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Dear Reader, Welcome to The Life and Deaths of Frankie D. In this novel, seventeen-year-old Frankie Doe is haunted by her unknown past and the secrets of a 100-year-old circus. This book is contemporary fantasy and a departure for me. I usually write realistic fiction. All writers get story ideas in different ways. Most of the time, I hear a character’s voice and that gets a story started. But with this book, I was sitting in a theatre in Winnipeg — one built in the 1920s with ornate ceiling carvings that oozed atmosphere — and my mind started spinning with story ideas. I started to research travelling circuses in the 1920s and sideshow carnival acts. It wasn’t long before Alligator Girl’s story came together. The only problem was that I love writing books with multiple character perspectives. Who else was in this book? Later I heard Frankie’s voice, rife with the pain of being mistreated and the desire to heal. It was as I figured out who Frankie was that the uniting theme of her story and Alligator Girl’s became apparent. While Frankie fights against exploitation, Alligator Girl and the other performers in Monsieur Duval’s Circus of Wonders and Marvels make their living off of it. Every book has a different journey. I wish I was a three-draft writer, like some authors I know. My books have a journey that is a lot like Frankie’s — long and tortuous! This particular book went through
so many revisions! Characters were created and storylines added, but through it all, Alligator Girl’s story remained unchanged. Her tragic life was the cornerstone of the book. While developing an Ancient Egyptian curse was fun, it is also based on fact. Linking all the stories together stretched me as a writer and I hope entertains you as a reader. Sincerely, Colleen
THE LIFE AND DEATHS OF FRANKIE D. Colleen Nelson Could a hundred-year-old circus side show be the key to Frankie’s mysterious past? Publication: Canada April 13, 2021 | US May 11, 2021 FORMAT 5 in (W) 8 in (H) 256 pages
Paperback 9781459747586 Can $14.99 US $12.99 £ 9.99
EPUB 9781459747609 Can $8.99 US $8.99 £ 5.99
PDF 9781459747593 Can $14.99 US $12.99 £9.99
KEY SELLING POINTS An exhilarating contemporary fantasy about a seventeen-year-old girl who’s
haunted by circus performers from 100 years ago
Deals with issues of belonging, trauma, and self-awareness Author has been nominated for readers choice awards numerous times and won
the High Plains Book Award and Ruth and Sylvia Schwartz Children’s Award for her novel Sadia
BISAC YAF019010 – YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Contemporary YAF038000 – YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Magical Realism YAF045000 – YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Paranormal, Occult & Supernatural
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Colleen Nelson is a teacher and and an award-winning YA author whose novels include Sadia, Blood Brothers, and Finding Hope. She lives in Winnipeg.
STAY CONNECTED #LifeDeathsFrankieD colleennelsonauthor.com
@ColleenNelson14
MARKETING AND PUBLICITY C onsumer, trade, and library wholesaler advertising campaign Social media campaign Goodreads giveaway ARC mailing to booksellers, librarians, and influencers Newsletter campaign to consumers, librarians, and booksellers
RIGHTS World, All Languages
Representation at trade shows Publicity campaign to targeted media and influencers Advance reading copies available: Print ARCS, NetGalley, Edelweiss, Catalist Free downloadable Teachers’ Resource Guide
AGES 12 to 15 years
ABOUT THE BOOK Seventeen-year old Frankie doesn’t trust easily. Not others, and not even herself. Found in an alley when she was a child, she has no memory of who she is, or why she was left there. Recurring dreams about a hundred-year-old carnival sideshow, a performer known as Alligator Girl, and a man named Monsieur Duval have an eerie familiarity to them. Frankie gets drawn deeper into Alligator Girl’s world, and the secrets that kept the performers bound together. But a startling encounter with Monsieur Duval when she’s awake makes Frankie wonder what’s real and what’s in her head. As Frankie’s and Alligator Girl’s stories unfold, Frankie’s life takes a sharp twist. Are the dreams her way of working through her trauma, or is there a more sinister plan at work? And if there is, does she have the strength to fight it?
