My latest Work in Progress (WIP) after the publication of Internal Lockdown is a young adult novel focusing on a group of ninth graders who bond over the pain of dealing with a loved one’s substance abuse.
The story is told through the eyes of Chris, who moves from North Carolina to PA with his mother to live with his grandfather. Chris’ mom and dad separate because of the strain and disagreements related to their other son’s substance use disorder.
This is an excerpt from the prologue of the book. It defines The Dread–that anxiety that palpably overtakes the heart and soul of those oh-so-worried about their loved ones.
The school day is divided into your mind wandering into the Dread; forgetting about the Dread for a few minutes because something interesting was going on; and checking your phone in your locker between classes because you decided to actually follow the school rules today and not bring it to class because you didn’t want to risk having it confiscated by a teacher who wouldn’t understand even if you wanted to explain the Dread, and you were hoping that maybe not having the phone would change your karma because, of course, you get the stuff you need when you least want it.
But it doesn’t work. And every time the office calls into the classroom you figure it’s the Dread calling to order you to the principal because he has some bad news for you. You actually breathe again when the teacher doesn’t look in your direction. You are hoping there are no quizzes today because you didn’t even open your backpack last night because you just don’t feel like doing anything. But if there is a quiz? Whatever. Failing a test isn’t the worst thing in the world.
Lunch is sitting alone with your friends looking for signs of the Dread in other kids at other tables just to know you are not alone. But you know nobody is going through what you are going through and you don’t want to talk to anybody anyway. You munch on the crumbled Pop Tart that you had put in your back pocket and when somebody makes fun of your lunch you don’t even respond.
You press your head against the bus window on the way home, alone in the seat because your best friend stays after school for practice. The Dread gets more intense the closer you get to your stop. You’ve made a rule that you can only look at your phone every thirty minutes because your behavior was getting addictive. You secretly half-smile at the irony. You hope you see your brother’s car when the bus turns the corner, but no. You hope he is sitting in the kitchen when you go through the door, but no. You hope Mom has left you a good news note, but no. You hope that when she comes home, she has good news, but no. You hope Dad has some good news, but no.
More excerpts to follow.
The Q-View 