Sometimes you have to freeze everyone out…to avoid getting burned.
Frosty--a young adult novel, complete at 54,000 words, told by seventeen year old Sydney as she starts the last semester of her senior year with a new foster family, Jim, Lana and Brooke Clayton.
“My dad ditched us when I was little. My mom was a crack smoking whore and now I’m living with Brooke Clayton.”
Seven foster families in seven years. It’s not like they were entirely her fault, well maybe a few. But when you’re ripped from the arms of your loving crack-addicted mother, because she was selling her body to support her habit...what do you expect?
Maybe her intro was an error in judgment. Just one more in a long line of mistakes, but she didn’t think Brooke would tell everyone the truth. This was all her social worker’s fault. The one that placed
Rich people suck. School sucks. Life sucks.
I have included the first 250 words as requested in the submission guidelines. Please let me know if you are interested in seeing my manuscript. Thank you so much for your consideration.
Insolent. Sassy. Contemptuous. Ungracious. Cold.
Of all the words I’d been called, cold suited me best. I was always cold, inside and out. But could you blame me?
I stood outside and waited for my new foster father to pick me up.
That was the seventh foster family I’d lived with since I was ten, when they’d decided my mom couldn’t take care of me. Not that I wouldn’t agree. Even at seven I knew being high on crack wasn’t a good thing.
Mom didn’t know though. Or maybe if she knew, she just couldn’t stop.
But maybe this will be my lucky number. My seventh foster family in seven years and now I was seventeen. That had to mean something. Right?
Wasn’t always my fault, the reason I’d had so many families. I had the worst social workers. They rarely found the right fit. I swear, sometimes they threw a bunch of names in a hat and sent me to the first one they pulled. I was furious when they took me from Mom--No, ripped me from her arms. Literally. So I took my anger out on my foster families.
I hated my mom for what she did to me…to herself. But for everything she put me through, I still loved her. Now some might argue that staying high on crack and inviting disgusting men into our home to have sex might mean she didn’t love me; but underneath that haze of crack, I knew she did.