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304 pages, Paperback
First published March 4, 2014
Daddy said that you can’t change the way things are by saving one person. He said the best we can do in life is surround ourselves with people who make us happy, because the rest of the world is too big to find meaning in.Nancy Drew could only aspire to be as cool as Anne Dowling.
But if everyone just forgets about terrible things they can’t understand—like what happened to Isabella and Matt Weaver—who will be left to remember?
I’ve been expelled from my beloved Manhattan school, questioned as a person of interest in a murder investigation, and nearly shot to death in the woods, but I’m convinced Monday morning is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.Our beloved amateur detective is back. In the last book, she unsolved a friend's murderer, nearly got killed; you can't blame her for wanting to chill a little bit. Currently, life is blissfully free from murder, she's going out with the incredibly hot (and incredibly sweet) Brent. But something doesn't feel right. Something connected to the murder that was supposed to have been solved.
The dead leave lots of things behind. Like messes you can’t see. Or sometimes, actual things.They don't call it women's intuition for a reason. Matthew Weaver's disappearance happened so long ago that it feels like a boarding school urban legend, Anne knows that she would be dismissed as crazy if she brought up the fact that she wants to investigate it.
Like the photograph I found in an old library book Isabella checked out before her death—the one of Matthew Weaver, a student who disappeared over thirty years ago, standing with the Wheatley Crew team.
The one with THEY KILLED HIM written on the back.
He also asked me if I found myself bored in the weeks after Dr. Harrow’s arrest. I’m not an idiot: He thinks I want there to be more to the mystery. Sort of like I’m having mystery withdrawals or whatever.But it seems the mystery won't leave her alone. An active mind makes connections on its own, and there are far too many clues for Anne to overlook.
But part of me thinks he has a point.
Either way, I have too many questions and no ways to get answers. When I told Dr. R I felt this way, he agreed.
“Sometimes it’s best for our sanity to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said.
Matt Weaver drew himself as Adam.Unfortunately, Matthew Weaver's death is not the only thing on Anne's mind. There is something going on in school, people are being hurt, secrets are being kept; betrayals abound.
Adam/Matt is frowning, a tear pooling at the corner of his eye. In his hand is a half-eaten apple. A serpent with hollow black eyes is coiled around his arm.
Matt Weaver saw himself as Adam. So what did he do to get kicked out of Paradise?
...the picture makes me want to throw up.Anne sees this case through. She spies, she snoops. She breaks curfew (and incurs the ire of the Residential Advisor). Anne mines information from microfiches to Wikipedia to...VHS tapes.
Eight guys stand shoulder to shoulder, their wrists bound in front of them with rope. I don’t recognize anyone in it. Probably because they all have potato sacks over their heads.
“Where can I find a VCR?” I say from the doorway.No clue is left unturned. Along the way, she has to reluctantly seek the assistance from a former (and rather unsavory) acquaintance.
Remy blinks at me. “Um, the nineties?”
“No, really.”
“Hi. Um. It’s me. Anne. Look, I know we haven’t talked in a while. But I really need to talk. To you. It’s important.”Anne needs to be careful. If Matthew Weaver died 30 years ago, the killer is still loose. And they may be coming for Anne.
Then I hang up.
I think of all the Wheatley School students who have wound up dead (or presumably, at least): Isabella Fernandez. Matthew Weaver. Cynthia Durham. I’ve never believed in curses or any of that garbage. But I will admit it: I’m starting to worry that if I stay at the Wheatley School, I might be next.The Setting: I have to admit, I love a boarding school setting, and this book did the trick. Unlike other books set in school, this book never lets you forget that the kids in this book are high schoolers, they have homework, they have relationship dramas, they have classes. This book portrays such a wonderfully authentic school atmosphere.
“Oh, no,” April says over the sound of Murali, Phil, and Cole’s laughter. “There are tons of bananas in the fridge. You’re not doing the Sprite-banana challenge, are you?”Unlike in other "high school" books, we actually have classes, and homework.
Everyone is in self-imposed isolation today: We all got drunker than we meant to last night, and there’s lots of shit due in class tomorrow.There's plenty of teenaged groping and canoodling, only there's not a whole lot of privacy in the dorms, lol.
