- Publication date: 4/1/2014
- Pages: 336
- Age range: 12 - 17 Years
Synopsis:
Nothing lasts forever, and no one gets that more than Tessa. After her mother died, it’s all she can do to keep her friends, her boyfriend, her happiness from slipping away. And then there’s her dad. He’s stuck in his own daze, and it’s hard to feel like a family when their house no longer seems like a home.
Her father’s solution? An impromptu road trip that lands them in a small coastal town. Despite all the beauty there, Tessa can’t help but feel even more lost. Her most cherished possession—a rare plant of her mother’s—is starting to wither, and with it, Tessa’s heart and her hope.
Enter Henry Lark. He understands the relationships that matter. And more important, he understands her. Though secrets stand between them, each has a chance at healing…if first, Tessa can find the courage to believe in forever.
Reviews:
Kirkus Reviews
★ 2014-02-12A despairing father and his 17-year-old daughter take an emotional journey together that brings redemption, hope and healing. Tessa's mother has recently died, and the teen is struggling to adjust to life with her loving but irresponsible pot-smoking dad, who is also fighting to right himself. To shake them from their spiritual stupors, her father suggests they take a spontaneous road trip—but there's a precious reminder of her mother that Tessa can't leave behind: a rare plant handed down by her grandfather and lovingly cared for by her mother. The trip ends at her grandmother Jenny's house, but the journey does not. While her father and Jenny try to repair old rifts, Tessa slowly warms, forming a new bond with her grandmother. Enter Henry, a kind, handsome library employee and fellow book geek who seems totally in sync with Tessa, but even as their relationship deepens, he inexplicably keeps her at arm's length. Meanwhile, Tessa's plant is withering, and she is desperate to keep it from dying. Henry and the library staff collectively join the frantic research—and the ending is so enchanting it's certain to reduce readers to bittersweet tears. Caletti's writing is seamless and fluid, rich with descriptions of Tessa's physical world as well as her inner ruminations. A story that proves there can, indeed, be life after death. (Fiction. 12 & up)
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About the author:
Publication date: 4/1/2014
Pages: 288
Age range: 12 - 17 Years
Synopsis:
Three high school students—Eric, Shelly, and Fatima—have one thing in common: “I know your secret.”
Each one is blackmailed into bullying specifically targeted schoolmates by a mysterious caller who whispers from their cell phones and holds carefully guarded secrets over their heads. But how could anyone have obtained that photo, readthose hidden pages, uncovered this buried past? Thrown together, the three teens join forces to find the stranger who threatens them—before time runs out and their shattering secrets are revealed . . .
This suspenseful, pitch-perfect mystery-thriller raises timely questions about privacy, bullying, and culpability.
Reviews:
From the Publisher
"It is as if Emily Brontë could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognizable transparencies with such a gust of life that they transcend reality."--Virginia Woolf
From Barnes & Noble
An intriguing tale of revenge in which the main characters are controlled by consuming passions. This novel was once considered such a risk by its publishers that Emily Bronte had to defray the cost of publication until a sufficient number of copies had been sold.Pre-order: Amazon I Barnes&Noble I Nook
About the author:
Publication date: 4/1/2014
Pages: 352
Age range: 12 - 17 Years
Synopsis:
An empty mind is a safe mind.
Yulia’s father always taught her to hide her thoughts and control her emotions to survive the harsh realities of Soviet Russia. But when she’s captured by the KGB and forced to work as a psychic spy with a mission to undermine the U.S. space program, she’s thrust into a world of suspicion, deceit, and horrifying power. Yulia quickly realizes she can trust no one—not her KGB superiors or the other operatives vying for her attention—and must rely on her own wits and skills to survive in this world where no SEKRET can stay hidden for long.
Reviews:
Publishers Weekly
★ 02/17/2014In this smart and fresh supernatural take on the spy novel, it’s 1963, and the Soviet Union and United States are deep into the Cold War, with spycraft a necessary trade on both sides. Yulia Andreevna Chernina, 17, has the unfortunate luck of getting scooped up by the psychic branch of the KGB for her ability to “read” the past when she touches an object. She is quickly swept into a world of Soviet spies, imprisoned in a house with other similarly gifted young men and women, all conscripted to unearth top-secret information from the Americans. Though Yulia yearns for escape and reunite with her family, she also learns valuable skills from the KGB’s psychic guardians, including how to shield her mind from other psychics through music. Debut novelist Smith’s background in foreign affairs and Russian culture shines through in the historical context of her story and the political savvy of her characters and plot. As one character puts it: “Space, weapons, psychics. Arms races, all of them, going nowhere.” Ages 12–up. Agent: Mandy Hubbard, D4EO Literary Agency. (Apr.)
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About the author:
Lindsay Smith's love of Russian culture has taken her to Moscow, St. Petersburg, and a reindeer festival in the middle of Siberia. She writes on foreign affairs and lives in Washington, D.C. Sekret is her first novel.
Read an Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1
MOSCOW, SEPTEMBER 1963
MY RULES FOR THE BLACK MARKET are simple. Don’t make eye contact—especially with men. Their faces are sharp, but their eyes sharper, and you never want to draw that blade. Always act as though you could walk away from a trade at any moment. Desperation only leaves you exposed. Both hands on the neck of your bag, but don’t be obvious about it. Never reveal your sources. And always, always trust the heat on your spine that haunts you when someone is watching.
I pass through the iron gates to the alley off New Arbat Street. A mosaic of Josef Stalin smiles down on the ramshackle market he never would have permitted. If he were still our leader, the man wearing strings of glass beads, snipping them off for customers, would vanish overnight. The little girl with jars of bacon fat would emerge years later in a shallow ditch, her skull half eaten by lye.
Comrade Secretary Nikita Khruschev, the USSR’s current leader, is content to ignore us. The Soviet Union provides everything you need, as long as you don’t mind the wait: a day in line for butter and bread rations, another day for meat, seven years for automobiles, fifteen for a concrete-walled apartment where you can rest between factory shifts. Khruschev understands the stale-cracker taste of envy in every worker’s mouth when a well-dressed, well-lived Communist Party official, more equal than the rest of us, strolls to the front of the ration line. If we quench our own thirst for excess in the black market, then that’s less burden on the State. His KGB thugs only disrupt the market when we do something he cannot ignore—such as trading with known political dissidents and fugitives.
And I happen to be one.
