It’s a young adult novel about a ghost girl. She killed herself after being bullied, and now she is out to destroy the life of the boy who bullied her.
It’s a stressful story for a couple of reasons.
On the one hand, I can truly empathize with the ghost girl. I remember crying myself to sleep at night and hiding in the middle school bathroom during entire recess periods. I remember trying to figure out how many sleeping pills it would take to end the torture.
I don’t want to dwell on that though. Suffice it to say, I have been there.
On the other hand, I didn’t kill myself. I grew up. I survived by the grace of God, and now I am here to think about it from a distance. From this distance, I see every reason for not seeking revenge on the boys and girls who once tormented me. Because I can see the bigger picture, I am stressed out by the actions of the ghost girl in the story.
I still know some of the kids who teased me for being flat-chested and pale, pasty white and skinny as a rail. I had greasy hair and the wrong clothes and Walmart shoes. I was a walking target for middle school torture. And now I’m a grown-up and they are all grown-ups, and I know they aren’t the horrible people I thought they were back then.