persis has a boyfriend.” The Trips have managed to say it unison.

“Shut up, dorks.” I look helplessly as they run chanting “Persis has a boyfriend” out onto the dock.

Grampa Joe turns at the interruption as does the visitor.

“Oh my god. Do you know who that is?” Ellie asks.

I look but besides realizing that I've now lain eyes on yet another good-looking guy, this one blonde and brawny with indigo blue eyes, I have no idea who he is. I turn to Ellie and see her face has fallen. She tries to say something, but it's too late.

“Persis. Is that you?” Hot Stranger #2 asks in a friendly, deep voice. “I mean, I hardly recognized you with your, um, beard? But that has to be you.”

I reach for a towel and wipe my face. I am confused.

“Grampa Joe. When was the last time Jesse was here?” Ellie asks, oddly gentle.

“Well, it must have been...” he looks up, squinting a little. Then his face falls, too.

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I plum forgot.” Grampa Joe goes uncharacteristically quiet.

Realization dawns on me. It's uncomfortably quiet, so I decide to speak up. “Jesse? Is that your name? You must have come the summer I drowned.”

“Well, yea. We hung out all summer. I was on your team and everything. I'm Dr. Turner's grandson.”

Ellie tries to break in, but I determined to own my own issue. “I don't remember anything from that summer.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a thing after the end of the school year. My therapists say I have retrograde amnesia brought on by acute trauma.”

“From the drowning or from your dad dying?” I again feel Ellie tense up next to me. No one likes to talk about dad's death, but it's oddly comforting to face such openness.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

I wait for the usual response. Eyes to the ground. Or a subject change. I'm surprised at his immediate response. “That's too bad. We were as good of friends as you were a terrible teammate. We'll have to see what we can do to jog that memory.”

I smile and Grampa Joe and Ellie do, too. He's put them back at ease. “Sounds good to me. I certainly owe the grandson of the man who saved me life.”

“Shall we?” Grampa Joe gestures to the deck. He and Jesse wait until Ellie and I walk through to follow.

Everyone's looking at us, quiet for once. It's clear they're all wondering if I remember anything. I start to tell them when Jesse interrupts them. “Persis and I just decided we're going to get reacquainted this summer.” The implication is clear but it's still quiet until Herc pipes up.

“Well, if you don't remember him, then who is the boyfriend the Trips were yelling about?”

I glare at him. I preferred being awkwardly stared at for being nuts.

“Oh, the kids heard me and Ellie talking. When I was out on the lake this morning, I passed by Fuller house, and someone's living there.”

Everyone's interested now. With only four non-Jennings houses on the lake a new neighbor is big news. “He says his dad bought it to flip and he's decided to fix it up.”

There's a lot of excited chatter. “How old is he? What does he look like?” It's Sarah, of course, louder than anyone. Blond, Amazonian, boy crazy, Sarah.

I don't answer so Ellie kicks in. “He looks about 18 or 19. He's quite the looker—not that it's relevant to you Sarah. Where's Austin anyways?” I'm assuming Austin is her latest boyfriend. Ellie mentioned that he was one of our transients.

“Oh, we broke up.” She's not looking at Ellie but at Jesse, so she doesn't see the anger erupting around her.

Ellie asserts herself over the outcry. “Sarah! We already had the teams evened out!”

“Would you relax? I found a replacement.”

“Who?”

She smiles brilliantly and points to Jesse.

He smiles back, claps and rubs his massive hands together. “I'm game.” Sarah's pleased with herself.

He turns to me. “Now, Persis and I will have a chance to get to know each other again. When do we start?”

“Now!” the Trips yell and take off. I can't help but enjoy the disbelief on Sarah's face as we all make our way, following them around the side deck and down to the playing field, ready for the ridiculously over the top parade of teams for our opening ceremonies. 

Chapter Two

I wake up early the next day. It's quiet, with only the earliest rising birds chirping their hello to each other and the sun. I stretch and look up the ceiling. Our cabin is the smallest, the simplest. There's only one bedroom and a loft. Since my Mom stopped coming to the lake, I have taken over the old bedroom. The bed is larger and you don't have to climb down a ladder to go to the bathroom. I still love the loft and it's expansive views, but it's not very practical.

I think of last night, of everyone's arrival, of Roscoe's incessant barking as car after car arrived, spilling out family and friends, luggage, more dogs, food, of chaos. Most of my aunts and uncles looked stressed, but Grampa Joe and Gram couldn't hide their pleasure.

It wasn't always this busy here. The main house was originally built, in a smaller form, by my crotchety Great Grandpa William. I never met him but Grampa Joe said he was an “accomplished introvert.” He was from Atlanta originally. Even though it wasn't near like it is today, it was recovering from the war, growing by the day. Grandpa Will worked his way away from the city, moving from farm to farm, finding work and money where he could, until he arrived in Abbadon, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. He heard some property on a lake eight miles from town was for sale. No one wanted to live out that far, so he was able to buy up all the property around the lake. It was all wilderness, but he put to taming it. He cleared land to farm, the land that is mostly now our playing fields. He built a small house. He tilled the red soil, forcing it to grow pumpkins, okra, corn, pole beans. He kept some pigs, chickens, and cows. He reveled in the quiet. He only left to find a wife and did, a beautiful, shy woman named Rose, who wanted to be alone as much as he did. They Depression hardly fazed them. They were already living a hand-to-mouth existence. The only major event of their life was probably the birth of Gramps.

