Completed Novel (Currently querying)
New York City. February 5, 1998.
Fifteen-year-old Tess is a math prodigy with a suspension record. Her mother, Lizzy, is an artist, an addict, and missing—again.
By nightfall, Tess may lose the only life she knows.
And Lizzy must decide: find her way back—or let go completely.
One day. A mother unravels. A daughter holds on.
Excerpt:
Chapter 1: Tess
Thursday, 5th of February 1998
Time: 8:00 a.m.
Dude. These chairs don’t move. I need them to move, but I’m stuck on this plastic seat—right? Bolted to the floor like some kind of punishment. Stillness feels like a personal attack. I don’t like it.
It’s one of my oddities, I know. I’ve collected enough. So many, I started collecting acronyms. ADHD, among others.
Yeah. That’s the sixth suspension this year. Bakker—the ultimate penis of a principal—loves reminding me that one more screw-up and ACS might come knocking. Like I don’t already know.
And he sent me here. Again. To Amanda—the guidance counselor. The mandated therapist. Babysitter for “psycho youth.” She’s about to call me in.
But I’m not nervous.
Not really.
Kind of. I mean—two months ago? That was my third.
Now it’s a habit.
I’ve evolved.
Can’t help it.
But Bakker swallows it because this year I’m competing at the International Mathematical Olympiad (IMO). So I crushed the AMC, the AIME, the whole USAMO saga, and boom—they picked me for Taipei. I broke math and now they’re sending me to Asia. Makes sense.
YEAH. I AM GOING TO TAIPEI. And I think I’ll win. Not me—the teachers and the tutors and the club do. I’ll always score high. It’s fun. Dude.
I shuffle my feet on the linoleum, my Airwalks making this squeaky rhythm.
Classmates—and other losers—pass me by, giggling and peering.
Fuck them, okay?
What’re they looking at?
Yeah. I’m the nerd. But I get bored, and when I’m bored, I fuck up. ‘Scuse me. Getting in trouble? It happens.
You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling—because I hate eye contact.
I do.
Damn. The ceiling is this honey-milk caramel color, the paint peeling to expose something raw and fresh—like flesh.
I thought that. Go figure.
Is something wrong with my brain? Probably.
What if Lizzy (Mom) still smoked weed and drank when she was pregnant with me?
NOT!
Lizzy.
Where is she?
Did they call her?
Is she on her way?
This corridor is way too dark for a place where kids are supposed to spend hours and hours. But it matches my mood. Posters hang on the walls—smiling, stupid teens who got into college and are probably drowning in debt now. And others about stopping AIDS with condoms. The message? Fuck and study.
NOT!
And at the end of this corridor? Ha. Those hideous green lockers.
And all this—me, here, again, like some delinquent (I’m almost there)—because of my crush on Oliver. Oliver. Oliver. Oliver.
He’s the hottest—what to say. The big pimpin’, the coolest guy in school.
He’s the man.
I’m spending way too much time at home by myself.
So yeah. I must have a crush.
Ah. The school people think I’m crazy, but I’m not. They’re worried I hang out with the wrong crowds. Their worrying is legit, though—because I do. The wrong and the sexy. But it doesn’t matter. I know how to take care of myself.
Do I? Kind of.
Okay, it was stupid. The suspension, I mean. We broke into the gym with Oliver before school. Broke into. Overstatement. It was unlocked. Then Oli tried to graffiti Bakker having sex with Henderson, the chemistry teacher. Sometimes I think I should tell him to stop doing graffiti because he’s so bad at it. But then, I fancy him badly, so I can’t hurt his feelings. And I want him to like me.
Does he like me?
He must like me, dude.
We spend time together.
Lizzy doesn’t like him and who gives a fuck?
…
Maybe I do.
I know Oliver gives trouble. I know that shit’s not right—graffiti, skipping classes, whatever.
But I wanna do them with him.
And I know he’s got shit going on. I mean, he’s from the Bronx. He doesn’t have a UES grandma like me, fixing mess.
He’s originally from the Dominican Republic, and he’s got this drawl that makes every word sound like it’s part of a slow jam.
So hot.
Always dragging the last syllables, like he’s not in a rush for anyone.
I like that he’s chill.
And he’s a babe!
All the girls go bananas around him—because he’s tall, with broad shoulders, always in those loose jeans and oversized shirts.
They all want him—but he doesn’t want anyone. Hopefully just me, you know.
He rides his scratched-up skateboard everywhere—Lower East Side, Harlem, wherever. And he walks like there’s a beat under his feet. Like he’s got a private soundtrack or something.
He’s sexy. At least I think so. I feel so.
Sometimes I do the thing, you know. I touch myself down there at night thinking of him—but I don’t do it right. I feel this pressure and half-waves and shit. Then discomfort.
Still, he’s in my head.
But like I said—he’s got stuff.
His stepdad’s in and out of jail. His mom’s always with some new guy. I heard he doesn’t eat regular meals.
Who talks? Me.
It sounds like my home.
Dah. And yeah, Ashley (bestie) told me he gets into fights. Smokes stuff—not cigarettes. Never seen that, though. Sells stuff. Whatever. I don’t care. Fuck that.
Ashley’s awesome. She’s smart-smart, not school-smart. She’s basically the FBI with good lips. But I think she’s kinda jealous that I hang out with him. Not jealous-jealous. More like protective. Last week, she said, “If he breaks your heart, I’m keying his skateboard.”
That’s love. Maybe. I think she fancies him too.
Anyway, Oli came to our school because of some foster parents that lived nearby.
Amanda and the teachers? They think he’s a walking red flag. He’s the ‘Wrong crowd’ and all that.
So when she says—and she says that often lately—we know you were with Oliver—she doesn’t mean location.
She means contamination.
My grandma would have hated him if she’d met him.
So today, they caught me because Oliver ran, and I stayed put. I don’t know why. My feet felt rooted. They found me behind the basketball hoop, the sprays next to me, and on the wall—a smudged but glorious statement: Bakker is schtupping Henderson. Above it was an attempt at stick figures engaging in sexual acts.
Bakker’s cheeks flushed. He breathed deep, his stomach rising like a balloon. I waited for him to exhale, but my own breath stuck in my throat. It felt like spiders were crawling up my back.
I thought they might call Child Services on the spot.
Because Lizzy is a fuck-up.
Actually, I’m the fuck-up.
We both are fuck-ups.
And I don’t know what will happen this time.
Maybe I do this on purpose.
Being a dick. Misbehaving so Lizzy does something for once.
What if they take me away?
Do I want that?
Do I?
What if they won’t let me compete in the IMO? No way. I’m Teressa Bates, from the Bates family. Nobody messes with us. Forbes keeps slapping my grandma on the richest list—and once, she sued a senator for calling her “ma’am.” She won.
Well, Lizzy sends me to public school to prove a point to her mother. Not sure if it works.
I dig into my Jansport bag, covered in band badges because I pretend I’m cool. I pull out this corny-looking notebook with fat cherubs on the cover. THIS will be my journal. I’ve decided. Who drew these? Michelangelo? Nope. I think it was Raphael.
I’m not into art, but I appreciate it because of Lizzy. She always talks about art. Lizzy is an artist, she says.
I’ll be a mathematician—if I don’t get expelled first.
Or a rocket scientist.
Let’s see.
Anyway, the notebook isn’t new. It was a Christmas present from my cross-eyed uncle from the Finger Lakes. He meditates three times a day, writes poetry, and fixes wooden stools.
But Lizzy says he lives off his mother’s money.
Just like us.