They All Fall Down - Softcover

St. Claire, Roxanne

Softcover

ISBN 10: 038574272X ISBN 13: 9780385742726

Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

It’s Pretty Little Liars meets Final Destination as this group of high school elites uncover who's plotting to off each and every one of them.  
 
Every year, the lives of ten junior girls at Vienna High are transformed.

All because of the list. 

Kenzie Summerall can’t imagine how she’s been voted onto a list of the prettiest girls in school, but when she lands at number five, her average life becomes dazzling. Doors open to the best parties, new friends surround her, the cutest jock in school is after her.

This is the power of the list. If you’re on it, your life changes.

If you’re on it this year? Your life ends.
 

Praise for They All Fall Down
 
“A suspenseful mash-up of Indiana Jones and Pretty Little Liars.” —The Bulletin
 
“Part high school drama, part mystery, this fast-paced novel will appeal to a broad range of readers who will have a difficult time putting it down.” —SLJ
 
“St. Claire keeps the tension high as she slowly uncovers the mystery and builds to a thriller-level climax.” —Kirkus Reviews
 
“St. Claire ropes in readers from the opening pages, creating a taut thriller that keeps the audience turning pages and guessing until the end.” —VOYA
 
“Best-selling author St. Claire makes her YA debut with a thriller in the tradition of Lois Duncan and R. L. Stine.” —Booklist

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

 

New York Times bestselling author Roxanne St. Claire gave up the glamour of working in advertising and public relations to follow her lifelong dream of becoming a published author. Roxanne lives in a small beach town in Florida with her husband, their son and daughter, and a frisky Australian terrier. Visit Roxanne at roxannestclaire.com.

 