Grampa Joe grew up lonely. As soon as he could, at the age of twelve, he lit out for Abbadon, then to the hydro-electric plant outside Toccoa. There, a foreman took him under his wing, seeing how bright he was and taught him how to read and build. At sixteen, he had learned all he could, so he went onto Athens and college. He met Gram, who was still in foster care at the time. She was fifteen. He courted her, finished his studies, married her, and when word came to him that his father had died, he found a job at a small college in the area and took a pregnant Gram with him, determined to fill his once lonely childhood home with family.

Over the years, my aunts and uncles grew up and moved away, closer to the bigger suburbs of Atlanta, but as soon as money allowed, they too built a small house for their family until the entire south end of the lake was lined with Jennings family cabins. Someone's here almost every weekend, giving them their fill of company, just as they dreamed, Gramps from his small attic cot, Gram from more places than she could count. One time, at the end of an especially hectic day, I asked Gram is she ever wished for alone time. She says she gets it every morning, when she rises at four. In this quiet space, she does her Bible Study, bakes the day's bread, and sips a coffee so slow it goes cold long before she finishes it, often after the sun has started breaking over the ridge opposite their house, as it is right now.

I decide to get out of bed and onto the lake. I dress and make my way down the thin path I've worn to my small dock. I uncover the kayak, swipe out the spiders, wave away their webs, pull out the leaves that have accumulated since my last visit. I lower myself into the boat, wobbling until I balance out my weight. The only movement on the water comes from the disturbance of my boat. I center the paddle and slip one end into the water. I push off and move away from the shore, out to the left. The splashing of the oar is the single sound I can hear. I take it easy to start, loosening up my muscles. The sun is only just warming up the sky and it casts a golden light on the surface of the water. I think of Grandpa William, understand for a second his love of the desolate outdoors, but once I clear the last family cabin on the left, I pick up the pace and the strain of exercise clears my mind of this thought. Before I know it, I'm looking out across at where I started, the lake now silver with the already intense Georgia morning sun. I pull up for a second and drift with my momentum. The light has come fully over the mountain and the windows reflect the clear early morning light. I see movement on the main deck, but I'm not ready to re-enter the fray. I start again, pushing as fast as I can, sweating in the humid air.

I'm nearing the final turn before I slow again. My breath is coming fast and even. I'm in the zone. I can't help but slow at the inlet approaching on my left, however. Tucked away back in a small indentation in the shore line a sheer, rock face glistens with wet. I pull closer to the shoreline, slowing until I hear the sound of a stream falling into the lake, churning and breaking the surface tension into bubbles and foam. I would love nothing more than to pull up on the red clay beach to its left, drag my kayak onto the land, and hike the length of the creek to the waterfall that feeds this feature. But I promised Gram I would help with breakfast, so I turn wistfully, and instead resolve to follow this last bit of shoreline, to traverse the mouth of the river fed by the lake, and to return to dock, knowing I'm probably already a little late. I again lose myself to the rhythm and breeze of the action of paddling. I lean back in the seat, gaze at the blurring green of pines, kudzu, and oaks.

I'm still hugging the shoreline, when I see the bleached dock of the old Fuller house come into view. No one's lived there in over a decade and the blazing summer sun has punished the untreated wood. I know what I'll see, but I still look up the steep stairs that lead up the steep bank to the abandoned timber frame house above.

My heart skips a beat as I see the outline on the deck, shadowed by the risen sun. Gram would have told me about any new neighbors, so I realize it must be one of the dead though I've never seen one here. I'm mentally deciding what to do when a shape moves into my periphery, and I realize, too late, that I'm headed straight for the dock. I jam the end of the paddle into the water, trying to reverse and change course, but I overcompensate and send the boat on its side and myself into the water.

I come to the surface and look up the hill, searching for the dark form. It's gone. I tread water, muttering to myself for my double stupidity. Then: “Um...hello. Are you okay?” A male voice, young, asks.

Here, we go, I think. I used to try to ignore the ghosts, but that's never once gotten rid of them, so I respond. His face is still back-lit by the sun. I see that he is tall, slender.

“Yep. I just feel like a jerk. Mind if I pull myself up on the dock so I can get back in?”

“Of course not.”

I have the edge of the boat, but I look around for the paddle. I see that he is kneeling over and pulling it out of the water. That's unusual, I think to myself. They're rarely helpful.

I make my way to the ladder, completing the climb of shame for the second time in 24 hours. I lean to one side and shake the water out of my ear. I lean to the other side, shaking, until I'm stopped by the sight of his face, now clear at this angle. He's gorgeous—all angles and depth. Brown messy hair, a strong jaw, strong nose, full lips, and light brown eyes. And he's shirtless. Just then I realize I am too, having gone out in only some shorts and a sports bra--black, thank God. Then, I laugh to myself. Why would I care if a ghost were witness to my humiliating performance and now public exposure?

He, however, looks abashed. Interesting. That's a new one.

“So, what's your deal?” I ask, anxious to get on with it.

“Huh? Oh you mean, why am I here?”

Cute, but dumb, I suppose. “Sure. Why are you here?”

“I don't know. It just seemed like a good idea...” He trails off uncertainly.

“Well, I don't have time for this. I have to go help Gram with breakfast. I don't mean to be rude, but if there's nothing you need from me, I'd better head back.”

“Okay.” He looks like he's unsure what to do next. Then, he looks past me, over my shoulder. I turn and see Ellie arriving on a kayak. Great, I think, imagining her view of me in this moment. It's been a while since I've been seen talking to myself. As she approaches, I hear her laughter skipping off the water. She looks at me curiously.

“What?” I ask in exasperation.