Brent sits up, his back against his pillow, and I sit on his lap facing him. He kisses my neck, and when I kiss his earlobe his whole body contracts into mine.This is such an awesome boarding school setting; it's the sort that makes me long for a better high school experience.
“GODDAMNED SPIKED SHELL!” Murali screams from the living room.
Occam’s razor: It’s a theory of logic stating that the simplest explanation to a problem is usually the best one. It’s my father’s worst nightmare in the courtroom.She is never, ever judgmental and hateful of other girls, even a potential love rival.
What I know: Someone is trying to stop me from digging into the crew team’s past.
What I wish I didn’t know: [Redacted] and the other guys were in the tunnels earlier tonight.
The simplest explanation is that they were the ones who left me the photo.
Absent, thankfully, is Jill Wexler, who is tall and thin and blond and in love with Brent. Which isn’t grounds to hate her. I’m not like that.She is truly a friend to the other girls in the book. You will find no girl-on-girl hate here.
But the last time Jill and I were at the same party, she almost got me expelled-and-or-jailed afterward. So I’m happy no one invited her tonight.
“Don’t ever say you hate yourself for that. You know what I hate? The idea that we’re supposed to hate ourselves for having sex.”Anne has a wry sense of humor, and I love that about her. Her sense of humor is more deadpan than anything, and she never grates on my nerves.
I’m not going to let myself cry. I worked too damn hard on my eye makeup....but never for long.
“You found all that out on your own?”The Romance: I didn't have much of a problem with the romance in this book, but I have to warn you that there's a love triangle. To be honest, I didn't mind it at all, for the most part.
I nod.
“I can’t...I mean, this is just crazy.” A low whistle escapes him. “Don’t you have other things to do? I don’t know, maybe homework or something?”
“Obviously it’s been a while since you’ve done homework if you think that’s more interesting than a cold case.”
“I’ll see you in a few, I guess.”The romance is not a heavy element in this book. When it happens, it was well done and believable.
I’m completely stunned that he I-guessed me. I mean, I guess isn’t that bad in itself, but it’s a sign that next time I’m going to get a Do what you want. Or even worse: Whatever.
“No, there’s more. I don’t want to pretend I don’t give a shit what you think of me. Because I do. I don’t want to be the waste product you think I am. It’s all I think about lately.” His eyes are pleading, begging me to understand what he’s really saying. “You’re all I think about, and I can’t stop.”They're teenagers. The romance was never overdone. There is never insta-love, and relationships happen naturally. I liked them all, love triangles be damned.
Here's a little-known fact: Almost 80 percent of people who get murdered know their killers.
We turn back to the movie for a few minutes before Brent says, "Do you want to go to the formal?" I trace the outline of his ear.
"I don't know. No one's asked me." He rolls his eyes.
"Do you want to go with me to the formal?"
"I don't want to go to the formal," I say, "But if you need a date, I can tough it out."
"You're so generous." He laughs with his whole body.
"Anthony--"
"No, there's more. I don't want to pretend I don't give a shit what you think of me. Because I do. I don't want to be the waste product you think I am. It's all I think about lately. His eyes are pleading, begging me to understand what he's really saying. "You're all I think about, and I can't stop."
~Thank you St. Martin's Griffin for sending me this copy!~
The guys call her a TILF behind her back, and Lee Anderson, the hulking nerdy kid who sits across the aisle from me, now spends the class hunched over like he's constantly trying to hide a Woody Woodpecker.
He misinterprets my blank stare as me checking him out. Casey smiles and nods to the Brit Lit textbook to my knees. "Do you have Fowler?"
"Yup... does he ever... lighten up?"
Erik shakes his head as Casey says, "Not really."
Bea stares us down. "Actually, he's a really great teacher if you pay attention to his lectures."
And if Bea paid attention to anything, she'd know that it's impossible to start a sentence with the word "actually" and not sound like an obnoxious bitch. I return her frosty smile. "Guess I should quit snorting coke and running Ponzi schemes from my laptop during class."
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Most of the time when we say we don’t want to hurt someone, we don’t want to screw ourselves in the process, but I guess you have to do whatever you can to get by.