Resurrection

By Aubree Morgan

Resurrection is a book about distrust and to remember, never trust no one. After all, it could happen to you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481757607

Aubree Morgan

Aubree Morgan is from Winder Georgia. She lives currently in Richmond Indiana and has been writing books since the age of eight. The ability to create worlds and to use your creativity to write about anything you want is my inspiration. To be anyone you want to be as the character.

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© 2013 by Aubree Morgan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/24/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-5761-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-5760-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909717

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

It started off as the worst day of my life. I hear my name being called over the intercom at school. Raven James, to the principal’s office. Deeply engrossed in a letter to my best friend, I look up as my name is called. I put away my things.

I feel the eyes of the other students bore into my back as I walk out the door to head to the principal’s office. Walking up to the principal’s office, I see my grandmother standing there, her head hung down as if something was wrong. What’s wrong? I say as I pull both straps of my book bag onto my shoulders.

Thank you, she says to the principal, waving one hand good-bye as we walk away.

What’s wrong? I ask again, confused about what is going on. I catch a breeze of the sweet Georgia air as I get into the back seat of the car.

It is not my fault, so I don’t want you to be mad at me, she says, very nice. "Grandpa said it would be best if you moved to Indiana and lived with your mother and father.

I know we talked about this and you want to stay, but we think this would be the best for you. He brought it up last week, and I just did not have the heart to make you leave. But you know, the more I think about it, this would be for the best. You don’t need to be away from your mother and father. They love you as much as we do. You can always come back and visit during the summer.

My heart feels as if it just stopped—a feeling like I want to cry like a baby. I don’t want to leave! All of my friends are here, my school, my boyfriend, my dog. I hate Indiana, I say, laying my head on the back window. Why would you guys just decide something for me? Don’t I have a say-so in anything? It is my life, I add, feeling hopeless about the situation. No way out.

Tears begin to stream down my face quietly. I hide my face in my hands so she cannot see me crying. I look at all the houses we pass—the same houses I’ve been looking at for the past thirteen years. The grocery store we do our shopping at, the shopping center we shop at, the movie store and the mall—I’ll never see them again. The silence in the car for the rest of the way home upsets me even more. I feel like dying.

I’ll just run away, I begin to think. That’s what I will do! I will act like I am packing my stuff to leave in the morning and just leave in the middle of the night. I have no idea where I will go, but I’m doing it. As my grandmother pulls into the driveway, I hear all the rocks under the tires from the gravel. I love that sound.

I stand there staring at my bedroom from the outside of the house. I had no idea this morning when I left for school that I was going to be drug back out and forced to move.

Well, go ahead and start getting your room together, my grandmother, Claire, says, shutting the car door. I roll my eyes, looking the other way. The house is empty-sounding as I walk in. No baseball games on the television. No music playing. That’s real nice. Kicks me out and then doesn’t have the courage to look me in the face afterward—typical.

He went to the gas station to put gas in the car, she says, hanging up the house keys on the hook. Better go ahead and start packing. We don’t have a whole lot of time. she says.

I am leaving today? I say, in shock.

That’s why I came and got you out of school, she says to me like I am stupid. He threw a fit about you not cleaning your room the other day when he asked you to.

So I have to move to Indiana because I did not clean my room? You can’t be serious! So all that stuff you were saying in the car was a lie. I knew it, I say, storming to my room. All my things are still in the same spot, untouched. No boxes in sight either.

I don’t even have any boxes to pack, I say furiously looking around for some.

We got some; they are on the back porch, she says, pulling the back screen door open. Three big, huge boxes are laid at my door. I can hear