“I was just wondering what you said to get a complete stranger to throw you off a dock this early in the morning.” She's grinning from ear-to-ear. It dawns on me. This guy isn't a ghost. He's a real person. A real, half-naked, hot guy. And I'm half-naked and have just rammed into his dock. I go red with embarrassment.

I have to get off this dock. I turn, force my eyes up to his. He has a bemused look on his face. I can't make myself speak, so I just look at the paddle. He follows my eyes. “Oh, sorry. Here's your oar.” He gives me a heart-melting sideways smile.

I manage a soft thanks and turn, trying to find the kayak. I realize it's floated out in the current, but that Ellie's towing it towards us. “You know, technically it's a paddle, not an oar. An oar generally rests on the edge of the water craft, while a paddle is held in the center.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Good to know.”

She turns and brings my kayak in between her and the dock. “She's really smart,” I unnecessarily state.

“I can see that. I'm clearly going to have to brush up on my nautical terminology.” He smiles wryly at Ellie. My heart drops. Another guy lost to my insanity and Ellie's perfection. “Well, we'd better go. I'm only here after you because Gram says you promised to mix up the biscuits.”

I turn to back down the ladder, putting my foot into the kayak. I am half trying to cover myself up, and start tipping into the water again. He has followed me, however, and he quickly offers his forearm to provide a counter-balance. It's been years since I've touched someone not in my family and if possible, I turn even redder, scarlet with heat. I lower myself into the boat.

“So are you staying here this summer?” Ellie probes. “I didn't think anyone lived here.”

I'm desperate to shove off, hoping he's as inept at answering her as he was me, but he's got his act together now. “My Dad just bought this property as an investment. It needs a lot of work, and he's too busy to do it himself. He was just going to pay someone but I wanted to get out of town, so I asked to do it.”

“A man after Grampa Joe's heart. You should come over and visit. He basically hand-built all our cabins and has tons of tools lying around. Plus, it's sure to get lonely over here by yourself.” I know Ellie's not flirting, but he surely doesn't.

“I thought you said we had to go,” I shortly state.

“So, we do. See you later...” she trails off, waiting for his name. There's a long pause.

Maybe he isn't real, I think. Maybe Ellie's finally started to see. Maybe...

“Luke. Luke Martin.”

“Luke, nice to meet you. I'll Ellie and the klutz is Persis.”

She starts to paddle. She knows when to leave a conversation in control. She looks back over her shoulder, gives him her genuine, warm smile and yells back, “hope you come visit soon!”

I push off from the dock with my hand. I can feel him looking at me. “It was nice meeting you Persis.”

I manage to look up, stealing one last look at this faultless face. I manage a “likewise” and a faint smile and follow in Ellie's wake. The water is no longer glassy like it was when I started. Small, choppy waves break against the bow until I gain enough speed to cut a path. I don't look back.

Chapter One

Chapter One

“I don't know why you aren't more excited. Cousin Olympics are the best!” Ellie, brilliant, beautiful, beneficent Ellie, is clearly full of enough excitement for the both of us.

I turn to Ellie, raise an eyebrow: “Says the girl who always gets a medal.” It's not one hundred percent true, but Ellie's name has been stitched onto the Champion's Quilt more than any other cousin's.

She rolls her eyes and I turn and look back out the window, watching the green, rolling scenery of Abbadon, Georgia fly by. I have my arm out the window, allowing it to rise and plummet with the wind that's coming in hot and fast. Even though we're both sweating through our shirts, it's a tradition of ours. It makes the lake water feel that much better. This stretch of Jot-Em-Down Road is my favorite. It's the last bit before we cross the bridge to the Jennings Family Land. The river roars by at the far edge of the valley, while alongside the road the regular afternoon downpours create an ever-changing series of pools that reflect the green of the reeds, the blue of the sky, the white of ubiquitous clouds. I close my eyes, enjoy the tempered, red-warmth of the sun through my lids and the smell of wet earth, the last moment's peace before...

“Hello?! I'm talking here!”

“Sorry Ellie. What were you saying?” I turn and take in her profile again. Long caramel colored hair, piled in a messy heap on her head, tan, perfect skin, a delicate, straight nose, naturally long and curling lashes. We're so close--and she's so oblivious to it—that I sometimes forget just how pretty she is.

“Well, I was laying out my attack plan for our team's success. Now that we're finally on the same team, we have to get our shit together.”

“You can plan all you want. I don't see how it'll account for my shortcomings.” Most notably my lack of enthusiasm, I think. Instead I say, “You'd better get that unladylike language out of your system or Gram's gonna take the Board of Education to your ass.”

Ellie chuckles knowingly then says, “right back at you.”

Then it's my turn to laugh. “C'mon. You know I'm her favorite. She hasn't paddled me since she caught me letting the dogs eat the stuffing straight out of the serving dish.”

“You're only her favorite because she feels sorry for you, loser.”

Ellie looks over at me, checking like she always does to make sure that my feelings aren't hurt. They aren't. I'd rather have people say stuff like that to my face then behind my back. “Well, there aren't many benefits to being the family freak, so I'll take what I can get.”

Her sympathy changes back to furrowed focus. “Anyways, as I was saying, I've been reading Sun Tzu in preparation for this summer--”

“Why?” I interrupt. “Eastern Philosophy isn't even an Enlightenment category.”

Now, Grampa Joe is all about sports. He says it brings out the best and worst in humanity, but his pet event is Enlightenment. For this part of the Olympics, he devises challenges based on his latest interests. It's kind of like trivia on steroids. He's a retired philosophy professor with a wide range of interests, so the categories can get pretty out there. He releases them at Christmas Eve dinner after a too long speech in which he discusses the need “now more than ever” of Renaissance men and women. He then lectures on the vital importance of “digesting not cramming the material,” makes a gross pun about digestion, and then finally gets to the point--the topics.