For media inquiries, contact publicity@dundurn.com For orders in Canada, contact UTP Distribution 1-800-565-9523 For orders in the US, contact Ingram Publisher Services 1-866-400-5351
dundurn.com @dundurnpress
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Copyright Š Colleen Nelson, 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright. All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Kathryn Lane | Editor: Jess Shulman Cover design and illustration: Sophie Paas-Lang Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: The life and deaths of Frankie D. / Colleen Nelson. Names: Nelson, Colleen, author. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200293249 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200293257 | ISBN 9781459747586 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459747593 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459747609 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8627.E555 L54 2021 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada. Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions. The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher. Printed and bound in Canada. VISIT US AT dundurn.com |
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For Isabella
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T
HE DREAMS STARTED the night of the break-in. Two
weeks ago, my foster mom, Kris, and I had come home from a movie to find the front door open. Every room had been sifted through. My drawers had been dumped and the bed tossed. Kris’s, too. Nothing was missing, but Kris was rattled. Break-ins were unusual in our quiet neighbourhood. It took me a while to fall asleep that night. When I finally did, I had the dream for the first time. Since then, I’d had the same one almost every night. In my dream, I carried a candle as I walked across a wooden floor. “Hello?” I whispered into the darkness. “Hello? Are you there?” There was no answer. Heavy velvet curtains hung behind me. The planks creaked u nder my shoes. I was on a stage. A quick burst of air came from behind me. The flame died and I was pitched into darkness. I could hear someone breathing. I wasn’t alone. “Who’s there?”
COLLEEN NELSON
I turned at the sound of a match being lit. A man’s face greeted me. He was handsome and wore a top hat and tails, like a circus ringmaster. But he looked worried. “Has he found you?” he asked. “Who?” I wanted to know. Before he could answer, the match went out. That was it. That was the dream. I’d had it again last night and now I was hunched over my sketchbook trying to get it down on paper. “What’s the deal with recurring dreams?” I asked Kris. She stood beside the coffee maker, waiting for it to finish brewing. Her normally flat blond hair was frizzy with some serious bed-head. She yawned. “Why? Have you had any?” I nodded and shaded in the man’s top hat. “I keep dreaming about the same guy.” Kris arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Ew. That’s not what I meant.” “Is it a nightmare?” I shook my head. It wasn’t scary … more unsettling. He was worried about me, and I didn’t know why. I finished the sketch and angled my sketchbook toward Kris. She had no artistic talent herself, and she marvelled at what I could create before she’d even had her first cup of coffee. The drawing wasn’t perfect, but the concern was evident on the ringmaster’s face. “I can’t figure out if I’m supposed to be scared of him or not. Is he there to hurt me, or help me? He always asks if someone’s found me yet.” Kris didn’t say anything, but I’d been in enough therapy to know what she was thinking. “Trust issues, right?” I guessed. She smiled as she poured two cups of coffee, one for me and one for her. “Could be. It might be your 2
THE LIFE AND DEATHS OF FRANKIE D.
