Read an Excerpt
In my novel, LITTLE 15, the protagonist – 15-year-old Lauren Muchmore – takes us through her affair with her high school basketball coach – 35-year-old Daniel Krum – disclosing every horrifying detail that eventually leads to what she terms as her “fall from grace.” Without giving away too much of the plot, the affair results in a pregnancy, placing Lauren in the same desolate situation as a former classmate. Please, if you will, an excerpt:
We sat in silence for a long time on the cold stone floor of her bathroom, numb to a circumstance neither of us knew how to handle. Here I was 15 years old and pregnant, without a clue as to what in God’s name I was going to do next. For the life of me I didn’t know when the baby would be born or how long I’d be pregnant or even when the right time would be to go see a doctor. Plus, I wasn’t even sure how the baby would come out of me, how big it would get or worse, being so young if I’d even survive the birth. But June didn’t give me much time to ponder these questions that day. Instead she reminded me of a girl named Felicity at Pope Pius who had gotten herself pregnant during her senior year. Felicity and her boyfriend, who also attended the school, chose to disclose the pregnancy to their parents and school officials. Because of their voluntary “confession,” the school decided against expulsion and instead pledged to graduate them as planned. So their sin was forgiven in a sense, but certainly not forgotten—at least not where Felicity was concerned. Over the next few months, Felicity continued to attend classes as her belly swelled, forcing her to trade her uniform skirt for maternity clothes and her life for one of constant ridicule.
“Don’t you remember how we made fun of her?” asked June as I stared blankly at the wall unable to function. “Don’t you remember how someone wrote ‘whore’ in permanent marker on her locker?”
And I did remember, because I was among those who would stare at her in the halls when she passed or whisper secrets behind her back. I, along with the rest of the school, slowly crucified her each day, making sure she paid for her mistake … her unspeakable, dirty sin. Truth be told, we were no better than Felicity. I was no better, now that I found myself staring in disbelief at a dipstick and reeling in the same dimension of shock that had befallen her. In fact, I was much worse—worse for judging her without considering how it felt to be in her shoes. And certainly now, as I contemplated my next move, I found myself walking in them, surprised by how easily they fit.