Tracey L. Pacelli
Tracey lives atop a beautiful mountain in Asheville, NC, with
her talented teen daughter, and her seafaring husband, Daniel,
who is a vessel captain. She spends much of her time chasing
after their marble-mouthed parrot, Blackie, and King Charles
puppy, Oliver Dudley, who is indeed king of their beautiful
TIME WARPED is Tracey's first teen novel, but there will most
certainly be more to come, she promises, as she looks forward
to a long and fruitful relationship with Gypsy Shadow
Tracey has had extensive face time with the paranormal, as a
journalist and editor for PsychicAccess.com. Over the years
she's investigated many unusual topics and was Chief Editor for
The Psychic Times Newsletter, which she ran for over two years.
More recently, she has become an avid student of astrology, and
offers readings to friends and family.
Her work in the entertainment arena is vast, and includes
administrative positions at CBS Networks, HBO, The NBA, New
Line Cinema, and The Fifi Oscard Agency. She's also worked in
several law firms, in New York and in Charleston, SC. and was
even a ballroom dance teacher for a very, very brief time,
before she shuffled off to Asheville, NC.
Who knows what she'll be up to next? But you are welcome to
investigate by checking on her website,
following her daily blog, becoming a friend on facebook, or
perhaps by reading some of her fan fiction at fanfiction.net.
If you're a fellow Gleek, you'll be sure to find her there.
Congratulations to Tracey for winning FIRST PLACE in
the 2011 Preditors and Editors Poll, Young Adult Category!
“I couldn’t put Time Warped down because there is something so
relatable about Lanie Landry’s quest to find out the truth
about herself and her family. The journey she takes is full of
~ Danielle Fishel, Topanga from "Boy Meets World,"
and "The Dish"
New Title(s) from Tracey L. Pacelli
ORDER THE PRINT BOOK TODAY!
Click on the thumbnail(s) above to learn more about the book(s) listed.
|Looking back, I can’t
believe a small red box would be my ticket to the Twilight Zone.
It was an old fire alarm with its cover half-off, hanging on the
wall just beyond a row of lockers. An ancient relic in a
worn-out high school, but there was still some magic left in it.
When someone screams Fire, everyone comes running. And when the
fire alarm is pulled at school, all hell breaks loose.
For those few frenzied minutes, the flow of everyday life is
disrupted. I guess that’s what I was ultimately going for when I
pulled the alarm. I wanted shocking change, the kind that leaves
permanent marks. And man, did I get it.
The instructions on the box were clear. Pull Down, the handle
read. And it even had an arrow, pointing the way. Jolene would
later say it was Satan guiding me. I don’t know; maybe she was
right. There had definitely been a devil sitting on my shoulder
for some time.
Now it was urging me to move forward. The lure of the box had
been strong for months; almost an obsession, really. What would
it feel like to release the siren? To hear the mad shrieks of
chaos, the smattering of running feet in all directions, the
pounding of my heart bursting through my chest?
I’d just come from Language Arts class. Nothing important
happened. No earth-shaking events to cause the devil to win
today. Maybe that’s when the worst happens, when you least
expect it. When your guard is down.
I was on my way to my locker, walking slowly in heavy boots,
dressed all in black. My Joan Jet raven locks swung loosely down
my shoulders in spiral waves. It was a great hair day, and I
felt pretty. You know: the kind of pretty that empowers you.
The box called to me. As always, I stared at it, blocking out
everyone and everything around me. My locker beckoned only a few
feet away. I knew when I reached it, the trance would be broken.
I’d open the lock and forget about the box, at least ‘til next
period. But not today.
I never did reach my locker. I just kept moving forward, faster
now, with an urgency that felt inspired. The handle grew larger
in my vision, and the arrow became the hero’s journey for me.
Pull it, and you’ll be set free, it seemed to say.
Without thinking, I let adrenaline be my guide. The rush fueled
my decision, though it never felt like one was ever made. Today,
on this most ordinary day, an extraordinary event happened. I
pulled the fire alarm and in doing so, I blew the lid clean off
of Pandora’s box. My life was about to change forever.
Unfortunately, change doesn’t always come as swiftly as we’d
like it to. Punishment most definitely does. While I waited in
the principal’s lobby for my mother to arrive, I caught the
secretary staring at me. Her repeated sighs and head shakes
reeked of judgment. I was withering under her gaze, and needed
to compose myself. I asked to go to the bathroom with a
“P-p-p-please, may I be e-e-e-excused?”
The embarrassment spread to flush my skin like poison ivy. I
thought my stuttering had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Either
my speech teacher lied, or the dinosaurs had not all been
The secretary denied my bathroom request, and I was forced to
stew in my own humiliation. Fortunately I hadn’t long to
marinate. My mom, who I’d recently taken to calling Jolene,
arrived like Atlas in polyester drag, with the weight of the
world resting on her synthetic blend-covered shoulders.
We were unceremoniously ushered into the principal’s inner
sanctum, but not before the secretary clucked and mimed her
disapproval of me one final time. I could feel myself verbally
combusting, but clamped my mouth shut. I was determined to grit
my way through this year and next and, upon graduation, leave
the Footloose, Bible thumpin’ devotees behind me forever.