subconscious working through things. You’ve manifested a person to represent your feelings.” That was a lot of psychobabble first thing in the morning. I stared at the picture, running my pencil along the contours of his face. “It doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels real,” I said absently. Kris gave me a long look. “You’ve been through hell a few times, Frankie. This might be stuff coming up that you need to deal with. Your mind’s way of saying it’s ready.” Talking about my past wasn’t my thing. Nothing good ever came from it; it just stirred up a lot of bad I’d rather not touch. I stuffed the sketchbook into my bag, ending the conversation. “Your dermatologist called yesterday.” “What did he want? “There’s a support group he wants you to go to —” I shut her down before she could say anything else. “I’m not going to sit around with a bunch of people to talk about my skin.” “That’s not what it is.” I snorted. “That’s exactly what it is.” I got uncomfortable talking about my skin with Kris. How could I discuss it with strangers? The clinical name for what I had was lamellar ichthyosis, a rare genetic disorder that gave me skin so scaly, it looked reptilian. I shed, too — layers of my skin peeling off like a snake’s. I kept it hidden under thick foundation. People assumed the makeup was part of my goth look. It went with the black lipstick, long skirts, studded leather cuffs, and the heavy black eyeliner that ringed my eyes. “What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality, anyway? Dr. Singh should keep his frigging mouth shut.” 3
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Jamming the rest of my stuff into my bag, I pushed the chair under the table. “Telling me about a support group has nothing to do with doctor-patient confidentiality,” Kris said. There were moments like this when I knew that two years ago, I’d have been raging, kicking over chairs, screaming, punching holes in doors. Instead, I glared at Kris and took a deep breath, just like she’d taught me. Use your words. “I don’t like feeling pressured to do something that scares me.” I exhaled. “I’m not going.” Kris didn’t look happy, but she didn’t push it. “Suit yourself.” I finished packing up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Want a ride?” she asked. I raised an eyebrow at her ratty bathrobe and bedhead. She looked like an extra from a zombie apocalypse movie. I shook my head. “No, thanks.” “I’d put on clothes first,” she called after me, laughing. “And brush my hair.” If she said anything else, it was lost as I yelled goodbye and shut the door. The street was quiet when I left Kris’s house. I still thought of it as her house, even though I’d been living with her for almost two years. She’d done everything she could to make sure I knew it was my place, too, trusting me with a key, giving me privacy, and stocking the shelves with food I liked. But years of being shuttled between foster homes had left me with a sense of imper manence. At least, that was what Kris said. I was worried about getting too attached to a place in case it was taken away from me. Sometimes I liked that Kris could use her psychologist training with me. But other times, I didn’t want things explained; it made them more real. 4
THE LIFE AND DEATHS OF FRANKIE D.
Mrs. Jenkins, the neighbour two doors down, drove past. I caught her staring at me in the rear-view mirror. She probably thought I was eyeing up neighbourhood pets for some ritual sacrifice. I used to give her the finger, but after fielding one too many ranting phone calls, Kris had begged me to stop. “She’s the one staring at me!” I’d fired back. “She’s seventy-two and your outfit terrifies her,” Kris had replied. “Of course she stares.” I hated to admit it, but Kris had a point. Mrs. Jenkins had it all wrong, anyway. Being goth has nothing to do with Wicca or pagan worship. Wearing black clothes was about embracing the dark side of things. Other people saw beauty in sunshine and blue skies. I preferred a full moon at night. To me, that was beautiful. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I walked to school. My armour was on. As usual, heavy foundation hid my skin, and on top of that I had outlined my eyes in thick eyeliner. I’d been experimenting with false eyelashes. When I blinked, it felt like butterfly wings were flapping over my eyes. My lips were stained a deep, dark burgundy. I had been dying my hair for so long, I’d forgotten what colour it really was. I liked the purple I’d been using lately. Chopped into a bob, it hung straight and sleek, covering as much of my face as possible. I had on my leather jacket with studded sleeves, a pawn shop find that I wore all year, no matter what the weather was like, and black gloves with the fingertips cut off. These were more about hiding my hands than being goth. Henderson High School loomed in front of me. Red brick, limestone stairs, flagpole in the front — it was a totally normal school. There were the usual groups of kids, but I was the only goth. 5
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A group of girls sat on a bench at the front doors. I walked past them, ignoring their stares. The thing about being goth is that it’s like an invisible barrier. A silent people-repellant. I shout Stay away! without saying anything at all. In other ways it’s like a magnet. Insults like freak and weirdo fly at me all day long. Even though no one says it out loud, I know they’re thinking it. If they call me that when I’m wearing makeup, what would they say if they saw me without it?
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