This year he has decided upon: The Geography of Subsaharan Africa, The Native Americans of North Georgia, The Literature of the American Renaissance, Practical Implications of Quantum Mechanics, and Baseball in the Era of Kennesaw Mountain Landis. Wow. Luckily on Christmas morning the teams are announced, so most teams divide and conquer, giving them ample time to prepare. The topics are tough but he always manages to find interesting ways to have us show our knowledge. It's actually my favorite part of the Olympics mostly because it's my strongest event. I've even finished first a few times, like the year when two of the categories were “19^th Century Russian Literature” and “The Art of Fishing.” We had to create a work of art that explored the two topics. I spent the whole summer fishing and taking notes and then wrote a short story titled “The Hook & The Barb” in which I recounted how a man, who's just trying to feed his family, goes mad after watching fish after fish in its death throes, and eventually drowns himself. Luckily, this was the summer before everything happened, so I didn't feel like it was some sort of pity handout. Anyways, I think his plan is to lure us into learning and it's worked. Our oldest cousin Joey is finishing up his dissertation about the Abbadon vernacular after Grampa Joe picked “Dialects of the American South” as a topic.

“I know it's not a category—it was just for fun. Will you listen to me?” I come back to her war talk, roll my eyes at her idea of fun, but nod in assent. “Sun Tzu is famous for saying, amongst other things, that war is deception. We're always the complete opposite and so aggressive--”

“I'll say! Jake broke Logan's nose last year, Joey needed 30 stitches after the disastrous Ancient Pentathlon year...seriously, Grampa Joe thought javelin throwing was a good idea?! And--”

Ellie's breaks in, “I know, I know. That's my point exactly. So, here's what we're gonna do: deceive them.”

“Hm. How?”

“You. You're our secret weapon.”

She turns to see the incredulity on my face. “Ha. Okay...Well, there's just one little problem with your plan. You seem to have forgotten that I'm usually a bottom three finisher. The Trips beat me last year. Every one of them. They were nine. The only reason I'm not always last is because of the transients.”

She snickers in agreement. Grampa Joe's Official Jennings Olympics Rules Manual states that all family members between ages of 10 and 30 are expected to participate. The games used to feature our aunts and uncles more regularly, but the competition has turned into a generally cousins only affair as the older generation has moved into their fifties. Growing up, our friends thought it was weird. They thought Grampa Joe was some sort of despot. Mom even hinted at that now and then, but the truth is that we wanted to be there. It was mostly fun and it was clear it made our grandparents happy. So we made every effort to participate.

If you were sick or injured, it had better be serious or you'll never live it down, but of course people have to miss. Acceptable reasons in the past have included sports camps--although thankfully our weeks fall outside most allowable NCAA practice dates--study abroad, creative writing seminars, Habitat for Humanity or the like. Not to mention--babies were born, people passed away, work got too hectic--life happened. Sarah tried to bail out one time to go to the beach with her boyfriend du jour, but even she relented under the pressure and then made the mistake of bringing him with her instead, a more epic mistake than almost not coming in the end.

But when you couldn't make it, Grampa Joe was still firm—a minimum of five teams of four no matter what. That's where the transients came in. Sometimes Julie or James, the two youngest of the prior generation, would fill in, or a spouse or partner--three cousins were married and we wished Jose and Michael could be-- would help out. Sometimes it was just a friend. When Ellie was ten, she convinced her team to stack their roster, with transients moving in and out of events, playing to their strengths, over twenty different participants in all. Grampa Joe said he admired her strategy, but that it didn't “engender community,” so now you can only ever have seven different people on a team in any given summer.

Thankfully, there are always at least a couple transients who are only good at a specific Enlightenment category or long-distance running or something. I'm experienced enough to beat them overall, which is good news because although I didn't get the full force of the family genes, I certainly inherited the desire to win when I could.

“I'm serious Persis,” Ellie says, determined to continue explaining her strategy. “Here's what I'm thinking. During the first week, you tank it, maybe even worse than usual.” I huff but she continues. “We'll do our best to keep things in contention, but out of first place. Then, you come out of nowhere and dark horse them in the closing week.”

“Theoretically that would work, if I were capable of coming out of nowhere.”

“That's just it. This is your year. Look at the events. You're actually a good swimmer, which no one ever seems to remember. Since I can't be there in closing week, they won't even think about you. There's doubles kayaking this year, and you and I can almost read each others thoughts. There's no twins or triplets on the same team for the first time in forever. And...”

“And...you're forgetting volleyball. I'm so bad I can probably make us lose single-handedly. Oh, and clay pigeon shooting and I've never shot a gun. And cornhole? I have no idea where Grampa Joe came up with those two. It's like he's been hanging out at a redneck frat house. What's next, beer pong?”

“I wouldn't rule it out,” Ellie says and then giggles. “Now, you're totally right about the volleyball. You're terrible. But we'll have Herc and Sarah at the net. Everyone's going to be terrible at shooting. As far as I know no one's ever done it. You're one of the only cousins staying here all summer, so you can practice while everyone else is...”

“...out having a life. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Whatever. Same thing with cornhole.”

I can tell Ellie is about to launch into the finer points of her strategy or give me a detailed cornhole practice schedule, but I am saved by the end of the pavement. The gravel crunching under the tires makes it too loud for conversation, so we're quiet until we come to the bridge that will take us over the river to my summer home. The boards thump our arrival, drawing dogs and cousins down the stairs that lead from the main house to the circular driveway.

