Here are excerpts from my current YA novels.
SINCE I DON'T HAVE YOU
Chapter 1
Today I punched Ranice James in the face. My fist connected with her cheekbone and she dropped to the asbestos-filled tiles of our gymnasium floor like a bag of marbles. Now I’m officially suspended. I might even be expelled. According to our principal, Mr. White, safe schools will be involved for sure, and maybe even the police. The police. Just the thought of the police being involved in any way makes me want to dry heave all over my bed.
Mom is going to be so disappointed. She won’t “kill me,” which is what other kids say when they make a major life mistake like having a party while their parents are away for the weekend, or smoking weed, or getting caught shoplifting. My mom doesn’t get angry. Ever. She won’t even raise her voice at me. Anger is something she avoids like a bad dentist; I guess she figures we’ve dealt with enough of it in this lifetime. But I think it’s natural. Anger, I mean. It’s a natural emotion. And it would be so much easier to deal with her getting angry like normal parents. Instead, she’ll be disappointed…and worried. More than anything, my suspension is going to make her super worried because there will be follow-up meetings about it at school. And at these meetings there will be questions. Questions about our situation at home and what might be making me so angry. I wonder if Ranice’s mom will want to press assault charges. I doubt it. Most people in our neighbourhood have a pretty uneasy relationship with the police.
I walk over to the window, lean my hands against the windowsill and let my forehead rest against the cold glass. The streetlamp in front of our townhouse is already on; its yellow light illuminating the spider web shaped cracks in the windshield of the abandoned car at the curb and the dirty snow banks left over from last week’s blizzard.
I look at my watch. It’s nearly six o’clock. Mom should be home by now.
We have this pact, this unspoken rule, that if one of us is going to be late, no matter what the reason, we have call. And we can’t just leave a message; we need to speak to the other person. That way we can be sure we’re both safe.
I try to push down the nervous, sick feeling that starts to spread in my stomach.
She’s fine. She’ll be home any minute.
Sensing a chance to get petted, my cat Peaches jumps up beside me and stretches out along the windowsill. Her throaty purr vibrates against the palm of my hand.
The ringing of my phone startles both of us. Peaches leaps off the windowsill as I run over to my bed to grab it. I glance at the screen and smile. It’s Mom.
“Hey,” I say. “Where are you?”
“Edie. You need to pack. I’ll be home within fifteen.”
I feel like I’m in an elevator that’s plummeting thirty stories to the ground.
“What?”
I don’t know why I’m asking; we’ve been through this so many times.
My mother’s breathing is heavy, frantic.
“Just two suitcases and not too heavy. Janice will be with me. Look for her car. It’s the grey Toyota.”
“I know what she drives,” I snap.
Mom ignores that. “And Edie, don’t open the door for anyone. No matter what.”
STOLEN SISTER
CHAPTER 1
It’s the first day of school in Grade Nine and I’m losing my mind. I’m standing at the front desk in the office of my new high school.
“But this is where I’m supposed to go,” I protest, pulling out my acceptance letter and handing it to the secretary. I plaster a smile across my face. As Mom always says: It’s easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar.
“Sorry, Jasmine,” she says, sliding the letter back across the desk at me. She’s wearing this massive silver ring topped with a strange, indigo coloured stone on her index finger. Probably thinks it makes her look hip and young. “You need to attend Beaconsfield. They’re expecting you.”
Disbelief floods my body. My letter of acceptance is sitting there on the desk, complete with a generic welcome message from the principal. I’ve clearly been accepted to this school and yet she is refusing to even look at the paper.
“But it says I’m accepted. Here,” I say, pointing with my index finger at the acceptance box, which is clearly ticked with a black checkmark. Every last atom in my body is shrieking with rage; I want to shout at this woman but know doing that would only make things worse- if they can get any worse.
I pass her the letter again. This time my hands are shaking, betraying my anger. The morning bell sounds.
“You’ll attend Beaconsfield,” she says flatly, running her well-manicured fingers through her bleached hair.
Am I dreaming? What’s going on? I cross my fingers, hoping I’m not imagining things again. I thought I’d stopped doing that years ago.
“Can I at least speak to someone else about this, then?” I ask, digging my nails into the fleshy part of my palm to keep from screaming. I look down. Tiny crescent-shaped nail marks appear in my skin.
“Sorry. Everyone is busy.”
And that’s when I notice that the office is nearly empty. Other than this secretary, who hasn’t even bothered to tell me her name, a solitary caretaker is dumping out wastepaper baskets into a large garbage bag. He, however, seems oblivious to our conversation.
I turn around to see if Desiree and Aisha are still waiting for me. Maybe they’d have better luck convincing this insane woman to let me into class. I’ve even been assigned a homeroom. But they’ve already gone to their classes, likely expecting that I’d be right behind them. I’m the only student left trying to register. This is so stupid. I practically live around the corner. There’s no way I can be out of district or anything like that.
“Fine,” I say, “I’ll call my Mom and she’s going to come down here and she’ll lose it if you tell her everyone’s to busy to see her.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait for her reaction.
The secretary gives me this little knowing smile, like we’re sharing a secret, like she somehow knows that Mom is in the hospital getting treatment right now and can’t be reached.
Then she takes off her black-framed glasses and leans toward me, resting her forearms on the desk like she’s about to tell me her deepest, darkest secrets.
“You must go to Beaconsfield, Jasmine,” she says. Her tone is very serious. I want to ask who died and made her God but I don’t think that would go over very well.
“Come on,” I say. “This is crazy. I live like two minutes away.”
“We’re done having this discussion,” she says. Her patience with me makes the situation even more infuriating
I pick up the letter and rattle it in her face. “Can’t you read?” I shout.
The woman shakes her head. “Go to Beaconsfield,” she says, before getting up and walking away to the photocopier.
Dumbfounded, I snatch my knapsack off the floor, open the zipper and stuff my acceptance letter inside. I’m so angry I want to kick things. Instead, I fling open the office door so that it hits the brick wall behind it with a satisfying bang, storm out and reluctantly walk down the street to Beaconsfield Collegiate.
It’s only as I’m climbing the stone steps at the entrance to Beaconsfield that I realize something. The secretary hadn’t even looked at my acceptance letter. So how did she know my name?
