by A. K. Smith
A.K. Smith
Pseudocide
Sometimes you have to die to survive
First published by Books With Soul® Press 2021
Copyright © 2021 by A.K. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A.K. Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A.K. Smith has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-949325-76-8
Editing by Jessica Lee Anderson
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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Contents
Other books by A. K. Smith
Praise for Pseudocide
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue: A college campus, somewhere in the northwest
Resources
Acknowledgments
A note from the author
Book Club Discussion
About the Author
Also by A.K. Smith
Other books by A. K. Smith
A Deep Thing
Praise for Pseudocide
This tense tale will keep readers on edge until its surprising finale.
-Kirkus Reviews
Mature teen to adults will find Pseudocide - Sometimes You Have to Die to Survive’s story of a walk out of life to be intriguing. The premise (and the definition of the term ‘pseudocide’) lies in faking one’s death to embark on a new life.
-D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review.
Fast-paced with unexpected twists, PSEUDOCIDE intrigues and satisfies yet leaves you thinking about the characters long after the conclusion.”
–Jessica Lee Anderson, author of Border Crossing
“An intriguing YA tale, peppered with plot twists …”
-Kimberly Baer, author of The Haunted Purse
“Maybe that’s what tragedy does to you: it wakes you up and gives you a second chance at life.” Pseudocide’s exploration of this process and how Sunday discovers her own strengths and abilities to survive makes for a thoroughly engrossing story that’s hard to put down.
-D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review.
Pseudocide (soodo-syd):
the act of someone faking a death in attempt to start a new life, often due to extreme circumstances.
For Diego & Harvey, the best two beings to spend a pandemic with.
I will watch the world through an open window with you.
Chapter 1
Raised by the Internet, HE and SHE, THE PLAN
This is happening. I am here and soon I will not be, but, in this moment, I am safe. I put my pen in my mouth and bite down hard. My hand caresses the worn whiskey colored leather of my journal, the words on the page echoing like a mantra in my head to the beat of the rushing water in the creek below.
April 17, 2017
Sunday Foster will be dead next week. I know this to be true because I am Sunday Foster. One day soon I will disappear, and all evidence will point to my death. Everyone wants to escape something. I want to escape my life. No, I’m not going to kill myself—PSEUDOCIDE, not suicide.
The water provides white noise, blocking out my reality for at least a minute. My safe spot, my refuge, is a small patch of dirt under a low hanging tree by the creek below the house I live in. When I was younger it hid my body in its entirety. Sheltered me from all eyes except for the tiny silvery fish travelers who always swam below me in the stream. Now, my 5’5” frame can curl up cross-legged, but between my new height and my uncontrollable mane of blonde hair halfway down my back, it’s impossible to hide.
There are other ways to hide. I love my journal, full of my thoughts and ideas. It belongs to me. A rare item paid for with cash, not an overcharged plastic card from the people I call HE and SHE. Thinking of them as anything but HE and SHE is impossible. They don’t deserve the names Dad and Mom. Mothers and fathers are supposed to love their children. Not mine. I’ve been raised by the internet, silence, and anger.
I remember forcing myself to hand over fifty-five dollars of my hard-earned money three years ago in a shop down by the wharf in Baltimore, an eclectic place with a musty scent. I had imagined Shakespeare lounging against the old walls with cracks and peeling wallpaper, books stacked three feet high around clusters of bound words from the past and rows and rows of bookshelves almost touching the ceiling. A leather journal, filled with creamy white empty pages, beckoned to me, begging for the touch of ink. My companion now bears the stains of my tears and holds the secrets of my heart. A tight brown cord wraps around it three times to keep the truth hidden inside. No one will ever read my words—but somehow, the inked words on the paper make what I’m planning a reality.
Does leather burn? If not, the pages will. Again, I rub my hand over the cover. I know I can’t take my comrade with me—it’s my witness to the truth.
Truth. What a concept. Faking my death will make my whole existence as a human being a lie. THE PLAN didn’t start this way, but if I learned one thing in sixteen years, even the best-laid plans change.
Chapter 2
Two Weeks Earlier
I clear my throat, and with my right hand, hold my nose as I pick up the overflowing ashtray of cigarettes. The black ash clings to my fingers as I dump the dozens of crimped, pink-tinged sticks into a plastic bag. At 6:00 a.m., the pungent odor trapped inside is held hostage by the plugged holes of filth on the screened-in porch. The clogged squares in the screen and the line of trees declaring the woods’ edge remind me of an edited photo with a pixelated filter.
