Forgotten Tomorrow , livre ebook

Ransom Publishing Limited - Schaeffer Teresa

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

40 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

After escaping an abusive past, seventeen year old Savannah lives on the street, working as a prostitute. Elijah is her only friend, but he comes from a different world. After a chance meeting with Jonah, a counselor, she has the opportunity to start a new life. Struggling to accept the things she cannot change, she pushes Jonah away, and sinks further into depression. Elijah is murdered doing business with a vicious street gang, and Savannah soothes her pain by using the drug that Elijah had stolen for her. Now she is alone fighting against the painful memories that haunt her. Can she learn to accept the things she cannot change? This fast-paced read is dynamic and gripping, perfect for teen readers who want all the characteristics of a long novel, dealing with teenage issues and tough topics, in a strong, condensed book. From a series written by some amazing authors, this book is everything a reluctant reader would want to get them engaged.

Informations

Publié par	Ransom Publishing Limited
Date de parution	01 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781781271612
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0333€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A Forgotten Tomorrow
TERESA SCHAEFFER
Contents

Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
In the Same Series
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
It’s funny how life can change at any moment. Two days ago I was doing my usual routine on the corner of Benz Street for my nightly work. The weather was below freezing but I still had on my old skirt, sleeveless top and hand-me-down pumps. My hair was tied up with a rubber band; my face caked with cheap make-up – days old really, since I rarely have a moment to take a shower.
Today is completely different, almost overwhelmingly different. I find myself feeling a tad uneasy while sitting here looking at the cold, white walls of Jonah’s office at the City Community Center. I feel like I am in an institution being observed for some unknown mental disorder. Actually, I’m not even sure why I am here. It’s stupid. He thinks that he can help me. Help me with what? I have no idea. I think I’m doing okay on my own.
Jonah found me on the corner of Benz Street a few nights ago. Benz Street is where all the girls like me hang out during the witching hour. It’s the best time to get business, and without business I would never be able to survive out here.
What’s my job? Well, it’s obvious if anyone takes a look at my clothing. I have worn this same outfit for an entire year, except for the times I am able to get it washed. My skirt is full of holes and my top is practically falling apart – but with what I do, clothes don’t really matter. It’s more my attitude and sex appeal that grabs the attention of approaching men.
I am not proud of what I do, but I have to make money somewhere. I was once at the point of starvation out here, trying to live the right way. But the right way didn’t turn out so well for me. Where else could I work at sixteen years old and make the money I do now? Not many places, I’d imagine. I mean, it’s not great… but it is enough to get by.
I also have a slight problem with meth. It’s not a bad problem really. I don’t think I’m addicted completely either, I just use it every day to calm me down. Who wouldn’t want to calm their nerves after nights like I have had? I don’t care either. I mean, I know I can stop whenever I want to.
Anyway, back to Jonah. He thinks he can help me. What’s he going to do, rent me an apartment or send me back to school? Probably not. I will let him talk, but I doubt I will have much to say.
Once he comes back into the room and sits himself at the desk, all I can do is stare. He seems to be a happy person; his eyes are smiling even when he isn’t. I can’t understand that either, considering he works at this place. I would picture him as being a law enforcement agent of some sort, with his thick body build and muscular arms – not a counsellor.
He sits there for a few moments before making eye contact with me again. I have no idea what this guy wants me to say or do, and it only makes me feel even more awkward when he takes out his ballpoint pen and holds it over his notebook. Again, I feel like I am being studied, but I should not be so negative. I can’t help it, though.
Minutes pass as he rambles on about his program for kids like me. His goal is to take kids off the street and give them a new beginning. That’s all well and good, but I’m not comfortable telling him what he wants to know – about the real me and where I came from. I’m not promising to let him help me, but I will tell him, I know I will. Even though it’s not any of his business. I mean, sometimes it’s good to get things out, right?
Where do I start? I don’t know what I’d count as the beginning. I guess it started with my mama – if that’s what you want to call her. I can’t remember everything perfectly, but I will try my best.