A tooth-bare man lunges at me with an armful of fur coats. I don’t want to know what creatures wore that patchwork bristly fur. “Not today, comrade,” I tell him, straightening out my skirt. Today I must restock Mama’s clinic supplies. (Average wait for a doctor’s visit: four months. Average wait for a visit with Mama: three minutes, as she wrestles my brother Zhenya into another room.) The sour, metallic tang of fish just pulled from the Moskva River hits me and my stomach churns covetously, but I can only buy food with whatever’s left over. We’ve lived off two food rations split five ways for some time now. We can live with it for some time more.
I spot the older woman I came for. Raisa, everyone calls her—we never use real names here. In this pedestrian alley, wedged between two disintegrating mansions from the Imperial days, we are all dissidents and defiants. We do not inform on each other for illegal bartering—not out of loyalty, but because doing so would expose our own illegal deeds.
Raisa’s whorled face lifts when she sees me. “More Party goods for Raisa?” She beckons me into her “stall:” a bend in the concrete wall, shielded by a tattered curtain. “You always bring quality goods.”
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t be so predictable, but it’s all I have to trade. The finer goods reserved for high-ranking Party members are worth their weight in depleted uranium here. I glance over my shoulder, hoping no one heard her. A boy and a girl—they look one and the same, with only a mirage-shimmer of gender to distinguish them—turn our way, but the rest of the market continues its haggling, lying, squawking. I let their faces sink into my thoughts in case I need to remember them later.
“Maybe you brought a nice filtered vodka? My boy, he wants a pair of blue jeans.” Raisa ferrets through her trash bags. She still reeks of sweat from the summer months—not that I can criticize. I have to boil water on Aunt Nadia’s stove to wash myself. “I have ointment for you, peroxide, gauze,” she says. “You need aspirin? You always want aspirin. You get a lot of headaches?”
I don’t like her making these connections, though for clinic supplies, I have little choice. If she knows about Mama’s headaches, that’s a weakness exposed. If she suspects we were Party members before we fled our home and became ghosts—
No. This is paranoia, gnawing at my thoughts like a starved rat. The KGB—the country’s secret police and spying force—can only dream of training drills as thorough as my daily life, with all the ridiculous precautions I take. My fears are outweighed by one simple truth: I need something and Raisa needs something, and that will keep us safe.
Capitalism is alive and well in our communist paradise.
“Pocket watch.” I hold Papa’s watch by its twisted silver chain. “Painted face commemorates the forty-year anniversary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” My voice falters as memories of Papa ripple through me: He clicks it open, checks it, exhales a plume of smoke, tucks it in his coat, and turns back to the snow-slashed streets. “Wind it once a month and it’ll run forever.” I drop the watch in Raisa’s palm, happy to bid those memories farewell.
“Not bad. Expensive…” She bounces it in her hand, as if checking its weight. “But is it so practical? It will be forty-six years since the revolution this November. Outdated, yes?”
I wince. Has Papa been gone for five years? I turned seventeen last month, but there was no extravagant celebration like when we were favored in the Party. I’ve forgotten the taste of sugar frosting, the sound of wrapping paper tearing apart. I passed my birthday as I had the last four, keeping Mama and Zhenya hidden while I pawned away our history.
“Then it’s a collector’s item.” I must be careful when defending an item’s value. I’ve seen too many others expose their past or reveal their emotions when justifying a high price, but that’s giving valuable information away. I must tell her only what she needs to hear. An empty mind is a safe mind, Papa always said.
Raisa nods, but looks unconvinced. Now we play the games of the market that can’t be written into rules. Gauging your trading partner, assessing their offer, luring out what they really want and need. Knowing when to reveal what else you have to trade, and when to keep it hidden.
And I am better at this than most.
I move for the watch as if to take it back, but my fingertips linger against her skin. Concentrate, Yulia. In the moment when our skin touches, time shatters apart, like the world is run by a loose watch spring. I plunge into the emptiness, the silence around me, and when I surface from it I’m inside Raisa’s thoughts.
She can turn a huge profit on the ointment—castoffs from the factory, because the formula was off. The peroxide cost her too much—a kilo of pork, and it was fresh, too. Raisa wants compensation. And me, always turning up with rich Party goods that raise too many questions when Raisa tries to sell them off—
I fall back into the void and thrash toward myself, and time winds back up to speed. I finish snatching the watch back and narrow my eyes.
“I don’t want your ointment. I heard about the factory mishap. You thought I didn’t know the formula was off?”
Raisa’s jaw droops, the wart on her chin wobbling.
“You’re not the right person for these goods,” I say. “I’ll look for someone who knows the value of Party items. Someone unafraid.” I sling the bag over my shoulder and turn to leave.
“No—please, wait—” Her Baba Yaga witch-nails catch my sweater. The brief contact isn’t enough for me to slip into her thoughts, but I sense her emotions in that touch: panic, fear, and … loyalty. She will not turn me in.
How do I explain this ability I have? It must be something everyone does, unknowingly. Mama’s textbooks say our sight and hearing are not such dominant senses as we believe. We smell others’ emotions and taste their weaknesses. Me, I’ve found out how to focus thoughts and memories through touch, like steadying a radio antenna with your fingertips, the static sloughing off until a clear melody remains.
Or maybe, like my paranoia, I’m only imagining.
“Then let’s talk seriously.” I yank open my bag. “Keep your ointment. I want double the aspirin, and the gauze…”
Warmth spreads along my back. The discomfort we feel when being watched—another intangible sense. Through a tear in Raisa’s curtain, I get a better look at the twin boy and girl, russet halos of hair catching the afternoon sun, with matching disgusted expressions for their matching clothes. Their matching, expensive clothes. My nails split the bag’s burlap fibers. Only junior members of the Communist Party—Komsomol, the youth wing—could dress so well.
“What’s the matter, girl?” Raisa leans toward the curtain. “If you’ve brought the KGB to me…”
The twins’ gazes flit around the market like flies but keep returning to me. They duck under a cage of rabbits hung from the rafters, and glide toward us like Siberian tigers on the hunt. My blood is molten in my veins. The gnawing paranoia urges me to run, run, escape their doubled stare, run where their stiff new shoes can’t follow. But what if I’m wrong? What if they aren’t here for me, or only recognize me from my old life?
“Yulia Andreevna.” The girl twin speaks my real name from lips that have never felt the rasp of winter. “Too easy. You don’t even make it fun.”
Raisa’s curtain tears down easily in my grip. I swing its rod into the girl’s face. She’s caught off guard, but the boy twin’s hand is there to catch it, like he already knew what I would do. I’m running, leaping over a stack of fabrics from the southern republics, shoving a bucketful of handmade brooms behind me to block the path.