I am filled with both comfort and anxiety. I've spent every June and July of my life here and plenty of other time to boot. I'm grateful for my family. I really am. They have always stuck by me and defended me when people called me crazy. I know I'd have no one if not for them. But just because they'll defend me from outsiders doesn't mean they don't give me my fair share of shit. Even if it wasn't for my “imaginary friends” I'd still be a prime target because I'm the runt. Twenty freaking cousins and I end up the shortest. Did I mention that I'm 5'7”? Or that I have seven younger cousins? Add to that my pathetic status as an only child and the fact that I'm not a star athlete or valedictorian (we've had six in the family, including Ellie, the most recent graduate) and I'm basically guaranteed to get harassed constantly. I don't have much time for thought, however, as a mass of people come into relief as we pull up to the front door of the main house.

Before the dust can settle, Ellie's bounced out of the car and is stomping Godzilla like with a Trip under each arm. I watch from the safety of the car as the third--Jason?--jumps on her back, bringing her crashing onto the grass. Jonathan and Jessica stand with Seth and Andy, laughing at Ellie and the Trips' performance. I start calculating, realizing that Seth and Andy's presence can only mean--

--but before I can react, I'm being dragged by Jake and Herc from the car. “Here's the wittow wunt,” Jake taunts. “What should we do with her? Sit on her? Tickle her until she pees? Put dirt in her hair?”

Herc looks thoughtful and then a wicked grin spreads on his face. “I know. Let's sacrifice her to the Lake Gods!”

“No!” I shriek. “Let me change!” I struggle, writhing helplessly as Herc, so nicknamed because at 6'8,” 300 pounds he's the strongest of the family, throws me effortlessly over his shoulder. I don't really care about my clothes, but I want to enter the lake on my own terms, not at the hands of a giant man-boy.

“Woo boy...she's thrashing around like a caught shark! I think a straight jacket's in order for Psycho Persis. That'd subdue her.” I kick out at him as they stride down the hill behind the house, the water growing ever nearer.

“Nah,” Herc says. “We don't want to drown her—we just wanna toughen her up so she doesn't come in last again.”

We're on the dock, approaching the end, when Ellie and the Trips catch up with us. “Herc! Put her down! She's on your team this summer, you stupid meat-head!”

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot.” He puts me down, pats me on the head. “Sorry cuz.”

Being on the same team means a certain level of protection. I begin to relax, turning to thank Ellie, when I see Jake's arm extend out of nowhere, shoving me into the mineral green water of Lake Carver's shoreline. “You're not on my team, runt!”

I flail as I enter the water, plunging deep under with the force of Jake's invitation. I right myself, kick to the surface, and break to the sounds of laughter. Only Ellie's face shows concern. I know it's not because she's worried about my team performance for once. It's because that's how I died.

If Grampa Joe's best friend, Dr. Turner, hadn't found me and resuscitated me, pumped the water out, forced the air in, I would still be dead. But I'm not, and after seeing and talking to ghosts, death seems boring but nothing to fear. So, I've never been nervous around water, insisting I'm fine. Everyone but Ellie seems to take me at my word on that.

I climb the ladder back onto the dock and furiously launch myself at Jake. He's only two inches shorter than Herc but is more slight, so I manage to wrap him in a soaking bear hug. “Oh cousin Jake, I love you. I've missed you so much!” I drawl. I smile sweetly, and then sneak in a kidney punch he hardly seems to feel.

“Dammit Persis! I just changed!”

“You're kidding me right? You did just throw me in the lake.”

“Good point, cousin.” He grins and leans over, affectionately squeezing the water out of my ponytail.

We start making our way back towards the house. Herc pats me on the back. “I saw that punch. That's the kind of spunk I like to see.” Then he trips me just enough to send me reeling. I scowl my way back up the hill, wringing out my shirt and shaking my head, knowing this is only the beginning. But a smile creeps in, too.

A Letter to Stephanie Meyer

Dear Ms. Meyer--

If you had ever met me, you would never have guessed that I was the kind of person that would read a book like Twilight.  To be honest, in many ways I'm not.  When kids kiss in the hall, I get in their faces and yell "gross!" I forbid them to talk about prom in class.  I'm not very romantic myself.  I once got a poem from a boy and gave it back with suggestions for improvement.  And prior to Twilight, I hadn't read a Young Adult book since I was a young adult.   So how did I end up reading it?  It certainly wasn't the popularity.  When my sister-in-law tried to get me to read Fifty Shades of Gray, our conversation went like this:

Her:  Hey.  I just read FSoG, you should read it!

Me:  Absolutely Not.

Her:  Whatever.  Just read it.  You read fast.  It'll take you like a day.

Me:  Yeah, but what if I died right after I finished it and that was the last thing I did?  I'd rather die by setting myself on fire or ingesting poison-coated wolf spiders or...

Her:  I get it.  Fine. Sorry for trying to connect with you, you heartless jerk. 

So how did I end up reading your book, in the face of much derision from my fellow English teachers?  It started honorably enough.  I was doing a book club with some students.  A couple of them read Jerzy Kosinski's incredibly depressing book The Painted Bird on my recommendation.  I had warned them, but they went for it. Then, they got really, really mad at me.  I agreed to read something equally upsetting and they picked Twilight for me.  

