Kristin Butcher... has novel ideas

Shaw Sebring is sixteen and trying desperately to understand and accept his father's recent suicide. Moving with his mother halfway across the county in an effort to distance themselves from the awful truth, Shaw lands in a new school and finds that the ghost of his father, a best-selling author, has followed him. Determined that he will not follow in his father's footsteps Shaw tries to chart his own course, until circumstances force him to accept that where - and who - we come from have an impact on what we become.

(Excerpt from Chapter 1)

We had the top down on our old Le Baron and the sun was beating on us from a sky that was nothing but blue. It was my mom's turn to drive, so I was stretched out in the passenger seat, watching Saskatchewan slide by and thinking there must be a couple dozen different ways for a guy to kill himself.

Hanging was the first thing that popped into my head - probably because it's so convenient. You can do it almost anywhere with almost anything - a telephone cord, belt, bed sheets - whatever's handy. And depending on how much effort you want to put into it, you can break your neck and die instantly or dangle for a while until you suffocate. The cowboys in the old West had the best idea though. They just threw a rope over the branch of a tall tree, slipped the noose around the neck of the hangee - usually a cattle rustler - and then whacked the rump of his horse so it took off without him. Slam, bam, rest in peace, Sam.

Very effective, but not for everybody. Another popular suicide method is wrist-slitting. But that's way too much blood for me. Of course, walking in front of a bus or diving off a bridge would work too. But I'd want something a little less traumatic. Something like poison maybe, or carbon monoxide, or sleeping pills. Something where you just slip away without realizing you're going. I know that makes me seem like a chicken, but I think that's because I don't want to die. If I did I might have a whole different take on things. I might even do what my dad did.

He ate a bullet and blew half his head away. Messy, but it did the job. I ought to know. I'm the one who found him.

The memory of that afternoon flared inside my head like a match struck in the dark, and I flinched. I couldn't help it. Though it had been months already, my nerves were still raw.

My dad would've been proud.

"Explore your feelings! Sharpen your senses! Harness your emotions to breathe life into your writing!" That's what he was always telling me. Sometimes he'd get right into my face as he was saying it, and I could almost see the sparks fly from his eyes, certain that if they landed on me, I would start to burn with the same fire that was in him.

I turned to look at the memory that was chasing me. Okay. So how would Dad have described it in one of his books?

Dylan Sebring, so considerate of others during life, was less so in death. Oh, he'd written a farewell note. And he'd even covered the bed with heavy plastic before lying on it. But the plastic was no defense against the force of a 45 caliber bullet, and his brains were part of the wallpaper before Dylan finished squeezing the trigger. The flies found him first. Then his son. But by that time the day had warmed up - after all, it was June - and afterwards, Shaw couldn't remember whether it was the stench of death or the sight of his father in a million sticky pieces that made his stomach heave.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty." Mom's voice cut through the wind rumbling around my ears. "Wake up. It's your turn to drive."

She slowed down and eased the Le Baron over to the side of the highway. I pushed myself up in the seat and stretched.

"We'll drive as far as Regina, and then call it a day," she said, slipping the car into park. "I'd say another forty minutes and we should be there."

I stepped onto the pavement, yawned, looked around, and decided Saskatchewan had to be the most boring province in all of Canada. Traveling across it was like running on a treadmill. You never seemed to get anywhere. It was just mile after flat mile of blue flax, yellow sunflowers, and waist-high wheat. There weren't even any curves in the road to jazz things up. You could practically drive all the way from Alberta to Manitoba without ever touching the steering wheel.

I adjusted the seat and mirror, fastened my seatbelt, stepped on the gas and headed back onto #1 East. Then I grabbed a CD, slipped it into the player, and cranked it up. I'd burned it especially for the trip - stuff I liked, but tame enough that my mom wouldn't nag me about my taste in music.

So there we were, cruising along the highway, listening to tunes. Mom's arm was stretched out along the back of the seat, and I could feel her fingers tapping out the beat on the upholstery. I glanced over at her. She looked back and grinned, then squeezed my neck.

From behind us a horn blared, and a silver SUV pulled up alongside. Its radio was so loud I could feel the bass inside my clothes. There was a gang of university age guys leaning out the windows, hooting and hollering and grinning like a pack of fools. The SUV was staying even with us, and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. For a second, I thought the guys wanted to drag, but then they gave me a big thumbs up, leaned on the horn again, and took off.

I slapped the steering wheel and started to split a gut.

Mom turned the music down. "What was all that about?" And then as she realized I was laughing, she said, "And what's so funny?"

Still smirking, I nodded toward the SUV pulling away. "Those guys. They thought you were hitting on me." Then I started to laugh again.

"Hitting on you? Get out!" she said, but she was smiling now too. "Why would I hit on you? I'm old enough to be your mother."

I sent her a sideways glance. "You are my mother."

Her grin got bigger. "There you go - what did I tell you!"

"But I can see how those guys might have gotten the wrong idea," I teased. "As far as moms go, you're okay."

She made a face. "Well, thank you very much - I think." Then she ran her hand through her windblown hair and sighed. "Maybe there's hope for me yet. I'll just get myself a slinky little dress and start prowling the bars for a boy toy. I can be one of those cheetahs you told me about."

That set me howling again.

"You mean cougar," I corrected her.

"Cheetah, cougar, whatever." She smiled good naturedly. "I knew it was some kind of cat." Then she started to giggle, and for a second she almost looked like a teenager. "Can't you just see me? Gawd, I haven't been into a bar in years! I wouldn't know what to do. Those places are for single people, not old married ladies like me."

I wanted to tell her, 'You're not married anymore,' but there was no point. Dad had already squeezed into the front seat between us.