Inside Principal Frost’s office, I plopped myself down on an
unforgiving wooden seat, feeling trapped in its cushionless
confines. Though my body was tethered, my mind roamed free. I
was the Harry Houdini of mental escapism.
Jolene shot me dirty looks as Principal Frost belittled me. He
was a grotesquely tall man who smelled like embalming fluid. A
giant behind a tidy desk. On it, you couldn’t miss the stuffed
vulture staring lifelessly. I assumed all taxidermists were
Frost was rifling off the list of my more recent offenses:
inappropriate attire, sleeping in class, and smoking clove
cigarettes in the boy’s bathroom.
I couldn’t help but goad him as I sat with my ankle crossed over
my leg, slyly inching back my sock to reveal the eight-legged
tat I secretly inked there last summer. At the sight of it, an
unnerving fire burned in Frost’s eyes. I quickly covered up the
offending ankle with a hand. As I did so, a terrifying image of
Jack and the Beanstalk flashed in my mind’s fertile theatre. I
knew another giant, more sly and sinister, sat before me now in
the guise of my principal.
“Pulling fire alarms is a serious disciplinary violation
requiring immediate suspension and possible expulsion,” he said.
“If you want your daughter to continue attending Weaverville
High, I’m recommending she be put on Ritalin. If you don’t
already have a doctor to prescribe it, I can recommend a good
one for you.”
I lived in a hick town, but this was positively surreal. Frost
wanted to put me on lobotomy drugs. Why not just whip out a
scalpel and slice off my frontal lobe right then and there?
From the depths I wailed, “Jolene . . . no . . . .”
Unfortunately, the plea stuck in my peanut butter-coated larynx,
muffled beyond recognition. My favorite school lunch betrayed
Jolene’s lips quivered in holy indignation. “Aren’t those drugs
for hyperactive children? Lanie has never had a problem
learning. You even suggested she skip a grade, remember?”
As Jolene babbled on, seemingly unaware of the importance of
this life-altering moment, I naively thought I’d been too hard
on the woman who raised me. We’d never had anything in common
before, and yet here she was fighting toe-to-toe on my side
against the giant.
“Of course, I said no to the grade hopping,” she continued.
“It’s my belief kids who are accelerated through the school
system suffer socially in the end. You know the type, all brains
and no boyfriends.”
Jolene was forty and still wired to think only about guys. When
would her estrogen-soaked brain ever stop pumping? Come on
Jolene, stay on track, I urged telepathically.
“Situations change, Mrs. Landry, and this morning’s shenanigans
signify trouble,” the giant replied.
“Though I agree Lanie’s actions warrant punishment, what you’re
recommending seems far too drastic,” Jolene countered.
Hope waned for me. I needed an offensive linebacker with a
titanium backbone, not a jellyfish.
In answer to my call, Jonas, a make-believe ally with moonlit
hair and a spiked attitude, popped in to lend support. He came
from a place inside my head, where magic could create entire
universes. My imaginary, hot rebel sat beside me now, so coolly
above it all. He was sticking it to the giant with such a
bemused smirk, I nearly burst out laughing.
“But no one in my family has ever been to a psychiatrist,”
Jolene argued, as she wielded her axe at the giant.
“I feel I must point out,” he said, enunciating each syllable,
“Lanie is your adopted child, and we have no way of knowing what
runs in her family.”
She’s not my real mother. I rolled the phrase around over and
over in my brain ‘til I felt dizzy. I’d known I was adopted from
the start, but it felt different hearing it from the giant.
Jolene was thrown by it too, and her head cocked in a funny way
as she said, “It’s strange, but I’d nearly forgotten the truth.”
As an afterthought, she added, “Of course, she’s no less a
The words were touching, but not convincing. Though she sat only
inches from me, she seemed beyond my reach.
The giant, sensing weakness, leaned forward in a conspiratorial
way, and a familiar chill shimmied up my spine. This was the
closer, I was sure of it.
“Certainly she’s your child,” he said. “No one is disputing your
guardianship. But as a mother, you must agree what Lanie needs
most right now is the help of the Lord. On His behalf, I appeal
to you to get this child the medicine she needs.”
Behind Principal Frost’s desk hung a painting of Jesus with a
halo lighting the backdrop. I saw Jolene’s eyes fasten on it,
and knew instantly hope kicked the bucket with one perfectly
placed mention of the Lord.
The giant, as sly as a Fox newsman, reached in his drawer and
wrapped his long fingers around a tiny business card. I could
see a doctor’s name and phone number displayed in bold Arial
font. The card dangled for only a moment before Jolene snatched
“Excellent, I’ll let my sister know she’ll be receiving a call
from you right away,” he said.
His sister? Too shrewd. What a stunning display of nepotism, I
thought. Well, if Frost insisted on playing dirty, I’d fight
fire with hellfire. My principal, the Lord’s spokesman? I think
not. I’ll convince Jolene he worships the devil in secret. No
way, in heaven or hell, will I ever go to a shrink’s office.
Back to Time Warped