Now this was a big deal for me because the last time I agreed to something like this, a student made me read a book called Flyy Girl by Omar Tyree. It wasn't terrible, but it was filled with so much sex I blush to think about it seven years later (and I'm HBO levels of desensitized).  I am, however, a woman of my word, so I ponied up and read Twilight, and hate to admit that I didn't hate it.  I wanted to, desperately, but I just couldn't do it. Despite what many people say, it isn't terribly written and was a good story.  Most of all, it was a lovely break from the Russian literature kick I was on.  I ended up reading all four because I have a severe case of OCSD,Obsessive-Compulsive Series Disorder.  Once I start, I can't stop.  (For instance, while I love Game of Thrones the show, the books drove me crazy.  George R.R. Martin cannot edit himself and overuses the word jape more than I leave my shoes at the bottom of the stairs and almost kill my husband. I still read the series last summer.  All 85,000 pages of them).   Anyways, I read the whole series, and liked them less with every book.  Regardless, they did get me excited about YA lit.  Even my sister-in-law supports my new habit (thanks for The Hunger Games, Aubie!).

Long story short, I kind of owe this writing project to your work (and those vindictive students), and I recently needed it again. I've finished the exposition of my book and stopped to streamline it.  I don't want to get into the habit of editing all the time, but I also don't want to have to correct habitual mistakes.  I noticed that I wasn't doing a great job at physically describing characters and my dialogue needed some work, so I decided to look back at Twilight for inspiration, and it worked.  I can't lie.  Some of the inspiration was what I don't want to do (i.e. make my character clumsy and totally dependent on her dude to save her), but plenty of it was helpful (such as how to introduce a character that the reader can picture or craft believable teenage dialogue).  

So I'm sorry.  I kind of hipstered out on you at the beginning and still want to deny that I've ever read your books and punch myself in the face for having used my precious time on earth reading that instead of Don Quixote or something. But thank you for writing your book anyways and for helping me remember that reading can be fun and for teaching me that vampires could be chaste and sparkly.  

Sincerely,

Allison KT

The Font Factor

I want to talk about fonts.  I have plenty of other things I should be doing.  Writing my book, for starters.  But I started reading Dante's Divine Comedy for some inspiration and now I have too many thoughts, especially of which circle in hell I'm going to.  I'm trying to let the ideas marinate for a while so I don't end up changing my whole story.  I have practical duties calling, too.  I just got back in town and have to do all my laundry, repack, and clean the house by tomorrow morning, because I'm going back out-of-town, and will be returning with visitors on Saturday.  Instead, I choose to embark upon a typography rant.

The rant begins with this statement:  I honestly don't hate many things, but I despise Comic Sans.  It started many years ago, when I was in graduate school, studying to be an English teacher.  While at the time I didn't know anything about serifs or ligatures, something deeply unsettled me when my peers would turn in papers with titles looking like this:  Racial Implications of Flexible Grouping. It just felt wrong.  Close your eyes and imagine your Grandma in a bikini or your Grandpa in a speedo.  Why does that feel so wrong?  No, not because "they don't have the figure for it."  What's wrong with you?  It's because they are old and deserve respect and you should give it to them. I was baffled, but some of them were going on to be middle school teachers and I even had a few professors who used it.  I let it go. For a while.

Now, I've been teaching for ten years and I am a font despot.  I include the following flowchart on my class intro Powerpoint.  When that didn't seem enough, I included the following rationale on my website:

^The only advice I feel comfortable giving^

You are never allowed to turn in any papers in Comic Sans. Why? Ethos. That's why. Unless you are trying to capture the voice of a kindergarten teacher or a seven-year-old, it's rhetorically inappropriate. And even then, it's just lazy. Instead...why not try employing Anglo-Saxon diction or a verisimilitic selection of detail? What's that you say? You're just trying to soften the blow of a harsh message? Again--lazy. That's why purposeful passive voice, inductive arrangement, periodic sentences, and euphemisms exist (just to name a few). Remember: everything's an argument, and if you use this font, the only arguments you're making are a) that you hate me and/or b) that you hate winning arguments. If neither are true, go with another font. If one or both are true...well, it's gonna be a long year :). I recommend the clean, readable Calibri or the oldie-but-goodie, Times New Roman. Or, if you're trying to make your short paper seem long, Courier (but know that I know what you're trying to do). Remember, most of the time, if a font is effective you don't notice it; you only notice the writing. Don't you deserve that attention? I think you do.

Look.  I understand if you think I'm too uptight. You don't know how right you are. In my defense on this count, however, I will point out that one of my favorite pieces ever is a monologue in which Comic Sans defends itself from people like me (check out McSweeney's if you're interested but full disclosure, it's rife with R-rated language).   I do have an understanding that this isn't the most dire issue facing society today.

Or maybe you're offended because you use it yourself.  That might be okay (although probably not), but I want to make sure you've thought it through.  Because I honestly think it can hurt your writing career.

Since I've started following different writer's groups, I've checked out many blogs and book covers. I don't think I'm superficial, but I am a voracious reader in multiple mediums, and appearance has distracted me from content more often than I'd like to admit.  This is especially true because of fonts. When I find I'm putting effort into reading a text, say because of a script-like font, I just stop.  Of course there are also positive effects of design choices.  I read the Matched series by Ally Condie and didn't really enjoy the story, especially after the first book, but I kept reading because of the covers.  I also think the Divergent series took off in large part because of the exciting covers. (Although the Goodreads media blitz didn't hurt either, I'm sure, but promotion is another topic altogether). 

Bearing this in mind, I have spent a ton of time considering how my blog looks, especially in terms of my font. I still don't think mine is great, and the first thing I would do if I made any money off of my writing or blog would be to pay someone to update it, but it's solid, readable, and represents the tenor of my writing (I hope!).  