“You can’t run from what you are!” the boy shouts.
I chance a look over my shoulder. Yakov slows the twins, jabbing his box of rusty nails in their faces, but they disentangle from his sales pitch and knock over a little boy with bundled twigs. Who are they? Old schoolmates eager to turn in our family? I’ve cut all ties to our old life—we had to shed those snakeskin memories.
Vlad, the unofficial market guard, stands between me and the wrought-iron gate. I duck around him, but Aunt Nadia’s shoes are a little too big on me and I skid to the side, losing my balance. He seizes the collar of my sweater in his fist. “You bring trouble, comrade?”
I wriggle out of the sweater and launch myself through the gates. My arms immediately prick with gooseflesh; it’s too cold for just a blouse. But I have to ignore it. I have to reach Mama and make sure she’s safe.
“You’ll be sorry!” the girl twin screeches at me as I run past afternoon workers, shuffling out of the Metro stop. If I duck my head and keep my eyes to myself, they’ll provide the perfect camouflage. “Don’t you want to know what you are?”
What I am? I climb down the escalator slowly enough that I don’t raise suspicion. My ratty clothes are lost in the sea of gray-brown-blue. Just another half-starved waif with empty eyes and empty hands. I know just what I am.
I am Yulia Andreevna Chernina, seventeen years old, daughter of former high-ranking Communist Party members. I am a fugitive in my own country. And sometimes I see things that can’t be seen.
Publisher: Signet Classics
Publication date: 4/1/2014
Format: Mass Market Paperback
Pages: 544
Synopsis:
Indisputably the greatest fictional detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes lives on—in films, on television, and of course through Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s inimitable craft. These twenty-two stories show Holmes at his brilliant best.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
THE NAVAL TREATY
THE FINAL PROBLEM
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
THE CROOKED MAN
THE RESIDENT PATIENT
THE GREEK INTERPRETER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL
THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
THE NAVAL TREATY
THE FINAL PROBLEM
THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
THE CROOKED MAN
THE RESIDENT PATIENT
THE GREEK INTERPRETER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORWOOD BUILDER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOLITARY CYCLIST
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY HOUSE
THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
THE ADVENTURE OF THE PRIORY SCHOOL
THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND STAIN
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABBEY GRANGE
Reviews:
Library Journal
These clever packages combine a classic text with a DVD of a film version. The Holmes volume's 22 stories accompany Terror by Night and The Woman in Green, starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. Hunchback looms over the Lon Chaney silent version, while Cyrano includes the popular 1950 Jos Ferrer flick. Sweet for the price. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.Pre-order: Barnes&Noble
About the author:
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930) was born in Edinburgh. After nine years in Jesuit schools, he went to Edinburgh University, receiving a degree in medicine in 1881. He became an eye specialist in Southsea with a distressing lack of success. Hoping to augment his income, he wrote his first novel, A Study in Scarlet. His detective, Sherlock Holmes, was modeled in part after Dr. Joseph Bell of the Edinburgh Infirmary, a man with spectacular powers of observation, analysis, and inference. Conan Doyle may have been influenced also by his admiration for the neat plots of Gaboriau and for Poe’s detective, M. Dupin. After several rejections, the story was sold to a British publisher for £25, and thus was born the world’s best-known and most-loved fictional detective. Fifty-nine more Sherlock Holmes adventures followed. Once, wearying of Holmes, his creator killed him off, but was forced by popular demand to resurrect him. Sir Arthur—he had been knighted for his defense of the British cause in The Great Boer War—became an ardent Spiritualist after the death of his son Kingsley, who had been wounded at the Somme in World War I. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle died in Sussex.
Anne Perry is the author of more than forty novels, including two Victorian mystery series featuring William Monk and Thomas and Charlotte Pitt. She lives in Scotland.
Regina Barreca, Professor of English and Feminist Theory at the University of Connecticut, is the editor of the influential journal LIT: Literature, Interpretation, Theory.
Biography
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh in 1859. After nine years in Jesuit schools, he went to Edinburgh University, receiving a degree in medicine in 1881. He then became an eye specialist in Southsea, with a distressing lack of success. Hoping to augment his income, he wrote his first story, A Study in Scarlet. His detective, Sherlock Holmes, was modeled in part after Dr. Joseph Bell of the Edinburgh Infirmary, a man with spectacular powers of observation, analysis, and inference. Conan Doyle may have been influenced also by his admiration for the neat plots of Gaboriau and for Poe's detective, M. Dupin. After several rejections, the story was sold to a British publisher for £25, and thus was born the world's best-known and most-loved fictional detective. Fifty-nine more Sherlock Holmes adventures followed.
Once, wearying of Holmes, his creator killed him off, but was forced by popular demand to resurrect him. Sir Arthur -- he had been knighted for this defense of the British cause in his The Great Boer War -- became an ardent Spiritualist after the death of his son Kingsley, who had been wounded at the Somme in World War I. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle died in Sussex in 1930.
Author biography courtesy of Penguin Group (USA).
Publication date: 4/3/2014
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 320
Synopsis:
When Nicole Castro, the most beautiful girl in her wealthy New Jersey high school, is splashed with acid on the left side of her perfect face, the world takes notice. But quiet loner Jay Nazarro does more than that—he decides to find out who did it. Jay understands how it feels to be treated like a freak, and he also has a secret: He’s a brilliant hacker. But the deeper he digs, the more danger he’s in—and the more he falls for Nicole. Too bad everyone is turning into a suspect, including Nicole herself.
Reviews:
• "As always, Griffin (Stay with Me) fills his story with fascinating, distinctive characters whose interior and exterior struggles are closely entwined." -Publishers Weekly, starred review
• “This poignant, romantic mystery, told through Jay’s no-nonsense point of view, is a suspenseful, memorable exploration of love, identity, and beauty.” –Library Media Connection, starred review
"A taut thriller explores the evolving relationship between two outsider teens, at first defined by their shared defectiveness but later superseding it." -Kirkus Reviews
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About the author:
Paul Griffin (www.paulgriffinstories.com) lives, trains dogs, and writes in New York City.
Publication date: 4/1/2014
Series: Truth or Dare Series
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 416
Age range: 15 - 18 Years
Synopsis:
When a simple round of truth or dare spins out of control, three girls find it's no longer a party game -- it's do or die.
It all started on a whim: The game was a way for Tenley Reed to reclaim her popularity, a chance for perfect Caitlin "Angel" Thomas to prove she's more than her Harvard application. Loner Sydney Morgan wasn't even there; she was hiding behind her camera, as usual. But when all three start receiving mysterious dares long after the party has ended, they're forced to play along -- or risk exposing their darkest secrets.
How far will Tenley, Caitlin, and Sydney go to keep the truth from surfacing? And who's behind this twisted game?
Set against the backdrop of Echo Bay, an isolated beach town haunted by misfortune, Truth or Dare is a highly charged debut that will keep readers in suspense from beginning to end.
Reviews:
"Green offers an edge-of-your-seat thriller. The characters are all well drawn and believably flawed...Creepy and dark to the core, this is a great offering for fans of Lois Duncan and Christopher Pike."—School Library Journal
"A well-plotted suspense tale....Good intrigue designed for the chick-lit crowd."—Kirkus Reviews
"The suspense winds tautly, and the story proceeds at a flawless pace...a perfect choice for vacation reading."—The Bulletin
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About the author:
Jacqueline Green received a BA from Cornell University and an MFA in writing for children from the New School. She grew up in Wynnewood, Pennsylvania, and now lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and their tiny dog. Truth or Dare, the first novel in a trilogy, is her young adult debut.
Publication date: 4/1/2014
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 304
Age range: 15 - 18 Years
Synopsis:
I bit my lip as I typed in the words "sexting and teens" and hit "search." Articles popped up, one after another, and I groaned inwardly. Most of them were about me.
Ashleigh's boyfriend, Kaleb, is about to leave for college. So at a legendary end-of-summer pool party, Ashleigh's friends suggest that she text him a picture of herself -- sans swimsuit -- to take with him. Before she can change her mind, Ashleigh has snapped a photo and hit "send."
But when Kaleb and Ashleigh go through a bad breakup, Kaleb forwards the text to his baseball team. Soon the photo has gone viral, attracting the attention of the school board, the local police, and the media. In the midst of the scandal, Ashleigh feels completely alone -- until she meets Mack at community service. Not only does Mack offer a fresh chance at friendship, but he's the one person in town who received the text of Ashleigh's photo and didn't look.
Acclaimed author Jennifer Brown delivers a gripping novel about honesty, betrayal, redemption, and friendship, as Ashleigh finds that while a picture may be worth a thousand words . . . it doesn't always tell the whole story.
Reviews:
* "Thousand Words is a powerful, timely, and compulsively readable story...This is an excellent choice for book discussions and a must-purchase for all libraries."—VOYA, starred review
"Brown brings her characteristic raw honesty to this wrenching story....Sensitive and genuine."—Publishers Weekly
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About the author:
Read an Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1
DAY 1
COMMUNITY SERVICE
The community service I'd been court ordered to complete was held in one of the downstairs classrooms at the Chesterton Public Schools Central Office. Central Office, where my dad worked and where I'd spent many afternoons hanging out after school waiting for a ride home, would now be the place where I'd get a daily reminder that I'd massively messed up.
I walked the mile and a half from school, hoping the fresh October air would relax me, help shake out my nerves. It didn't work. I still had no idea what to expect and could only imagine myself locked in a painted-cinder-block room in the basement, something that looked a lot like the juvenile detention center where I'd learned, back in September, that big trouble was headed my way.
Sixty hours. Sixty impossibly long hours of community service to pay for a crime that I hadn't even known I was committing when I committed it.
Sixty hours of being in the same room with people who were real criminals, who'd probably done things like sell drugs to children on playgrounds or steal money from cash registers; nothing like I'd done. Real criminals who would most likely take one look at me and eat me alive.
I wasn't sure if I had sixty hours in me.
But the court said I had to, so I walked to my fate, sucking in deep breaths until I was dizzy, and shaking my hands out until my fingertips tingled.
Mom had told me that morning to catch a ride home with Dad after community service, and I was nervous about that, too. Dad and I hadn't been alone in a room together, much less in a car together, since the whole mess started. Dad wasn't doing a lot of talking anymore, but he didn't need to do a lot of talking for me to know what he currently thought of me. My face burned with embarrassment every time I had to pass through a room he was occupying.
When I got to Central Office, I snuck back behind the receptionist's desk and into the inner offices where Dad and other personnel worked, wandering through just as I'd done a million times before. I could see Dad in his office, his face bathed by the blue glow of his computer screen, a phone planted against his ear. He was nodding and kept repeating, "Right, right," but if he saw me he made no show of it. I thought about waiting around for him to get off the phone so I could wave to him or say hi or do something to try to break through the barrier that jutted between us, but decided it was probably best not to make a spectacle of myself, especially given why I was there. I made my way back out to the main foyer and headed downstairs.
All the lights had been turned off, so the corridor was dark, but a rectangle of fluorescent light spilled through an open doorway at the end of the hall. I could hear voices coming out of that doorway. Room 104—the room I was supposed to report to. I walked toward it, reminding myself that I had been equally nervous going back to school that morning and I had weathered the day just fine. I paused at the doorway, took another deep breath, and stepped inside.
"... him to get his ass out of bed or he'd be goin' back to jail," a skinny blond girl with a big, pregnant belly and feather earrings was saying. She was bent over a piece of paper, carefully coloring something with a marker and talking to a woman who was standing by her table. The woman was nodding as if to agree with the girl, but when the girl glanced at me, the woman turned in my direction.
She had on black pants and a black jacket with a white dress shirt underneath. Her hair was super-curly and stuck out around her head in pomade-laden chunks. Her lipstick was a deep, dark red and her lips full and pouty.
"Hello," she said, all stiff and businesslike, walking toward me. "You must be Ashleigh Maynard."
I nodded.
She held out her hand. "I'm Mrs. Mosely. I oversee the Teens Talking program. You're here for community service hours, correct?"
I nodded again, putting my backpack down on a desk and digging through it until I found the piece of paper I was supposed to give her. She would have to sign it every day I worked, until I'd satisfied my hours, and then I was to turn it in to Tina, my lawyer, who would make sure it got filed with the court. The paper was all that stood between me and putting everything behind me. And I was more than ready to put everything behind me. Even if sixty hours seemed like such a long time. A lifetime.
The blond girl assessed me quickly, then went back to her coloring, shaking her head as if I'd done something despicable by walking into the room. I ignored her and turned my attention to Mrs. Mosely.
She took the paper and laid it on her desk, then turned and leaned back against the wooden desktop, crossing her arms over her chest.
"So you're to create some literature about texting, is that correct?" she asked.
"Yeah."
The blond girl made a low "oooh" sound, but Mrs. Mosely acted like she didn't hear it. I whipped my head around to glare at the girl.
There were two knocks on the doorframe and a guy I recognized from school popped into the room. He was wearing black jeans, way too big for him, and a leather jacket. He had a pair of headphones hanging around his neck like DJs do, and was carrying a comb in one hand.
"Yo, Mrs. Mose," he said. "What's up?" He tossed a paper that looked like mine onto Mrs. Mosely's desk as he walked by.
Another boy followed him in, very large, very quiet. He said nothing. Just headed over to a computer cubby in the back of the room. He dug some earbuds out of his pocket with his big, hammy hands and sat down.
"Hey, Darrell," Mrs. Mosely said. Then louder, "Hey, Mack." But the big kid in the back simply lifted his chin once in response, stuffing the earbuds into his ears and clicking the computer mouse diligently. Another girl walked in, her jeans so tight they cut into her belly, which wobbled behind an equally tight shirt with every step she took. She sat down next to the blonde.
"Hi, Mrs. Mosely," she said. "Wait till you hear what my moms said this morning about that thing we were talking about yesterday."
Mrs. Mosely held her finger up in a "wait" position, then turned back to me. "You'll probably want to start on the computer," she said. "Get some facts. Some statistics. Are you good at doing research?"
I nodded, thinking about how I used to be good at a lot of things. Before. Good at school. Good at cross-country. Good at making friends. Good to Kaleb.
Now what was I good at? Hiding from crowds? Ignoring catcalls? Staring down disgusting-minded jerks? Apologizing?
"Okay, excellent. Read news stories. Read blogs. Everything you can get your hands on. If a website exists that talks about it, I want you to know about that website and read it. That should take you at least a couple of weeks, okay? You will not be done researching in a day, so don't try to convince me that you are. You need to be armed with information. By the end of this, you will be an expert. As you may or may not know, you're going to be creating resources for schools. Posters, booklets, that kind of thing."
Before being assigned to work for Teens Talking, I'd already been familiar with the program. I remembered getting Teens Talking stuff when I was in junior high. Pamphlets about drugs or gangs or bullying or reckless driving or weapons. I never really read them. Just saw them on the guidance office's literature rack or received one in an assembly here or a seminar there. I'd always assumed they were written by people who worked in my dad's office or by the school psychologist. I never knew it was offenders writing them. And I certainly never would have guessed that I would someday be one of those offenders.
Mrs. Mosely continued. "We need these resources to be factual and reliable, so accuracy is important. When you're done gathering facts, you can start writing a rough draft. I'll proofread it. And then when it's all good to go, you can start creating the layout of your pamphlet or poster or PSA or whatever it is you decide to design. You can do some of the artwork yourself, like Kenzie is here, or you can design it all on the computer. After you're done with that, we'll look it all over to make sure it's ready to print. By then you should have your hours. Okay?" She leaned over her desk and signed my paper, then handed it back to me.
"Okay," I said, taking the paper, but my head was swimming and I wanted to go home. I could feel the girls' eyes on me, and even though Darrell never gave me more than a passing glance, I was sure he knew what had happened with me, because he went to school at Chesterton High. He'd probably seen the picture that had landed me in community service, maybe even had it on his phone right now, and that made me really uncomfortable. I'd hoped to at least get away from the constant feeling of humiliation here.
Mrs. Mosely cut into my thoughts. "Everyone in this group is on a different timetable, so it's not a race. Kenzie and Amber have both finished their research and writing and are down to creating artwork now. Darrell is in the writing stage. Mack is busy on the computer. And where's Angel?" she asked the room at large.
"I heard she got arrested," Amber said.
"Nah, man, she's just skippin' out," Darrell said. "I saw her over at Manny's house last night."
"What were you doing over there?" Mrs. Mosely asked, looking stern. Darrell laughed like what she'd said was a big joke. He gazed back down at his paper, shaking his head.
"Yo, Mose, how you get the word 'violence' if there ain't no 'i' in it?" he called out.
"It has an 'i,' stupid," Kenzie said. She and Amber shared a giggle.
Mrs. Mosely pretended she hadn't heard Kenzie's comment, or their laughs, and walked over to Darrell's desk. She pointed to the paper. "It has an 'i.' See? Right here before the 'o.' "
I took that as my cue and went over to the bank of computers in the back corner. I sat at the one next to the big guy Mrs. Mosely had called Mack. His finger was clicking the mouse rapidly. I wanted to get done so I could go home and curl up under my blankets and sleep. Today had been so tiring, and tomorrow promised to be just as emotionally wrenching. Every day would be, until all this—the name-calling and teasing, the catching up on schoolwork I'd missed, the community service, the wondering if I was still friends with Vonnie, the worrying about the board meeting that could be the end of my dad's career—blew over.
I logged on to the computer and got online, feeling a little more in my comfort zone than I'd expected. I'd done a ton of research papers for my AP English class, so in a way, community service didn't seem all that different from school. The very thought brought tears to my eyes. I had gone from researching English papers to writing community service warning pamphlets alongside a guy who couldn't spell "violence," even though I was pretty sure violence was exactly why Darrell was in here.
Before I became the subject of all the gossip at Chesterton High School, there was a rumor that Darrell had beat up his stepdad pretty badly; the guy had supposedly spent a week in the hospital with his jaw wired shut and a collapsed lung, and Darrell was lucky that all he got was some time in juvie followed by community service. If his stepdad had died, it could have been a lot worse. But anything Darrell had done was nowhere near as juicy as what I had done.
I bit my lip and tried not to think about it as I typed in the words "sexting and teens" and hit "search." Articles popped up, one after another, and I groaned inwardly.
Most of them were about me.
AUGUST
Message 1
OMG Ash what are you thinking?!
Vonnie's annual end-of-summer parties were legendary. The kind people were still talking about in December. The kind where someone spends three hours on hands and knees in the grass looking for lost car keys, the diving board gets broken, and somehow—though nobody will admit to doing it—the pool water is pranked with a grocery bag full of blue Jell-O powder.
I never missed Vonnie's parties. Even if she hadn't been my best friend since sixth grade, I still wouldn't have missed them. Her parties were where all the best stories were born, and where everybody who was anybody hung out.
But when I got there this year I wasn't exactly in the partying mood, partly because Coach Igo had decided summer break was officially over for cross-country athletes and had practically killed us doing hill runs in what felt like an oven pushed up to a thousand degrees. But I had other reasons for not really feeling like partying.
"You're late," Rachel Wellby said as soon as I walked through the front door. Rachel was Vonnie's friend from the volleyball team, and while I knew her from hanging out with Vonnie, there was something about Rachel I didn't really like all that much. She had an underlying air of bitchy competitiveness, especially when it came to my relationship with Vonnie. I always felt like Rachel didn't care for me, either, even though I never exactly knew why, and like she'd be thrilled if Vonnie decided to one day dump me. Honestly, I didn't get why Vonnie was such good friends with her, but it didn't matter. Vonnie was friends with a lot of people. I didn't own her.
Rachel was swaying in front of me, her wet swimsuit dripping in the entryway, a chlorinated puddle forming on the very expensive-looking throw rug. I could practically hear Vonnie's mom shouting all the way from their Cancún timeshare that the rug had been handwoven by an elderly craftsman they'd stumbled across in a little village in some foreign country I couldn't pronounce and that he'd died exactly nineteen minutes after weaving it and she could never get her memories of that amazing trip replaced, so get your wet clothes off it. "We're practically already sunburned," Rachel slurred. "And you missed the pizza. I don't think there's any left."
"Trust me, I know I'm late," I mumbled. My skin felt so hot I thought if I looked down I might see steam rising from my legs. The scent of the pool on Rachel made me all the more antsy to get into the water. I kicked off my shoes and rooted around in my gym bag for my bikini. "And I'm already sunburned, thanks to Coach Igo's love of torture."
"Whoa, somebody's crabby," Rachel said, then singsonged, "Don't worry. Kaleb will make you smile again."
"I don't think so," I said. "He's got a game."
This was the real reason I was cranky. Not because of an exhausting run, but because instead of dancing or drinking or floating lazily on a raft with my boyfriend, I was going to be doing those things alone. And this definitely wasn't the first time. It seemed like I'd been doing everything alone all summer.
Kaleb had been playing on a baseball team in a neighborhood league for something like twelve years. The guys on the team were like brothers. They did everything together. And this was their last summer on the field. Josh was going off to the marines in two weeks. Carlos was heading to some private college in Illinois. Daniel had started his new job a month earlier, and he never had time for anything anymore. And Jake, in a total surprise move, had shown up one day with a one-way ticket to Amsterdam and a plan to stay over there until he'd hooked up with enough sexy European girls to make him forget Katie, who'd broken up with him the last day of senior year.
I need to hang with my boys, Ash, Kaleb had told me when I suggested he blow them off for the most epic pool party of the summer. I only have a few more weeks with them.
But you only have a few more weeks with me, too, I'd argued.
No way. I have you forever.
Kaleb was exactly the kind of guy I'd want to have forever with. And I really wished I could believe him when he said stuff like that. I used to. At one time it really felt like forever might happen for us. But somehow we didn't feel so foreverish anymore. We felt temporary and dramatic and like we were always away from each other.
What seemed like forever was how long he'd been choosing his "boys" over me. All summer I'd practically had to beg for alone time with him before he went to college. In a few days he would be living four hours away. I'd be stuck at Chesterton High to finish up what were likely going to be the slowest two years of my life, and he would be partying with God-knew-how-many girls. College girls. Girls who would be impressed by his athletic build and his academic scholarship. Girls who were more ready for forever than any high school junior could ever be.
Publication date: 4/1/2014
Series: Belles Series
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 320
Age range: 12 - 18 Years
Synopsis:
Who says you can't choose your family?
Their shared sweet sixteen party is just around the corner, and half sisters Isabelle Scott and Mirabelle Monroe are ready to cut loose, even if they are the daughters of a prominent public figure. So when Izzie's estranged aunt, Zoe, breezes into town unannounced, it just might be the change that the Monroe family needs--or not, depending on who you ask...
Happy with her cute surfer boyfriend and a group of great girlfriends, Izzie has no interest in getting to know yet another long-lost family member. But Mira, who's on a mission to try new things and meet new people--a handsome brooding painter in particular--is drawn to Izzie's artsy aunt, who seems to the be the polar opposite of the uptight Monroe family.
As the girls try to negotiate the unexpected paths their lives have taken, Zoe's laid-back attitude eventually charms them both. But when Zoe offers Izzie the chance to leave Emerald Cove and start fresh in California, Izzie and Mira are faced with bigger changes than they expected.
Reviews:
Praise for Belles:
"Belles is a must-read, full of scandals, sisterhood, Southern charm, and secrets!"—Sara Shepard, #1 bestselling author of the Pretty Little Liars series on Belles
"Proving Southern belles can backstab with the best of 'em, Jen Calonita weaves a soapy tale that keeps you guessing from beginning to end."—Kate Brian, New York Times bestselling author of the Private and Privilege series on Belles
"A page-turner that has it all--tingly romance, shocking secrets, and tons of heart. You're going to love it."—Sarah Mlynowski, author of Gimme a Call and Ten Things We Did (and Probably Shouldn't Have) on Belles
Pre-order: Barnes&Noble I Nook
About the author:
Jen Calonita is a former magazine editor who has interviewed everyone from Justin Timberlake to Reese Witherspoon. She lives in New York with her husband, Mike; sons, Dylan and Tyler; and their Chihuahua, Captain Jack Sparrow. She invites you to visit her online at www.jencalonitaonline.com.Read an Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1
"Izzie?"
"Iz?"
"Izzie, wake up!"
Isabelle Scott could hear someone calling her name, but she ignored her. Izzie was napping, and when it came to naps, the rule was you didn't wake her unless you absolutely had to. Like if the house was on fire, or she was missing Ryan Lochte about to win some Olympic gold.
Unfortunately, Mirabelle Monroe didn't seem to remember Izzie's rules.
"Izzie!" Mira's voice rose to a shrill as she shook her sister gently by the shoulders. "Get up! We're going to be late!"
Apparently, the time allowed for a soothing awakening was over. "Come on, it's Saturday!" Izzie said with a yawn. Isn't it? Her brain felt kind of foggy. She squinted to read the hula-girl alarm clock on her nightstand. "What time is it?" The room was so dark it had to be the middle of the night. Her eyes narrowed. "Did you wake me up to watch another E!True Hollywood Story?"
"No." Mira rolled her eyes. "I have one DVR'd for when we get back," she added quickly, and tugged on one of the custom-made window treatments Izzie's aunt had ordered for Izzie's room. The Roman shade retracted, flooding the room with sunlight. "And it's not the middle of the night. It's one thirty in the afternoon."
