Freak

By Erin Lee

Regret Comes in Every Color of the Rainbow

Based on Erin Lee’s novella, Her Name Was Sam, Freak is the story of Kelly and Morgan, the mother and sister of Sam Harris, in the aftermath of her suicide. Bullied for being brave enough to show her true colors to the world, Sam has been gone exactly one year and Kelly and Morgan are left to tackle the grief that comes with regret in her absence.

But Sam’s story is far from over…

Through the love of Willow, a teenager intent on standing up for her “Freak” best friend at all costs, Ryan is able to finally come out to family and friends. His transformation from ashamed to proud with Willow’s help gives new meaning to Sam’s story and how things could have been.

Because love comes in all shades too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Oct 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386385028

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

Book preview

Dedications

For anyone brave enough to make a change (or to admit that they need to).

Change is hard, but worth it:

Regret nothing.

For Ethan, the boy I probably should have listened a little more closely to. And to his father; one of the most accepting parents I’ve ever known.  I still don’t fully understand, but I’m trying and I won’t stop until I fully do. Hopefully I got it closer to right this time.

Regret comes in every color of the

rainbow...

So, too, does LOVE...

Author Notes

I often work with LGBTQ teens trying to figure out when and how to come out to their parents, siblings and peers. They face different personal issues: Some are gay or bisexual, others are struggling with gender identity or asexuality. The list goes on and on. They feel like they are the only person they know with these issues and that nobody could possibly understand what they are going through. But their stories have more in common than not. Not a day goes by where a kid doesn’t tell me they feel unsupported, bullied or misunderstood.  They tell me that keeping secrets is hard and can feel lonely.  The one thing they all want is to be accepted for who they are and how they define themselves. Sadly, most don’t achieve that goal and lose family and friends along the way. Or, they go back into the closet; a situation that leaves them more isolated than ever and at higher risk for suicide, substance abuse, or other forms of self-harm.

I wrote this book, an expansion on the original novella Her Name Was Sam, so that young kids and the adults in their lives know they aren’t alone. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. While the queer community and its allies have made great strides in promoting awareness, there is still a long way to go. It’s in sharing stories and being open-minded that we will ultimately reach a greater acceptance and achieve so many less unhappy endings.

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WARNING:

This book deals with dark topics like teen suicide, bullying and hate crimes. It is not recommended for younger readers who aren’t ready to tackle these topics. It is intended as a tool to promote discussion and bring awareness to some very real issues in the LGBTQ community. It was written to make people think and help them to avoid regrets.

Young adult readers, if you aren’t sure if this book is for you, please check with a trusted adult before reading further. Parental discretion is advised. 

Part One

(How things were).

Red

Red is the color of blood. I try not to think about it. I refuse to look at my own hands. If I did, they’d be covered in it. I hate red.

***

Kelly

I stand in a sea of color. It’s so bright, so real, that I feel like I could almost reach out and taste it. I imagine it tastes like summer’s fat watermelon slices or the Fourth of July. But my mouth is dry. Even if I could, I wouldn’t take a bite. I have too much guilt. The only reason I’m standing here is because I helped kill my daughter. If I’m totally honest with you, and with myself, I would never be standing here if Sam hadn’t done what she did.

She asked me to come with her to this very parade so many times. I told her there was no way I’d be caught dead marching down the streets like this. I tried to convince her it was just a phase. I told her to keep an open mind; the very thing she was asking of me. I said she was just curious and experimenting. I even tried to tell her it was all a normal part of growing up. But deep down, I knew. I knew exactly what was going on with her. I also knew how important it was to her that I support her. I just wasn’t ready. I couldn’t see myself as that mom. The last thing I wanted to have was pride.

I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t be normal. I felt like she was only doing it to punish me. I’d watch her, getting dressed in wild patterns and heels so high I was sure she’d twist an ankle. She’d put on so much make-up it reminded me of a circus clown. I told her so. I told her to take off the mask. She glared at me, telling me I didn’t understand.