>
SHE is still asleep. HE left the house five minutes ago.
I have sixty minutes before SHE wakes, and I head to school. This is my hour. I finish cleaning the bathroom and the living room and move to the kitchen. As I wipe the table and place the dishes in the dishwasher without making any noise, I imagine a happy family living here. I pour a glass of orange juice and lean back against the counter, visualizing a cheerful conversation between a mother and daughter, a scene from a television sitcom I watched as I child. Fictional stories of parents called Mommy and Daddy, who loved and supported their children. The fairytale plays before me.
“Sunday, you’re running late for school. Come on down and eat, Honey.”
“Coming,” I answer back with a smile.
“I made your favorite eggs and extra crispy bacon.” A smiling mother kisses the side of my head as she squeezes me in a loving hug.
“Thanks, Mom. Ummm… I’m starving. You’re the best!”
Poof. The fairytale scene vanishes, and I see HE, smashing the glass in the see-through kitchen cupboard doors followed by the sound of SHE screaming, “It’s all your fault that he’s so angry! Clean up your mess.” The ear-piercing shatter, hammer pounded against glass, still vivid in my memory. My thumb rubs the scar of embedded glass on the palm of my hand. One of the many visible scars. Thinking of them as anything but HE and SHE is impossible.
I open the refrigerator door to put the juice back inside, staring at the empty shelves with two bottles of wine and some dried-up piece of crud.
I can’t help myself and pick up the unknown squishy particle. I sniff, then hurl the disgusting clump into the garbage. My backpack and dress for work in one hand, I lift the trash bag, keeping my nose as far away from the opening as possible. I’m out of here. I’m careful. Timing is everything; my schedule is orchestrated for the minimum interaction with HE and SHE.
“Your parents must be proud. That’s quite an impressive SAT score.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clark, they are ecstatic.” The lie slips out with ease. HE and SHE have no idea I even took the SATs.
Vanilla lotion fills the air in the small office. That’s one thing about me: I have an extraordinary power of smell. Maybe it’s a freak talent. I can smell if a teacher had a drink the night before, and I can smell bad breath from Mason Hicks, even three rows away. Most times my superhero power of smell is a curse. Right now, even though it’s pungent, Mrs. Clark’s odor matches her pleasant personality. Sweet. Safe. Kind. I like my Guidance Counselor. I’ve decided if I had a grandmother, she would resemble Mrs. Clark. Behind the thick black glasses, I sense she sees a glimmer of the truth behind my façade, but she doesn’t pry. I like that even more.
“I’m certain that with your perfect G.P.A. and these scores, a scholarship to some university out west is imminent. Are you positive you want to go so far away from your friends and family? University of Maryland is always looking for bright students just like you, Sunday.”
I like the word ‘imminent’. The scholarship is part of THE PLAN.
“California is my first choice. My parents are looking forward to warm winter trips in the sunshine. " Another lie. If my parents tanned their white pasty bodies, it might interfere with their zombie tendencies. Zombies are unemotional with no mercy toward their victims, and with all the booze and pills they absorb, they are definitely in a decaying state. Just like the dead, they don’t speak, they howl cruel words.
She smiles. “Sunday, you realize you’re way ahead of the game. Your junior year isn’t over. You might want to wait in case you change your mind over the summer.” I keep eye contact, my eyelids blinking rapidly. She hesitates, studying me. “But, as you requested, here are the eight scholarship applications we discussed, and my letter of recommendation. I’ll email you the letters with a stamp on it. Complete the forms, register online and gather your other letters, and start thinking about writing the college essay. You shouldn’t rush it, so give yourself time to prepare your best words.”
“Oh, I won’t. I’m just excited. Thanks, Mrs. Clark.” I push the corners of my mouth up, thinking of THE PLAN.
THE PLAN, a five-year project designed with precision and calculation. My way out. Away from HE and SHE.
Jack’s electric smile chases the darkness from my thoughts as I walk out into the sunlit courtyard of Sunset Park High School.
“How’d it go?” he asks as he slings his arm around my shoulder.
“Great.” I hold up the thick pile of applications.
“And your score?”
“Not too bad, I guess. 2250, 780 on Math.” I can’t suppress the smile; I studied assiduously for the SATs.
“Outstanding, Foster. Who wouldn’t want you? Amazing!” He places his smooth lips on my cheek, his hands on both sides of my face. “I’m so proud of you. All your dreams are going to come true.”
“I hope so.” I kiss him on the mouth and linger, our electric current circling my stomach. I breathe in his unique scent, a mix of soap, coffee, and spearmint. I pull away with a whisper, “Miss you already. I’m off to catch the bus for work.”
“Miss you already. See you later?”
“Not sure. I’ll text you,” I shout, running toward the bus stop to make the 389.
The heavy door of the courthouse slams with a thud in the echoing quiet of the vast space, and the few chins in the lobby lift and point in my direction. Taking a deep breath, I fix my coat and hair. Smile. Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Time to adjust my attitude and demeanor to match the clothes and make-up I’ve donned. I hand my key card to the uniformed security guard without hesitation. I belong here. I like the rules, strict procedures, and calmness. I can breathe and relax.
Until I see him.
Tyler Glass. Even with his back to me, he’s unmistakable. His bleached-by-the-sun, wavy blond hair curls perfectly above his collar. And he’s always dressed in the lightest of blues or grays to capture his unique eye color, which seems to make direct contact with whatever audience is under his spell. Blue-eyed god, or devil? Staring at the back of his crisp whisper of a blue shirt, I close my eyes and inhale. He invades my mind at work.
I follow his swagger down the pathway between the cubicles, his head only a few feet from the low ceilings. Tyler is four years older, enrolled at Towson University, and an intern at the courthouse where I work part-time. He oozes sex as he flirts with the women in the office. The real truth, which would never be spoken aloud: I’m in a constant state of anticipation of a chance encounter during my part-time shifts. He is one of the hottest older guys I’ve actually talked to, and he doesn’t disappoint me when he whispers, “Did you know hot fudge sundaes are my favorite?” or “If Sunday’s here, it’s a weekend, let’s go home!” and the one he sings under his breath, “Yeah, I’m easy, easy like Sunday morning.” I laugh or roll my eyes, I’ve heard that joke from Jack. I want to act unaffected by his sultry breath next to my ear. When he is in close proximity, my heart beats faster, the hairs on my arms seem to be charged, pulling toward him, and I can smell an unknown earthy clove-like smell. It drives me crazy. I love Jack. What is wrong with me?
My body betrays me. Sweet, kind, and loving Jack has put up with me for almost a year and a half of not having sex, and I’m thinking about the courthouse hottie Tyler at work. I block Tyler from my mind and focus on Jack. Even if I didn’t have Jack, Tyler would never be interested in a high school girl like me.
Jack wishes I did more than kiss, but he doesn’t pressure me. Even when we get carried away and my shirt is unbuttoned, he’s usually the one who stops and pulls away. I credit his parents. Good parents. They passed down wisdom mixed with love and they taught him strong morals and beliefs. Graduating from high school a virgin is important to me, it’s one thing I can control that no one else can take from me. I know mistakes can happen because I don’t think I’d be here otherwise because clearly HE and SHE didn’t plan for me. In my mind, unless you are ready to be a good parent and ready for the responsibility of loving a
child, wait. Jack agrees.
He gets that from his parents. They are the real deal. If you looked up “good mother” in the dictionary, there would be a picture of Jack’s mother, Marcia (she insists on me using her first name). She is a kind, loving woman with gentle arms that hug you for no reason. She dresses trendy and doesn’t act old. She gets us. She cares. She’s had the sex talk with Jack and his sister Tara—more than once. I think it’s cool.
Marcia’s “do as I say, not as I did” speech is pretty effective. We were fourteen when Jack and I figured it out. His older sister Tara had just turned eighteen. Sitting in my special place down by the creek, all we could think about was how incredible it would be to be her age. After taking a stick and marking in the dirt Tara’s age and his parent’s anniversary, we computed that his mom gave birth to his sister when she was eighteen, only five months after their wedding date.
We worked up the courage to ask Marcia, and she answered, “I wondered when you would figure it out. Yes, we were young, broke, with a new baby, and we struggled.” Her voice increased in volume. “That’s what happens when you make love before you’re ready.” Marcia and Ed both dropped out of college. Ed quit to get a job selling copiers, and Marcia gave up her dream of ivy halls to give birth.
“Be whatever or whoever you want, but dream big,” Marcia likes to recite, along with, “Make a plan.”
I agree.
That’s kind of where my plan comes from.
Ed and Marcia have plans for their kids. Plans full of lessons and love. They are offering Jack and Tara $1,000 if they never smoke cigarettes or try drugs by the time they reach their twenty first birthdays. No drug test needed to verify the truth, just love and trust. Jack honors his mother and father. It’s part of what makes him so special. Because of how he was raised, I know he loves me and will wait for me as long as it takes.
