Kat Clark used to be your average, everyday seventeen year-old. That is, until her dead uncle Jack appeared one morning in her bathroom to spring a dirty little family secret on her. According to section 645-64-E of the
Kat reluctantly accepts her fate (even though she looks totally pasty in black) until she has a chance run in with painfully cute senior, Jason Scott, and accidentally saves his life. Now powers beyond Kat’s control are coming after Jason to collect the death he owes. Ignoring the warnings from her uncle, Kat shirks her Reaper responsibilities to help Jason stay alive. Together they race against time with legions of reapers and soul scavengers at their heels, trying to find a loophole in death’s plan.
At 60,000 words, my young adult novel, The Grim Life of Kat Clark, is a mix of quirky characters and dark humor, told from the point of view of a very unlikely heroine. I’d be delighted to send you the manuscript for review. Thank you for your time and consideration.
THE GRIM LIFE OF KAT
I should’ve come up with a dramatic story about a luke-warm hot pocket, stumbled into my mom’s room mumbling about a stomachache, dry heaves and a wicked case of the shakes. I could’ve spent the day on the couch watching bad reality TV and picking tufts of matted hair off my cat, Wedgey. But instead, there I was, standing in my third period P.E. class, listening to Ms. Raskin and The B**** Squad give us the ins and outs of being a Foothill Ridge cheerleader, which, so far, seemed to entail useless hair flips and a copious amount of cleavage.
“Focus. Technique. Precision. Confidence. Charm.” With each motivational poster cliché Ms. Raskin delivered, her eyes fell on a different part of the class, reaching the back where my best friend Maggie and I were standing on the word “confidence”.
Maggie leaned toward me, pretending to fiddle with the hem of her shorts. “Ignorance. Brassy highlights. Constipation.”
There was a wave of snickers behind us. Samantha Stewart’s head whipped around in our direction, her glare landing right on me. I inched to the left, ducking behind Melissa Emery’s enormous poof of curly hair.
I had given myself one simple task in the fifty-two minutes I was in P.E. that day. One measly goal that your average, run-of-the-mill junior year lemming like myself could easily attain. Go unnoticed by the school’s head cheerleader. That was it. By the next day, it wouldn’t matter anymore.