In the end, while I don't have a lot of advice to offer to many of my fellow writers, I can tell you this:  font matters.  And while most of us can't afford professional web designers or consultants, we can easily change our fonts. So play around with them, preview them, change them around, get some feedback. Or ignore me and point out that I should probably get back to work.  Either way, you'll be doing someone some good. 

?@#&%!

Since I first told my dad to eff off when I was in fifth grade, I have enjoyed the thrill of a good curse word.  We were in the backyard, playing two v two basketball.  Playing that day were my dad (6'2"), my uncle (5'10"), and my other uncle (6'5"), all in their thirties, and me.  At 5'3", I was tall for my age, but I was nine and had only ever played soccer.  In other words, I thought I was nice for evening out the teams.  I can't remember exactly what happened, but my dad, my teammate, was getting on my case about posting up or something and I snapped "You know what, Dad?!  You can f--k off!"

Everyone stopped.  My uncles' mouths hung open and my dad's lips pressed together, his nostrils flared--the deadly combination I knew as his angriest face.  I didn't wait for a response.  I just turned and went inside, sending myself to my room.

Here's the thing though.  From my room, where I peeked down onto the half court he'd put in, all I could hear was laughter.  My dad was laughing, my uncles were still laughing, my mom and aunts had come over and they were laughing.  And I felt better, having expressed my roiling emotions with just a short pithy phrase.   I probably could have gone down and started playing again, no harm, no foul.  Instead I chose to stay inside reading the Babysitters Club book where Stacy tries to ignore her diabetes problem, wanting to eat chocolate like Claudia and the girls, for probably the 105th time.  

I've told that story to my students before and most are horrified or shocked.  They try to imagine what their mom would do, but can't find the words and just shake their heads wide-eyed.  I figure that's just the South for you.  My family, California born and bred, is more informal.  With the exception of my Grandfather--ironically the former Marine--everyone curses at some level.  My immediate family is probably the worst.  While I try not to curse at people, there's hardly anything I wouldn't say in front of my parents and brothers.  My husband's the same way.  No one bats an eye at even the most colorful language.

Therefore, when I consider the issue of whether or not I should include profanity in my book, I'm stuck.  My characters are the kind of people that would never use the "f" word, especially at another family member, but they are normal teenagers.  How do I convey a sense of realism without the occasional four letter word? It drives me nuts on Breaking Bad that amid all the mayhem, the worst they say is the occasional shit. I know, I know...it's on basic cable.  But still--they're dealing meth!

Now you might agree with those whom forswear swearing.  Class acts like Bill Cosby and George Washington have maligned it. Even Chloe Grace Moretz has weighed in, saying "I was raised to think cursing makes you look unintelligent."  There is probably a lot to be said for that.  However, I think I'm going to have to respectfully disagree and come down on the side of Mark Twain, someone I am much more likely to have ever hung out with.  He asserts that: "There ought to be a room in every house to swear in. It's dangerous to have to repress an emotion like that." Say what you want about gratuitous cursing, but as an intensifier or an expletive, dropping some Anglo-Saxon words can really take the edge off.

Chloe Moretz:  a true lady

So, here's how I plan to approach it:  there will be metaphorical rooms in my book, spaces where I let the profane creep in.  However, I will pledge to try and make sure it's purposeful.  I hope to find the right balance of authenticity and decorum.  Maybe that will help me be a little less gratuitous with the vulgarisms in my own speech.  Because eventually that shit's going to wind up biting me in the ass. 

Who Makes a Good Female Role Model?

I'd like to think of myself as a strong woman and as a fan of "real" females in literature.  Part of the reason I wanted to write a YA book with a female protagonist is because I am often bothered by the cliche of the girl who needs saving.  While I enjoyed the Twilight series, I (like many, many others) was bothered by the fact that Bella only feels like she is strong, smart, beautiful, etc. once she becomes a vampire.  I much prefer September from Catherynne Valente's beautifully written The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Boat of Her Own Making.  If you haven't read it and its sequel (The Girl Who Fell Below Fairyland and Led the Revels There), stop reading this and go read that. Just look at those glorious titles.  It's clear who's in charge in these books.

As I'm writing, however, I am finding it hard to develop a character that represents my ideals.  My protagonist is an outsider, struggling to maintain her sense of self when faced with some major challenges. I want to help her, to save her by introducing characters who will help her understand her self-worth.  But it's a fine line between having others help you and not helping yourself.

Not to mention which, while watching the women's Wimbledon final today, I found myself initially cheering against Marion Bartoli, the eventual champion.  She's relatively out of shape.  She always looks unhappy. She has a weird relationship with her father (her former coach). She's fist-pumping after every point, including to total strangers who aren't even cheering for her.

Until I realize that's exactly why I should be cheering for her.  Bartoli, brunette, diminutive, tough (today at least) is facing down yet another tall, pretty blonde, who can't stop crying. The crowd isn't behind her.  She's having to do all the work for herself and doesn't seem to care what she looks like doing it.  When she wins the tournament for the first time in her long career, she responds with a winning mix of humility, bravado, grace, and awkwardness.  Watching her inelegant climb in and out of the friends and family box, I see myself in her.

Bartoli v Lisicki

I don't end up liking her exactly (I'm still a big fan of the unapologetically strong Serena Williams), but I appreciate what she's made me consider: that flaws make for an interesting character but that it's also going to be a delicate balancing act in keeping my protagonist complex yet likable, strong yet relateable.  I am going to keep Bartoli in mind as write, both for her strengths and weaknesses, as a model and a reality check.

Writing a good simile is like...

