Pink Glitter by Monica Beeves
Can you believe there are authors who have NO Twitter or social networks?
I couldn't either. But this author doesn't sadly. Says she will soon! I am holding on.
Monica is working on this book titled "PINK GLITTER" and I love it.
I asked her if I could share the first page of one of the previous drafts and she said yessssss.
So today I am doing it. I do hope you guys enjoy it. This author needs some cheers, because it is always hard when you're alone and don't have much trust.
The story is about Stephany Raze, a 19-year-old girl who had really bad days in school. But after high school, she goes a year without doing anything but crazy with three of her best friends she meets along the way.
(P)arental INK (G)uidance LITTER
I was born on Tuesday, September 20 of 1994, at exactly 10 a.m. an hour after my mother went into labor. She didn’t know I was about to come into this world until her water broke. I guess that made a big mess, because she still blames me for ruining her favorite blue dress. She’s tankful I was a tiny baby, because she was worried about me running the size of her…
The doctor that brought me into this world was a handsome fella; he still is, even at his age. I visit him sometimes for my regular check-ups. Or…when I go to the emergency room. My mother hit on him, but he’s probably gay, because he never gave her any signs of approval.
My father left after he saw me in the hospital and up until today hasn’t return. Some people say he died. I don’t really care, he can die if he’s allowed. I never felt the need to have a fatherly figure in my life, because I had other things to think about—like growing up.
Growing up was not easy at all for me. It was extra easy. My mother cared for me, after all, but she never truly paid much attention to me. She didn’t seem like my mother, more like a roommate, a stranger who knew me well and was allowed to beat me when I didn’t do what she’d say. I always did what she told me to do, but at my own time. Okay, sometimes never. We still get along.
I would spend most of my time at my grandmother’s house—that is my mother’s mother. Like I don’t know my father, I also don’t know anyone in his family. Oh, well. My grandmother is a great person, I can always count on her. I have never seen her mad. Well, I did, once, and it is not a happy memory. Remembering her angry face makes my skin crawl. You do not mess with that woman!
She has a cute nickname for me: Fanny. I use to think it was cute. Until, actually, she told me it was short for “Fanny Pantie.” I was NOT pleased. But she’s my second mother, and I didn’t mind it. After all, she only calls me that when we’re alone. Bless her heart, because her name is Dixie. It suits her well. I do call her “Dixie Towel” sometimes. She loves it.
People judge a white girl with brown hair and brown eyes like me in my city. Most people here are white, with perfect blonde hair and blue or green eyes. If you aren’t white, you’re different and have to hang with different people. Does that make any sense at all? I felt betrayed by my own people, my own white! I never thought it’d be such a pain in the ass to be different, until I hit middle school.
I had no friends.
Teachers for some reason thought I had something strange going on in my mind because I was always VERY quiet. I was not strange; I was quiet. It did help me a bit, because teachers would pay a bit more attention to me and help me when I needed help.
Okay, maybe I did have friends in middle school.
Here is Monica's latest song for inspiration: