Critque of my first page from IT'S NOT ME

Angela Eschler is funny and cute and smart. She's also an editor. You can visit her blog here. She has a team of great editors if you need there services. 
Julie Bellon did a First Page on Friday and I sent her my first page. Then I made sure to armor up because critiques sometimes hurt BUT they are always educational and worthwhile. Angela edited my page twice. You can go here and read the comments.

Here is the final product of said edit (let me know what you think too!):

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I hide the scissors and the red shoebox on the top shelf in my closet. The obituaries can wait. I glance out my dirty bedroom window and wonder at the promises the sky hold for me today. If my days were normal, I might hang out at the pool, pretending not to watch the lifeguards or sit under the shade of trees and daydream. I might also gossip with friends late into the night about everything and nothing. But I left normal behind ages ago--in quiet cemeteries.

A girl not remembering the deaths of so many friends puts me on red alert to too many people who want too many answers. By the end of the year, I’ll prove my memories don’t hold the key to so many deaths. If my memories were opened, we might find a serial killer. And it’s not me.

My hair is a ratty mess. I flip my head over and force my tangled mane into a ponytail. I peek in the mirror. It’ll work. Easy. That’s how I roll.

The t-shirt I wore to bed reeks like last night’s Chinese takeout. Not how I roll.

No reason to get too excited about high school, but at least I can smell decent. I’ve resigned myself to the shadows of corners and back rows. I don’t need attention, nor do I want it. I’m a ghost, just like my dead friends.

A black piece of fabric peeks out from beneath my pillow. It’s my favorite-vintage AC/DC-and I pull it close and pretend it smells like Aiden, the last boy I crushed on. I haven’t lost memories of him. Probably because he isn’t dead.

I trade the shirt with another, cleaner one off the floor and shake it out for good measure. A worn-out and yellowed clipping flutters across the floor. I pick it up and study it. John Birch’s trench coat is thrown over my older sister and me. He’s trying to shield us from the snooping cameras. The caption reads “Lost Memories or Fake Amnesia?”

I tuck the old news story into the red shoebox, too.