It’s ironic that I’m here now. Being at the rainbow parade is a horrible consolation prize. I only want my daughter back. I’d go to a parade like this one every year for the rest of my life if I could change things. I’d even have pride: In her. In me. In a million things I wouldn’t have done so awfully wrong. Pride in the things I’d do over right.

I wonder what she thinks of me today and almost hope there’s no afterlife. I admit it, I’m a hypocrite. I should have been here years ago. I should have done whatever it took to support her. But there are no do overs. At least, I don’t think.

Sam believed in reincarnation. She’s probably too busy living another, better life, to be paying attention. If she is, I know she’s rolling her eyes. She’d say, Finally, Mom’s here.

The ironic thing is, I couldn’t not be here. I am, after all, a conspirator. Maybe I can help some other mother from suffering the same fate. Sam always used to say, Everything happens for a reason.

I can’t imagine a good enough reason for her suicide. But there were many. I might have been able to stop her, had I listened. I didn’t listen when she told me how bad the bullying had become. I didn’t take her seriously or buy her the new dresses and make-up she asked for. I told her she needed to see a therapist and to stop trying to change who she was. I said that she needed to focus on school and ignore everyone around her. I told her she was too young to date and that the only thing that would solve her problems was prayer. I told her that maybe she was just bisexual or gay. I told her it was no big deal and that she had plenty of time to figure it out. And, then, I told myself I was being open minded. The truth was, my mind was entirely closed and we both knew it. I even asked her what the neighbors might think.

Sure, there were warning signs. I should have paid closer attention when her grades dropped and she stopped attending band practice. I should have known something was wrong when she burnt her journals in the backyard. I let her give her trumpet and flute away. Instead, I wrote it off to teen angst and told myself she was only going through a phase. I painted over her pink walls and made them blue. I figured it might help her rethink things.

It’s probably a good thing that I can’t hear myself think over the noise. A man wearing white leggings and rainbow leg warmers has a gold horn on his head. His Mohawk is dyed every color of the rainbow. I think he’s supposed to be a unicorn. I try not to wince as he spins and twirls and prances by. I tell myself at least his mother has him alive.

Someday, I hope to be able to smile with him. I hope to be able to look past the glitter and overt cries of ‘pride.’ For now, I need to just be here, part of it, and try. Three young girls, with their arms locked together, march beside me. Their faces are painted red and I wonder what it symbolizes. They laugh and smile and I have to make myself look away. It’s too late.

Hi! I’m Aubree! The tallest of the three, the one to the far right, smiles at me. And this is Harley and Sue.

I smile back and keep marching forward. I don’t know what to say. I remind myself of what Sam used to say–They’re just like everyone else, Ma. Just people too.

Hi. I’m Kelly.

Aubree snaps her gum. I can smell the grape from two feet away. Now, my smile is sincere. Sam liked anything and everything fruity. Skittles, grape, were her favorite. And don’t get me started on her love for Starburst. The girl could eat five packages in one sitting.

First time? Sue, the roundest of the three, looks me up and down.

I have second thoughts about the PRIDE tee shirt I bought at the start of the parade. She can see right through me. I nod.

Cool.

Yeah, thanks, I say, wishing I’d brought Morgan along. She’d know what to do. Morgan has been dealing with this for years.

You here alone?

I shrug. Sort of.

Sort of?

Well. Yes. I guess I’m here alone.

Cool.

Thanks. Awkward.

What do you mean, sort of? It’s the first time Harley has spoken. Her enormous green eyes don’t seem threatening; instead, inquisitive, as she shifts between the two other girls and unlocks her arms to wipe sweat from her forehead.

I guess. Well. I like to think my daughter is here with me.

Where is she?

You practically begged her to ask. Answer the poor thing. Or, maybe, lie. No one wants to hear that. And they will know you killed her. She’s not here.

I catch a squint in Harley’s eyes as she looks to each of her friends for some explanation they may have picked up on. They shrug and smile.

Cool, Aubree finally says, and keeps marching. Hey! Look! A cheetah!

I walk a little slower, letting them get ahead of me. From behind, they seem like any other teenage girls. I want to catch back up and ask them where their mothers are. I wonder if their mother’s even know. Or, why it even matters. Stop thinking so much. You’re here to support Sam. That