While revising my first chapter, I've been troubled by a simile I wrote.  Part of my problem is that while recently reading Desperate Characters by Paula Fox for mini-book club with my friend Dave (which was great, you should check it out), I think I found my favorite simile EVER and everything I write pales in comparison.  Here it is:

"Trying to stop her for talking is like trying to get a newspaper under a dog before it pukes!"

So I ask you?  Is that not the best simile ever?

(Yes, writing this post is a form of procrastination so I can delay coming up with a satisfactory rhetorical device of my own).

Did I Mention There's a Ghost That's Out to Get Persis?

Here's the next section of the introduction, which fleshes out the book's opening. 

Perdition

I shouldn't be here but for that moment's hesitation, the last thing I remember. Now all I am is now, watching, waiting for years on end, or so it seems--time means nothing here. 

There is hope, however; a glimmer of possibility and change. I have been tasked with watching her. She can't see me yet, they've assured me that much though she can see some of the others. I am to decide when to reveal myself, to insinuate myself.  If I do what they tell me then, they say, and only then, can I move on.  They will give me the powers I need to deceive her. 

Those around me whisper that beyond is worse, but nothing can be worse that this flat, gray, endless monotony.

I will do anything to get out of this place. 

Unpublished work © 2013 Allison KT

Would You Read This Book?

Here's the first draft of my introduction.  I know there are probably errors everywhere, but let's focus.  My question to you is:  would you (or a person who likes young-adult-supernatural-lit) read this book?  Why or why not?  Also, if you're so inclined, does this sound like anything you've seen or read? 

July 26th

There are many ways in which I'm your average teenage girl.

I'm cute but not pretty—brown hair, hazel eyes, some freckles, medium height, medium build. I play soccer. Varsity soccer, but only after two years on JV and I come off the bench unless it's one of the local Christian schools in our region (because my Catholic coach doesn't want to invoke the wrath of God with a blowout). I do well enough in school with a 90 average. I have to work hard but not up-till-three-every night hard. I've been known to binge watch tv on-line, which is one of the main reasons my GPA isn't higher.

But there are many more ways in which I am not.

My name is Persis. My mom was a big Anne of Green Gables fan. She probably would have named me Anne except that's her name, so I got Persis. My Dad died when I was 12. My cousins are my only friends. I used to have plenty, but now it's just the family, which doesn't really count. So I guess you could say I'm friendless. Most people aren't overtly rude to me because they're afraid they'll get beat up by Herc or ridiculed by Ellie, but that doesn't make them call you to hang out on a Friday night.

Perhaps I should mention my most distinguishing characteristic:

I can see and talk to ghosts. Ever since I died and came back to life.

Maybe you're now thinking “this girl's been reading too many teen paranormal romance stories; she's crazy!” First of all, what choice do I have nowadays? That's pretty much all there is out there. And second, I'm not crazy.

You've seen ghosts, too. The shadow that seems to move when you open your eyes in the dark of the room; the footsteps you hear as you walk alone at night; the feeling that you're being watched. But you reason away those fears, tell yourself that it's just your imagination.

I wish that was the case with me. I wish I could have bought into the theories of the therapists my mom hired after I started “acting strangely” (it's because I don't sleep well, or it's sleep paralysis, or it's because I miss my dad). I know the truth though. I sleep fine, rarely waking. I'm never afraid of the ghosts and that rules out a horrifying sleep-wake state. And as much as I've wished or tried, I've never seen my dad. Maybe if the ghosts could give me information, details about who they are and when and where they lived, I could convince somebody, but they never know—other than the occasional plea for help or statement of regret, they just are.

That's how I started figuring out who was and wasn't real. A series of questions:

“Who are you?”

“Where are you from?”

“When were you born?”

Real people knew and I could relax; they, however, couldn't after just being interrogated, so no new friends for me. I was fine with my old friends for a while, until my best friend Kelly showed up in my room one night asking for help, drenched in blood. I woke up my Mom. “It's Kelly! She needs help! She needs to go to the hospital!” Only no one was there and my mom got angry, telling me to “quit acting out,” that I “wasn't the only one who was still hurting.”

The next day I wasn't at all surprised when our group of friends got called in, talked through the awful truth by the counselor--that Kelly had died in a car accident last night. I knew then that I couldn't even be sure of my friends and then mom started feeling uncomfortable with me. “How had I known?”

I couldn't provide an adequate explanation and she didn't really want the truth. I withdrew entirely, quit soccer, refused to go to school, wouldn't see my family.

It wasn't until I overheard my mom on the phone with one of therapists, talking of putting me in an institution, that I created this new version of me. The one that finally admitted I needed help, that I was depressed, lost, afraid. I cried all the time. I pretended to take anti-depressants, said all the right things in therapy, agreed to go back to school, to play soccer again. I didn't have to pretend with my friends because they were ninth graders and it was too much for them to bring me back into the circle, but thankfully I had Ellie, Herc, Seth, Andy, Jonathan, and Jessica to talk to at school . They think I'm crazy too but they have to love me (“Family First and Forever” is the family motto).

My mom didn't question my lack of friends because she just assumed I'd been swallowed up whole by the Jennings clan, as had happened to almost everyone (“except me—that's why you didn't get stuck with a “J” name and 85 siblings”). Never mind that it would have been nice to be Julia not Persis and not the only one of 20 cousins to not have a brother or a sister.

Inside though, there's still the real version of me, never sure who to trust, unafraid of death, wishing I was normal and not merely pretending to be. This is who I am, or maybe was, prior to this summer. Before Luke and Jesse, before everything turned upside down. That's what I want to tell you about. I'm afraid I'll forget again. I'm afraid it will be too late. 

Unpublished work © 2013 Allison KT