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1
I run away from home in a downpour.
Guilt wends its way through my belly, knotting things up before catapulting into my throat, making it impossible to swallow or breathe. But I have to breathe. I have to exhale the taste of those words my mother and I just slung at each other.
You can’t go, Kenzie. It’s dangerous! You could die.
It’s a freaking bus to Philadelphia, Mom, not a rocket to the moon!
Buses crash! There are no seat belts! What if the driver is drinking?
You’re suffocating me! I hate you! Hate!
My parting word had cracked like a gunshot, punctuated by the slam of the front door behind me. But she’d followed, calling my name in breathless desperation--Mackenzie Grace Summerall! Don’t you dare drive in this weather!
I ignored the order, the rain drowning out her last whimper as I vaulted into the front seat. Even then, I refused to turn to get a glimpse of her.
I don’t really hate my mother. But I loathe that haunted, sad, scared, pained look that turns Libby Summerall’s gray eyes into two burned-out pieces of charcoal. What I hate is her fear. I don’t want to fear life--I want to live it.
The echoes of the fight fill the car and I don’t try to erase them with music, letting the pounding rain on the roof do the job. I never yell back at her--tonight was an exception. Usually I just simmer under the pressure of her protection, understanding it enough to accept the weight of it, only throwing off the heavy blanket whenever I have to escape.
I squeeze the steering wheel and work my way through the darkened streets of my western Pennsylvania neighborhood until I can turn onto Route 1, grateful for the lights of a strip mall and a few traffic signals to guide me through the blinding rain. Not many cars, though. Not on a night like this.
I press the accelerator and barrel into the left lane, that lane of peril my mother wouldn’t let me venture into for the year I had my learner’s permit. But I have a license and freedom now, and a car I bought with tutoring money and some help from Dad. Now I pretty much live in the left lane.
I pick up a little speed despite the rain, the tires sloshing through puddles and potholes, the eleven-year-old Accord feeling all of her 140,000 miles. The light ahead is green, so I give it some gas, hydroplaning for a split second, enough to send a flash of panic through me.
That’s not calming me down. I need happy, soothing thoughts. I need something I understand, something absolute to soothe me.
Between the swipes of my windshield wipers, I go to that more comfortable side of my brain, away from guilt and worry and arguments I can’t win. I decline the Latin word for “strong.”
Fortis, fortis, forti, fortem, forte . . .
The language grounds me, almost instantly. The rules might be complex, but they make sense. I love things that make sense, that are exactly as they should be time after time. No surprises, no random twists, no pieces that don’t fit. Latin makes sense in a way that my world rarely does; it rolls off my tongue so smoothly I sometimes wonder if I didn’t live in ancient Rome in a previous life.
Which is why, if only I could get a damn bus to Philadelphia for the Latin competition, I could be number one in grammar in the entire state. But no . . . that would make too much sense.
The reminder of what started our fight makes me mad at Mom all over again. She wouldn’t even read the parental release, let alone sign it and have it notarized. So I’ll miss state competitions.
Because my leaving home has become Mom’s worst nightmare. Well, one of them. There’s also driving alone, taking a shower in a storm, crossing the street, using a knife, going on a date, or . . . living. Basically, my mother is terrified of life because . . . accidentia eveniunt.
In other words, shit happens, and that could be my mother’s motto. Except she is bound and determined to stop any accidents from happening. Ever again.
A wisp of a memory curls through my chest, a frustrating and elusive clip of Conner’s voice. I can still remember a lot of things about him, but I can’t quite capture his voice. I try for anything--the sound of his laughter, the way he said goodbye when we parted at school.
Go get ’em, Mack.
As if I could get anything the way he could--with ease. He’d been so accomplished. So big in life. And still big in . . .
Mors, mortis, morti, mortem, morte . . .
Declining “death” didn’t help me, either. I blink into the darkness, barely able to make out the next light about a half mile away. It’s green, I think, but it might be yellow by the time I get there. I hate making that decision, never sure if I’ll make it through the intersection in one piece.
Listen to you! You sound just like her.
Lights flash behind me, the high, bright halogens of an expensive SUV. Cursing softly, I swerve into the right lane to let it by, the wipers clearing the glass just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of one of those stupid stick-family decals on the back of the SUV. Why do people insist on advertising how perfect their little family is? Mom, Dad, soccer boy, and ballerina girl. All perfect. All . . . alive.
On the next pass of the blades, I reach the crest of a slight hill and see a pickup truck approaching from the side, probably going to hit the intersection the same time I do. I may have only had my license for a month, but I know the universal rule of trucks: they will cut you off at any opportunity. So I stay in the chickenshit lane and tap the brakes--
And hydroplane wildly. With a gasp, I shimmy the steering wheel to correct myself, splashing rooster tails of rain under my tires and shots of adrenaline in my stomach. In the next puddle, I’m tempted to smash the brake pedal, but I clearly remember the page in the driver’s ed handbook on maneuvering in the rain. On a wet surface, tap brakes repeatedly to avoid . . . something.
Flooding? I don’t know which car part could flood, but I’d rather not risk it. So I touch the pedal again, applying light pressure, once, twice. But nothing happens. In fact, the car is picking up speed on the downhill slope.
“Crap.” The wipers fly by and I see the truck, the traffic light, but rain blurs my view again. “Come on!” I scream, willing the windshield wipers to move faster and clear the glass. They do, and I touch the brakes again.
Nothing.
With a soft inhale of surprise, I fight a wave of panic and press the brakes a little harder.
Nothing. This car isn’t slowing.
And neither is the black truck. The light turns yellow and I slam my foot on the brake so hard the pedal collapses onto the floor. I brace for my back end to fishtail, fighting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, accepting the unacceptable: I have no brakes.
My Accord is flying now, spraying water like wings on either side of the car, barreling toward the yellow light with scant seconds before it turns red. The truck is twenty feet from the intersection and so am I.
“Stop!” I scream at him and my stupid car and everything in the world. But nothing stops. The wipers smack at the rain as the car soars forward and the damn truck isn’t slowing down. I stab at the console for the emergency brake, but there’s no time and I can’t get my shaking fingers around the grip.
Five feet from the corner, the light turns red and I stomp the useless brake pedal over and over and over again. A scream wells up inside me as I steal a glance to my right, blinded by the beams of the truck hauling ass right at me.
“Stop!” I cry again, finally yanking the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Children's Books
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 038574272X
• ISBN 13: 9780385742726
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 352
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: EMBER; https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/imprints/EM/ember; ; Attn: Andrea T Sheridan 1745 BROADWAY, 14-1; NEW YORK; NY; 10019; USA
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar