So there I was, 8:00 in the morning, looking at the box of cereal as though I had plunged 1,000 miles under the sea to locate this lost box of treasure. Finally, after all these years, here it sat in front of me. On the breakfast table--on a dull gray Tuesday.

“Danny?” I startled at the sound of my name. “What are you doing up so early?” I turned to see my mom in her pink bathrobe, a deep yawn escaping as she stared down at me from the doorway. Her eyes darted from me, back to the ominous yellow cereal box, and back to me again.

“Oh, you know,” I said dismissively and tossed my hair up into a loose ponytail and rose from the table, “early bird.” I let my voice trail off, hoping to end the conversation at that.

Her brow furrowed and I saw the skepticism in her eyes. “What’s the worm?” She asked, ignoring my attempt to escape. She dragged herself into the kitchen and began punching buttons on the coffee maker.

“Cross country.” I handed her a mug. World’s Greatest Dad. I liked that irony, and if she noticed she didn’t say anything.

“It’s July. The season hasn’t started, has it?”

“Never too early.” I winked, threw on my pair of muddy trainers, and darted out of the house for a jog. I heard her mutter something behind me, and we both knew I was lying. As I looked over my shoulder, I saw her grab my empty cereal bowl and toss it into the sink. I wondered what she was thinking . . .

***

“Dr Sheppard.” A smooth, relaxed voice swam through the speakers of my earbuds and pooled straight into my ears, a private conversation.

“They’re back,” I announced breathlessly, pacing at a light jog out of our driveway and onto Swifthill Street. The perfectly manicured lawns and block houses of Little Anchor bobbed by in my peripheral.

“Ah, good morning Danika.” I liked that my therapist still called me by my full name. It wasn’t that he didn’t know me well enough to call me Danny like the rest of the world or that he felt like we didn’t have that kind of simple dynamic, which we did, but it sent a message. It said that he took me seriously--that I wasn’t Danny, a crazy kid with a warped imagination.

I panted into the phone. “And good morning back to you. Did you know the average tusk of an elephant is about 2 meters long and weighs about 50 pounds--”

“Let’s not do these phone games today, k?”

I slowed my jog to halt, pulled air into my lungs, and wiped the sweat from my forehead. That is one thing I didn’t like. I liked my facts. I liked talking about things that were true when things that weren’t so true began clawing into the shadows of my mind--like voices from a cereal box. At least when I could state true facts there was some weight, some density or truth, to my own existence. My reality has some truth when there were things that I could promise were true. I wasn’t exactly sure why Dr. Sheppard didn’t like that method.

“I’m glad you called me,” he said slowly, patiently. “And I know when you start telling me these fun facts that something not so fun happened today.”

“You gave me your cell for a reason,” I retort defensively.

“I did.”

“To call you when things get . . .” I searched for the right word, “fuzzy.”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay, well, good. Now that we’re on the same page . . .” I kicked small pebbles into a sewage drain nearby. A slow, rattling breath escaped the street’s lungs from its thin and open mouth. I turned rigidly back to my walk, pretending I didn’t hear it. “Yeah, so, anyway . . . I wanted a bowl of Cheerios this morning.”

“I’m not a grocery delivery service, Danika.”

“How do you still have a license?” I laughed. I felt a bit more relaxed. I sat on the grassy curb and took a deep breath. “I heard voices. From inside the box.”

“And what were they saying?”

I could hear his pen scrawl across a notepad on the other end. I didn’t like that either. I knew he was a therapist, but I really just wanted a friend who I could tell my “crazy” stories to. Who I could confide in without them putting it online or announcing it to the whole school. I needed someone who wasn’t my mom or dad who would get nervous when I tell them my situation and report me to the police or some institution in the city. I just needed someone who knew that I was just a normal 16 year old girl with a few quirks that needed to be worked out day to day. I was also desperately hoping for some advice.

At my pause, I heard him put down his pen. A soft tut echoed into the phone. “We have to talk about these auditory hallucinations.”

“We are,” I forced through gritted teeth. “We are right now.”

“You have to tell me what they’re saying. If you don’t start telling me, they’ll make you start calling Dr. Zachary. These talks are supposed to help you.”

Okay, Dr. Zachary was a low blow. He knew I didn’t like my psychiatrist. We had never really hit it off, but I had to hand it to him--the man’s a genius. He was a Swiss man whose brain I imagined full of gears and mechanisms that worked solely to provide solutions. I could almost see them moving when he spoke to me. And to be honest, he had made a lot of progress with me, but God did I hate talking to him. He was dull and monotonous and took my jokes seriously. I had to kind of change who I was to talk to him. It helped clinically, I guess. I was a robot who delivered my problem, and he climbed in with his tools and fixed me. But Dr. Sheppard gave me the chance to talk as me. Sarcasm, inconvenience, raw. He was an okay dude--you know, for someone who could talk to teenagers all day.

But there were still some things I didn’t like telling him. Like what the voices said to me. Even though he knew I had some issues, he thought I was an alright 17 year old who needed a few tweeks. What he didn’t know, however, was what the voices used to tell me to do. That would change our dynamic and how I was able to confide in him. How I could call him up at 8 AM on a random July Tuesday and complain about my breakfast talking to me. Or how I could bitch about my dad or his new girlfriend, or how I was forced to go to a baby shower for a baby that my mom desperately wanted, but wasn’t hers. How Elaina got the perfect chubby prince that my mom once begged for. Dad absolutely beamed at his newer, younger woman holding their son in the hospital as though she was able to produce something for him my mom never could.

I felt my throat getting tight. “They just started telling me the weather,” I lied.

“Like Google?” I could hear his skepticism miles away.

I let out a deep, rattled sigh. “Like Google.”

“Ah.” I heard him scribble a few more notes. “How is everything else?” I could sense something else was bothering him.

I pulled a blade of grass from the earth next to me and thread it back and forth through my fingers. This I could talk about. This was my chance to let it out, all of it. Everything I had been feeling that I couldn’t talk about with anyone else--certainly not the kids at Williams. Those judgmental shits knew everything about my life--my dad, Elaina, Triston . . . “Crappy,” I finally said as an image of his perfectly tanned face ran through my mind. “Really crappy.” My chest tightened once again, and a heavy feeling of ice dropped into the pit of my stomach. It made it hard to breathe thinking about the two of them. Still, months later, I couldn’t quite process everything.

“Multiple choice?”

“You got it.” I leaned back on my elbows and thought for a minute. I cleared my throat and spoke in my best academic voice. “These series of events are troubling a maladjusted teen. Select the letter that coordinates with the most relevant: Is it A, Dad requests teen at bridal shower; B, Mom insists that said teen go to inappropriate bridal shower; C,Triston is now dating Ashley who lives literally 3 blocks from me; or D, Teen’s cereal told her it would be a perfectly warm, dry Tuesday?”

I lied about the last part.

“Is there an E?”

I nod even though he couldn’t see me and gave an mhmm through the phone.

“Okay E.”

“Yeah . . . all of the above.”

I heard a woman’s voice from the other end. “Your client is ready.”

“I have to go, Danika. Listen to you cereal--it’s the first dry day since Saturday. Enjoy it. Get some sun. It’ll be good for you.”

We hung up, and I slid my phone into my back pocket. Other than talking to Dr. Sheppard, I hated my phone. It brought all of the bad news--my social media was flooded with pictures of Triston and Ashley; my dad and soon to be step mom texted me annoying little good morning’s and can’t wait to see you’s!. Like I actually wanted to be forced to go there every other weekend.

Then there was all of the messages from my “friends” at Williams who wanted to know all of the juicy details about the break up, and then those who absolutely loved Ms. Lawrence AKA Elaina, and wanted to know all those juicy details. I hated it. Somehow my dad could date my French teacher, then have a baby with her, and then expect us to be friends. C’est la vie and here we come Dr. Phil.

I stopped suddenly in my train of thought as a glimmer of white and silver flashed in front of me. No, it couldn’t be . . . My heart dropped and I quickly threw my head to the side, shielding my face from view from the house across the street. Triston had just pulled into the driveway of the house across the street from me in his white Jeep Wrangler with silver accents. Until now, I hadn’t realized exactly where I had stopped. The beautiful white brick ranch home in front of me was Ashley’s. And I, looking even crazier than I felt, was sitting outside facing it with no particular purpose.

What had I been thinking? How could I have possibly stopped here, of all places, in front of Ashley Benton’s home? And what the hell was Triston doing here? Okay, I accept it, they’re dating now and I get that. But at 8:00 on a Tuesday? I couldn’t get that boy to text me back before noon as he got ready for his shift at the beach. Triston was a lifeguard, how typical. Long, lean, tan, wavy brown hair kissed with highlights from the sun, perfectly weird birthmark above his right shoulder. . .of course he was a lifeguard. Come on now, be original. At least shake it up and date the girl with the therapist.

Now my hand was covering the part of my face that he would have been able to see, but I couldn’t help but peek. I spread my fingers just enough to get a glimpse of him as he crawled out of his jeep, biceps tightening as he lifted himself out. He was wearing his usual (when he wasn’t in academy attire)--a tank and board shorts, and as the door opened from the Benton house, I saw a wide smile break across his face. He beamed across the walkway at Ashley as she pulled open the large oak door, and he actually glowed. Vomit.

Ashley wore a sundress with a smile already painted on her perfectly made up face. Her skin looked like a fresh new copper penny, smooth and shining in the early summer sun. She had sleek, dark hair and cinnamon eyes. That’s weird, I know, but the tiny specks of brown that decorated her irises always reminded me of warm cinnamon. They were welcoming and gorgeous.

She beamed up at him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a hug. All of this seemed to happen in slow motion, although my hallucinations don’t work that way, so I knew this was real and that was just my jealousy playing with time. Sometimes I really wish I could pick and choose my hallucinations.

Mrs. Benton came out of the house and handed her daughter a white envelope. They began to talk, and curiosity gripped me. I strained to listen but couldn’t make out what they were saying, just mumbles of speech making made its way across the street. Ashley had a cream soda in her hand, brightly manicured fingernails wrapped around the pale glass, and the three of them stood in the driveway like they had known each other their whole lives. It looked so natural, and yet to me it this picture was all wrong.

They talked for a moment before Triston and Ashley turned to leave. And that’s when they saw me.

I wouldn’t have been hard to miss--it’s hard to overlook someone sitting right across the street from your house, let alone your ex and longtime best friend. It felt like ice had dropped into the pit of my stomach and I immediately felt my face grow burning hot. Why hadn’t I escaped while I had the chance? I couldn’t answer that . . . I guess I was just too mesmerized by the site of them--my best friend and who I thought was the love of my life . . .

I stood up slowly, my jelly legs glued to the ground. While my body was still, a thousand scenarios raced through my mind on how to get out of there, out of this situation and far away, but I couldn’t encourage my body to act on any of them. Sweat pooled at my upper lip.

Several scenarios flashed through my mind in a millisecond, and I had only a second to choose one of them to help me in this situation where I was standing outside my ex’s girlfriend’s house--I really hated the way that sounded.

I thought about running away, awkward and conspicuous but safely away from this mortifying situation; I thought about waving cheerily and making small talk, bringing up some clever fact and entertaining them with my witty humor; I thought about pulling my phone to my ear in a fake conversation, throwing a casual wave in their direction, perhaps fooling them but probably not, sort of settling between my first two options of bumbling stalker and chipper talk show host. But what came to fruition was just me standing there, pale and stiff, like a statue while staring blankly ahead.