My mama gave birth to me when she was in her early forties. I haven’t seen her since I was close to nine years old. At times, I struggle to remember what she looks like, although I do remember her long, uncombed hair and how she always reeked of booze. She was rarely dressed either, unless she was working. She would lie around in her nightgown all day long.
Looking back I realise that she probably never really wanted kids – well, a kid like me at any rate. Even when I was very young, she never wanted anything to do with me. She would never play with me, help me with homework or even talk to me. The only time she spoke to me was when she wanted me to do something for her. Back then I thought it was normal for her to act like that, but now I realise that it was far from normal.
All in all I guess my early years as a child weren’t too bad though. I didn’t have much, but I didn’t know any different, so wealth or things didn’t matter. I was used to my mama being broke all the time.
Things could have been a little different if my crazy step-father Johnny had worked – he was more than capable. Now and again he did odd jobs, but never enough to help take care of a family. That was the problem I guess; he didn’t see me as family. My mama didn’t make him work or do anything either, probably hoping to keep him around. So he did very little around the house. He mostly obsessed about his baby – his motorcycle – or anything to do with guns and hunting.
Johnny lived with us for about a year before I was taken from my home. From when he first moved in I didn’t get a chance to grow attached to him. I did the exact opposite – I tried my best to stay away.
He was a scary-looking man, about fifty years old with long, greasy hair. His intense brown eyes were likely to scare anyone who came across him in a dark alleyway. Johnny didn’t talk much either – unless it was to one of his buddies who were constantly hanging around the house.
His friends were just like him, jobless and scary. I hated it when they came over because they would take over the entire house, drinking beer and smoking up the place with their disgusting cigarettes.
Well, my mama did work. In retail. But only a few days a week. She never cooked; she would stock up on all the frozen dinners she could, and that is what we ate every night. Everything else I had to do by myself. Like I said, she always smelled like booze and boozing was all she seemed to be capable of – especially after Johnny came on the scene. So, most days she remained on the couch with a cold beer in hand, drunkenly laughing at ridiculous soap operas that had no real meaning.
Again, this is how I see it now, this is what I remember. Who knows, I could be wrong – but that is all I remember about my mama.
When it came to me going to school, I did have a few problems, no matter how friendly I tried to be. I was the yucky girl who no one wanted to be friends with. My white sneakers were brown from wearing them every day, and most of my outfits were too small. Half the time I went to school wearing dirty clothes because I forgot to wash them. Eight years old and remembering to do laundry? Give me a break.
I liked going to school, though. It was my escape from everything else in my life. I still really like reading and literature, and reading was certainly a big part of my life back then. I read stories that made me happy, that took me far away from nasty Johnny or my drunken mother. I often imagined myself as the main character, reaching excellence and having a life full of love and adventure.
Johnny teased me often, as if he were a little child. Dealing with that wasn’t so horrible. I just sucked it up and avoided him as much as I could. For some reason he loved to scare me in front of his friends, taunting me and telling me that ghosts were going to get me in middle of the night. The first few times I didn’t take too much notice, but eventually I hated it. It didn’t do any good to tell my mama. She never yelled at him about anything at all, it was always me who was scolded. And I rarely did anything wrong back then.
Anyway, eight years old was such a long time ago for me. I have blocked it out of my mind for so many years, pushing it deep down inside myself, hoping it would never surface again. I will try to explain that day as it really was, but I can’t promise it will be exact.
It was in the spring, a few months before my ninth birthday. My neighbourhood was pretty small and reasonably safe. I would ride around on my bike for hours, trying to do tricks or play some sort of imaginary game. Most of the time I ended up on the ground with a scraped knee or elbow, but I didn’t care. I didn’t realise that day would be my last on a bike.
Johnny and his friends were in the wooded back yard of my house messing around with a pellet gun. He really shouldn’t have had that thing, because he would shoot squirrels or rabbits for fun. It didn’t ever kill them, but it hurt them enough that they would never be the same again. They would laugh hysterically as a squirrel struggled to crawl away after it was shot. I don’t know why, but I guess it amused them.
I always played alone, so when Johnny asked me to come out back to see what he was making, I couldn’t help being curious. I don’t know why I allowed myself to get excited, because deep down I should have known something weird was going on. Anyway, he wouldn’t tell me what it was at first, but he did give me a hint – saying it was some kind of fort for me to play in.
I don’t think I ever rode my bike as fast as I did that day. I’d wanted a tree house for the longest time, but never got one. It didn’t occur to me to wonder why Johnny was suddenly making one. If only I’d thought more carefully, maybe things would have turned out differently.
Big lie. When I reached them, my excitement turned to fear. Johnny and his buddies were leaning against the broken down wooden fence with odd expressions on their faces. He was holding something behind his back, but I couldn’t see what it was until I got closer.
“Come here, Savannah. I got somethin’ f