Izzie pulled her comforter over her head to block out the light. "So? A person can sleep in once in a while, can't they?" Mira grabbed the blanket and the sisters glared at each other. Izzie could tell by Mira's outfit (Go-to sweater set. Check! Slim-fitting cords. Check! Riding boots. Check!) that she had someplace to go. Her long, curly brown hair was equally watch-me-world ready. Izzie felt tired just looking at her. "I don't have the energy to get dressed," she admitted.
Mira's face softened. "Iz, I know this is hard to deal with, but it's been a month. We have to talk about this."
"No, we don't." Izzie's voice was hoarse. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing left to say. She had accepted as many condolences as a person could. She'd eaten from a dozen fruit baskets from Antonio at the Harborside grocery mart. But no amount of eating or talking made her feel any better.
Grams was gone, and she wasn't coming back.
Mira was still hovering. "You've missed almost three weeks of school. Isn't it time you rejoined the world of the living?"
Izzie closed her eyes and tried to drown out her sister's lecture, but deep down she knew Mira was right. Sleeping her life away wasn't going to fix anything.
"I heard Mom on the phone with school," Mira added. "They say if you don't come back this week, you'll get an incomplete for the semester, and the semester just started a month ago."
School. How could she even think of going back to Emerald Prep? Sure, her friends Violet and Nicole were there, but so were Savannah and her minions, who did nothing but whisper behind Izzie's back. In just six months, she had gone from living with her grandmother in the less-than-desirable town of Harborside (known for having the highest crime rate in the county) to residing in exclusive Emerald Cove. Along with the new zip code came a family that included her state senator father (who, for half a second, had claimed to be her uncle), her aunt Maureen, her sister Mira, and two brothers. After a rocky start, Izzie had made peace with her new, privileged life. Her grandmother had been in the finest rehabilitation center in the state, she had a family that loved her, and Brayden was officially hers (and out from Savannah's perfectly manicured clutches).
"Is this about Zoe?" Mira's voice was tentative. Even though Izzie had turned to face the wall, she could picture Mira playing with her pearl necklace.
"This has nothing to do with Zoe." Izzie squeezed her worn Lambie blanket like it was a stress ball.
But it was about Zoe, because ever since she arrived, Izzie felt like her life had started to unravel. Her mother, who died when Izzie was nine, had a younger sister. A sister! And everyone had kept her a secret. Izzie only found out about Zoe when Grams's health went downhill fast and her aunt showed up on the Monroes' doorstep. The real punch to the gut came later, when Zoe made a confession on Grams's deathbed: Grams had asked her to be Izzie's guardian last year when she got sick, and Zoe had said no.
Izzie had nothing to say to Zoe after that.
There was barely time to ask Grams why she didn't tell her about Zoe. There was only time to say good-bye to the woman who'd raised her. Grams passed away in early January and took all her secrets with her. Izzie was angry with her grandmother for that. Angry and mad at Zoe, her mom, the world. It was just easier to sleep than to deal with her emotions.
"Zoe's been calling a lot, but Dad won't let her talk to you," Mira said quietly. "He said she needs to give you space."
Izzie wished there was an ocean between them like there had been before. She'd overheard Zoe telling someone at the funeral that she'd been in Africa photographing a celebrity for Vanity Fair when she found out Grams had taken a turn for the worse. Zoe was apparently a famed celebrity photographer, but Izzie hadn't wasted time Googling her to find out for sure. "I don't care what Zoe does."
"If you're not upset about Zoe, then why won't you get up?" Mira finally snapped. Izzie's sister hated a problem she couldn't fix. "Don't you miss the swim team?"
"Yes," Izzie realized. Badly. Being in the water was almost as necessary to her as air.
"Well, if you don't come back to school soon, Savannah is going to be all over Brayden again and be the star of the swim team," Mira felt the need to say. "Is that what you want to happen?"
Over my dead body. Mira's reminder was all it took for Izzie to finally swing her legs over the side of her bed and get up. When was the last time I was out of this room? she wondered. Aunt Maureen had been bringing her food for weeks—some she ate, some she didn't. Her TV had cable and she shared an adjoining bathroom with Mira, so there was no need even to go downstairs. Izzie scratched her itchy green pajama pants. Could the last time she left have been Grams's funeral a few weeks ago? She shut her eyes, trying to block out the memory. She could still see Aunt Maureen and her dad leading her away from Zoe at the grave site. You weren't there for Grams or me before, and I don't want you here now! "Now that I'm up, where are you dragging me?" Izzie stretched her arms. They looked thinner than she remembered. "Are you taking me to EP to make up some homework?"
Mira gave her a look. "I should, but no, this is supposed to be fun." She gave Izzie's disheveled appearance a once-over and pushed her toward the bathroom. "But first, you need a long, hot shower and some new clothes." She threw a towel at her. "I already put a cute outfit in the bathroom. Don't worry," Mira added before Izzie could start her inquisition. (If it wasn't a pair of jeans and a comfy T, she wasn't wearing it.) "They're your own clothes. Now go! We're leaving at two thirty." Mira shut the bathroom door behind her.
For a moment, Izzie just stood in the bathroom, letting the grief wash over her again. Sometimes it came on so strong it seemed like a choke hold. She felt so alone without her grandmother or mother in the world. Then she forced herself to remember she wasn't alone. She had family now, and one of them was waiting on the other side of the door with a hair dryer and expensive gel.
By two fifteen, she was ready, and even though she wouldn't say it, getting out of her pajamas felt good. What felt even better was seeing Brayden waiting at the bottom of the stairs. When she reached the bottom step, he pulled her into a tight embrace.
"Hey, you," he whispered after kissing her softly. "It's good to see you up." She buried her face in his neck and didn't want to let go. How did he always manage to smell this good? Was he wearing new jeans? Was his hair longer?
How many times had Brayden seen her the past few weeks looking like a train wreck with smudged makeup, smelly clothes, and bed head? She could only imagine how she looked—hollow eyes, cheekbones that only looked worse when Mira put blush on them. But Brayden was still staring at her with those magnetic blue-green eyes like she was the winner of America's Next Top Model. She smoothed a crease in his T. "It feels weird to be out of bed."
Brayden's eyes stayed locked on hers. "Baby steps."
"Baby steps," Izzie repeated as if this were a foreign concept.
Mira rushed past on the phone. "I have her and we're leaving in five," she reported to someone on the other end.
"Where is she taking me?" Izzie leaned into Brayden's chest. It felt familiar and safe. "I can't handle a spa day or a manicure/pedicure trip."
Brayden's laugh echoed through the two-story foyer. "Mira and I cooked this up together, so you can relax. You'll like where we're going."
Mira appeared by his side. "Ready?"
Izzie looked warily at the front door. "I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't go out this afternoon. I'm feeling a little tired."
Brayden eyed Mira as he rubbed Izzie's shoulders. "Sometimes doing nothing can make you more tired. Maybe you just need a little push. What did your mom always say?" he reminded Izzie gently.
Izzie's voice was barely audible. "No guts, no glory." They had her there. It was time to let go, figuratively and in real life. She let them pull her out the door.
It didn't take a genius to figure out where they were headed. When Brayden's Jeep turned onto the highway between Emerald Cove and Harborside, it was a dead giveaway. But the more sea grass and dunes they passed, the more anxious Izzie felt. Please don't pass Grams's old house, she thought. It hurt too much to see it. The only piece of her grandmother still in Harborside was in her safe-deposit box at TD Bank. The lawyer for Grams's estate said her grandmother had left something in there for her, and Zoe had agreed to pay for the box until Izzie was ready to see what was inside.
No, Brayden knew better than to take her past her grandmother's recently sold house. So where were they headed? The community center? The Pit Stop? When Brayden parked near a ramp leading to the desolate boardwalk, Izzie grew even more curious. Every shop on that stretch of planks was closed till at least April. "Can someone please clue me in?"
Brayden's mouth twitched as he opened her door. "You'll know soon enough."
The sky was a dreary gray, which fit her mood, and the wind was whipping pretty good as they pushed against it to walk up to the boardwalk. Just as she'd suspected, the area was deserted and the buildings were dark. All except for one.
"Shore Life Arcade?" Izzie asked as they walked toward the brightly lit building. She could already hear the video games inside, and just seeing the place put a smile on her face. Izzie had been going there since she was a toddler. The arcade was where her mom had taught her how to master the crane game. It was where Grams had taught her the secret to Skee-Ball. And it was where she had wound up most weekends when she lived in Harborside. She had a thing for air hockey.
The crowd waiting inside startled her even before they yelled "surprise." But my birthday isn't till March, she thought, then realized they meant surprise as in, "We're here to force a smile out of you if it kills you."
Her dad and Aunt Maureen were there along with her little brother, Connor. Kylie, her best friend from Harborside, was standing on top of the air-hockey table they usually dominated, and Hayden, Izzie's older brother, was standing nearby with Violet and Nicole. Several other familiar faces from both Harborside and Emerald Cove were there as well. It was a tad overwhelming because they were clapping and cheering as if she'd won some sort of pageant. All she'd done was finally leave her room. She thought about bolting for Brayden's car, but her dad quickly put a hand on her shoulder.
"What do you think, Isabelle?" he asked. "Up for an afternoon of arcade games with all your favorite people?" Her dad seemed so pleased with himself she didn't have the heart to tell him her answer was no.
"How did you guys know about this place?" she said instead.
Kylie jumped off the air-hockey table with the help of Hayden. "Me, of course." She gave her a squeeze. "B and Mira said they were trying to coax you out of bed, and I said the surest way to do that was to get you back by the sea air." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Since you can't swim outdoors this time of year, I figured the next best thing was to give you a challenge. You've never said no to an air-hockey match."
That was true.
"You haven't heard the best part." Her dad sounded like a kid. "We've got the rest of the afternoon, but at five the community center is bringing over kids to play for free for an hour."
Her father made such an effort to include the things she loved into their lives. For some reason that sentiment made her teary. A lot of things made her teary lately. Even that LEGO commercial with the dad taking time to play with his son made her cry.
Aunt Maureen put an arm around her. "I didn't know your grandmother well, but I know she would want you to enjoy your life. You've done your crying—and I'm not saying there won't be more tears—but it's time to have fun again. You're not honoring her memory if you don't. So what do you say?"
Izzie looked from the bright, blinking lights and video screens to the wall behind them. Somewhere on there was a faded picture of her and Grams. They'd held the Skee-Ball high score for a while and Grams had loved this place as much as Izzie had. She could almost feel her grandmother egging her on. "Do we have any tokens?"
"Do we have tokens?" her dad repeated, and handed her a heavy bucket full of coins. "I expect you to play me at that pirate game later."
"Deal." Izzie grinned and looked at Brayden. "Up for a friendly game of Skee-Ball?"
"Is that a challenge? You're on." Brayden took another bucket of tokens from the row lined up on the prize counter. "But don't get too cocky. I'm not going to let you win just because you're my girlfriend." Both of them were übercompetitive.
"I don't expect you to let me win. I am going to win." Izzie dropped the first token in the slot, and nine balls came rolling down the ramp. She sent the first one up the ramp, and the ball jumped into one of the two hard-to-reach one-hundred-point slots.
"Show-off." Brayden sent his first ball up the ramp and scored fifty points.
"Watch yourself, surfer boy," Kylie said, coming up behind them. Hayden was with her. "Iz used to spend more time in here than the owner."
"So did you," Izzie pointed out before sending another ball into the hundred slot.
"Hey, would I ever leave your side?" she asked. Izzie knew the answer. Kylie was always there for her. "Besties for life." Kylie hip-checked her, then looked at Brayden. "Did she tell you she holds the arcade's high-score record for Skee-Ball?"
Brayden pretended to look outraged. "You were going to hustle me!" Izzie laughed.
"All is fair in love and arcade games," Hayden told him. He turned to Kylie. "What about you? You up for a challenge, too?"
"Aren't I always?" she asked, which struck Izzie as a strange thing for her to say to Hayden. "Winner of four straight games buys lunch at Corky's."
Hayden looked at her intently. "You like to lose, don't you?"
Four games later, Izzie and Brayden were tied (maybe she was getting rusty) while Hayden had whipped Kylie, which surprised Izzie. Kylie never lost.
"Who's up for air hockey?" Kylie asked.
"I am," Izzie said, feeling looser and calmer than she had in weeks.
"Prepare for war, my friend," Kylie said as Mira, Violet, and Nicole walked over to watch the game alongside Brayden and Hayden. "Just because Grams kicked the bucket, doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you." Izzie's friends looked up in surprise.
"I don't expect you to be." Izzie tried not to be self-conscious. Kylie's bluntness was one of the things she loved most about her. She just wasn't used to experiencing it around her Emerald Cove friends.
Mira waited till Izzie scored the first point to start her Operation Cheer Up Izzie routine again. "So are you having fun? It's nice to be out and see everyone, right?"
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