“Danny?” Triston squinted against the morning sun trying to make out if it was really me. He put his hand up to his forehead like a visor. “Is that you?”

I started to speak, but my lips were numb. Instead of a coherent thought, a garble of half speech escaped my lips. Ashley offered an unsure smile, and it made my stomach churn.

“Danny, hi!” Mrs. Benton called. A warm smile spread across her face, and she waved enthusiastically. Mrs.Benton had always been one of my biggest fans, a second mom to me growing up, and she acted as if nothing about this situation was weird or awkward. I always think it’s funny how adults are completely oblivious to teenage drama--friends fighting, boyfriends cheating, they act like it’s “kid stuff.” But when they go through it . . . watch out. Still, I was grateful for her warmth and normalcy. It sort of took all of the attention off of me looking like a creepy stalker.

I returned her greeting and allowed myself a smile. I had no problem with Mrs.Benton, and I still missed being perched on a barstool, leaned across the island in her kitchen at 4 AM poring over the details of my parents’ failed marriage while she baked snickerdoodles. Even when Ashley was asleep, Mrs.Benton was there to listen. She gave some advice, but mostly she cooked pasta or baked cookies or put on a recorded Christmas Hallmark movie and offered my hot chocolate while I put it all out on the table.

An awkward silence followed, and I fumbled for words to explain the situation. “I was just tying my shoes,” I stutter awkwardly, but continue with more confidence. “Out for a run . . . got to keep in shape for cross country. Coach has us doing morning miles to track progress.” The lie spilled right out of me and to be honest, I was a little impressed. I knew they didn’t buy it, they knew I wasn’t on the team anymore, but I was on the verge of thinking their truth was probably better than mine: they thought I was stalking them while in reality I was having a mental breakdown.

I noticed I was still waving and slowly put my hand down.

“Tell you mom I say hi,” Mrs. Benton concluded, still smiling. I know she still saw me as the 6 year old little girl who used to ring her doorbell to play with her daughter--the same girl who would escape her to her tree house when things got tough. I liked how Mrs.Benton saw me. In a way, it kept that part of me alive. Young and innocent.

“I will.” With the image of Mrs. Benton smiling and Ashley and Triston staring dumbstruck, I took off down the street at a light jog, appearing as normal as I could, glancing down at my smart watch as if tracking my time. It wasn’t until 4 blocks later that I realized I was still wearing my pajamas.

The Voices

Young Adult Suspense/Mystery/Thriller

Ages 14+

79,000 words

Katherine Harner

This story weaves an engaging tale using unique text structure, an unreliable narrator that you can't help but root for, and a mystery that invites the reader to help solve. This story is told posthumously from the point of view of Danny Foster, a high school senior who suffers from auditory hallucinations.

Following a series of deaths in her small New England town, Danny Foster is becoming a prime suspect due to questionable alibis and her connection to each of the victims. Now she must manage the voices in her head in order to solve the mystery before she is indicted on murder charges--or worse, ends up dead herself. While seeing a world-renowned Swiss psychiatrist who explains that her symptoms are intensified by stress, her parents' divorce, her dad’s inappropriate affair, and her break up with her long-term boyfriend prove to make Danny's hallucinations exceptionally worse. Despite beginning a medication that appeared to help, , the discovery of her childhood friend’s body on the jagged rocks of Point Beach change everything. Soon enough, all eyes are on Danny due to their recent fight. Danny tries desperately to hide the voices but this proves hard when her alibis start to have holes in them and is made much worse when another student is found dead in the same location just weeks later. This questionably unreliable narrator has you guessing who the killer could be, and if it could be her.

This colorful cast of characters will have you falling in love with their quirks, laughing at inappropriate moments, and also feeling the ultimate tragedy the ending has to offer.

I am very excited to invite you to read this novel! I have had a passion for creativity and writing my whole life, I have taught Creative Writing over the course of the last 6 years and after years of coaching writers, I am thrilled to put my own work out there.

The anticipated audience would be teens and yound adults.