THE TOTALLY TRUE STORY OF GRACIE BYRNE

Shannon Takaoka is the author of the young adult novel Everything I Thought I Knew, which was a 2021 Kansas National Education Association Reading Circle Recommended Title and a 2022 TAYSHAS Reading List Selection. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family, where she also works as a business writer and editor.

“A warmhearted story that will resonate with anyone who has ever dreamed of reinventing themselves.” —Kirkus Reviews

“A 16-year-old realizes that she can alter reality via her journal in this pensive tale by Takaoka. . . A moving and emotionally satisfying read.” —Publishers Weekly

“The Totally True Story of Gracie Byrne is a delightful coming-of-age novel in which an unhappy girl learns to appreciate the ups and downs of life.” —Foreword Reviews

Do you ever wish you could write your own story?

I don’t mean like an autobiography or a memoir—something you write when you’re old, when you’re looking back. I mean, what if you could write your life story before it happens, the way you want it to happen? Wouldn’t that be awesome? You could it to happen? Wouldn’t that be awesome? You could be whoever you wanted . . . the Chosen One, secret royalty, or even just a little famous or kind of cool.

I guess what I’m saying is, some creative control would be nice. Because despite all that stuff that teachers like to say about “charting your own course” and being the “captain of your destiny” and whatnot, most of the time I feel like my story is actually being written by someone else—someone who does not get me. At all. The voice is all wrong, for one. I think it needs to be bolder, more confident, and always ready with a snappy comeback at exactly the right moment. And the plot? It sucks. Nothing good is ever happening. It’s like my entire life has writer’s block.

Revisions are urgently needed. Because if I don’t take over this narrative soon, The Story of Gracie Byrne is going to flop— spectacularly—before I even make it out of high school.

Storytelling

September 5, 1987

I click my pen one, two, three, four, five times. It’s my ritual before I write. Click, click. Click, click, click. I run my hand over the blank page of my college-ruled spiral-bound notebook. All that white space. So many possibilities. It makes me feel like I’m on the edge of a diving board, about to launch myself off. Just go. Don’t think. Just write.

Everyone is curious about the new girl. She’s from LA— here only temporarily while her father works on location for a film project. He brought her along to get her out of the Hollywood bubble, where there were too many parties and too much blow. . . .

Hmmm. Maybe the blow is a bit much.

The ice in my sweating glass of tea cracks and shifts. I take a sip, set the glass down on the coffee table, and position myself on the sofa so that I’m directly in the path of the box fan. I close my eyes and try to imagine an ocean breeze, but what I’m getting is more of a musty smell. Dust + Western-Pennsylvaniain-late-summer humidity = must. I click my pen and try again:

The whispers around school are that the new girl, along with her entire family, is in the Federal Witness Protection Program.

Now there’s an idea. I wonder what starting over with a new identity would be like. If I had to pick a Witness Protection name for myself, I would choose something more sophisticated and unusual. Like Dallas. Or Brooke. In real life, I guess I could go by Grace, which is at least somewhat grown-up, instead of Gracie, which is what everyone in my family calls me. Now’s my chance, since I won’t know a single soul when I walk into Morewood High on Tuesday, and not one single soul will know me. I’ll be a blank page. Almost like I’m in Witness Protection. Except not.

The new girl spoke multiple languages: English, of course, but also Spanish, Mandarin, and even French, from the years she and her family spent living in Burgundy, where they own a vineyard.

I roll my eyes at myself. Why would anyone move to Pittsburgh if they owned a vineyard in the South of France? I scribble over the Burgundy vineyard and glance at Hank, asleep on the scratched-up hardwood floor, his front paws moving in some kind of doggie dream. Even at rest, he’s chasing something.

I flip the page . . .

The new girl is pissed. Pissed to be starting over at the worst possible moment: right in the middle of high school. Pissed at her mom, who doesn’t understand why it’s not so easy for her to just “make friends.” Pissed at her brother, Jack, who, of course, excels so much at making friends that he has a surplus. Pissed at her dad, who left them three years ago for his new life with his new wife, which, as of two weeks ago, also includes a brand-spanking-new baby daughter. Pissed at the universe, for . . . everything. Actually, she’s worse than pissed. “Pissed” makes her sound kind of tough, like a badass, like a girl who could hold her own in a fight or who plays drums in a punk band. Like a girl people are curious about. But she doesn’t feel like a badass. She feels lost. Lonely. Terrified at the prospect of facing a sea of new faces on Tuesday and not being able to do anything but freeze

Nope! I cross out the entire passage with a giant X. Too much realism.