Title: HIDE ME AWAY
Genre: YA thriller Ownvoices
Word Count: 62,000
Is your main character hot or cold?
Tanvi believes she's cold. She has practiced years of controlling her feelings and emotions, afraid that she'd repeat the mistakes of her mom. But inside she aches for the warmth of a family and the love of her best friend.
Since you have expressed an interest in #ownvoices Young Adult novels, I would like to present my diverse YA thriller, HIDE ME AWAY. Complete at 62,000 words, this novel about dark secrets threatening to destroy an Indian-American orphan’s life will appeal to readers of Megan Miranda and Lauren Oliver.
When seventeen-year-old Tanvi Nair spots her missing cousin, she’s elated that Mimi has returned after vanishing five years before. But when Mimi attacks her and nearly kills her, and then frames her in a local bully’s death, Tanvi realizes her cousin isn’t craving a reunion—she’s out to destroy her.
As a girl harboring suppressed memories of her dad’s murder and her mom’s dark rituals, Tanvi is used to burying secrets, not unearthing them. But, to prove her innocence, she must determine the reason for Mimi’s loathing. She must break through the barriers she’s created against her past, barriers intended to prevent flashbacks of her parents. The closer she gets to the truth about Mimi, the worse the flashbacks become.
Tanvi must uncover the truth to stay alive, but proving her innocence could come at the cost of her sanity.
First 250 words:
Ever since my cousin’s disappearance, Auntie and I followed a pattern. A routine. It made for predictability, for safety, and prevented shit like psychiatric lockdowns and therapy.
So here I was, at three-fifteen sharp, texting my standard message to Auntie—school’s done. Smiley face. Home soon. An action that was second nature, as familiar as getting dressed or brushing my teeth. Or breathing.
After sending the text, I joined the swarm of bodies in the school hallway, swerving out of the way of a ginormous backpack before it could flatten my face. The stampede to exit school on Friday afternoons often reminded me of the crush at the temple in India when I was six. The first and the last time I’d stepped foot in my parents’ country. Eleven years later, I could still smell the burning oil wicks and hear my dad’s low voice as he explained the priest’s chants to me.
I battled my way through a crowd of freshmen and spotted my target down the hallway. Bright green eyes under tangled black hair, and then the rest of Drake—tall and draped in a sweatshirt and jeans, and leaning against my locker. My pulse sped up and heat crept up my neck. Talking it down hadn’t helped in the past, so I schooled my expression to that of best friend and not besotted crush. Drake had no clue about my feelings and I worked hard to keep it that way.