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