Merit Press Releases and giveaway!

Hello lovely followers, today I am honored to have some of Merit Press's newest releases today! You may have notices I have three of those books above reviewed as of today. Well, that's for a reason! I was able to receive those three ARC's and I'm here to tell you how amazing they all were! I will tell you a little about all of the books, but I'm going to focus on three of them. You'll see!

The Namesake
By Steven Parlato
Published by Merit Press
Hardcover: 256 pages
January 18, 2012; $17.95 US/$18.99 CAN; 9781440554575

Description
While he may be the smartest boy at St. Sebatian's Academy, Evan has no idea why the father he's named for committed suicide. A searching story of a boy's too-early coming of age

The Namesake begins when Evan is asked to "write about what he knows" for college essays, by teachers sure that such a gifted artist will get a full scholarship. What Evan knows is not as much as what he doesn't know, however. He doesn't know why his father chose to hang himself on Easter morning while he and his mother were at church, and what the secrets of a small town can tell him about his father . . . and himself. Hoping to finally uncover the truth, Evan and his best friend, Alexis, dig into the town's past only to discover it's dark roots . . . and that some secrets are best kept hidden.

Author BioSteven Parlato is a writer, illustrator, and an English professor. His poetry has been featured in Borderlands, Freshwater, Connecticut River Review, Peregrine, and Pirene's Fountain, and he is the winner of the 2011 Tassy Walden Award for New Voices in Children's Literature. He lives with his family, and is at work on his next novel.

For more information please visit http://stevenparlato.com and http://www.adamsmedia.com/merit-press-books and follow the author on Facebook

Exposure
A Twisted Lit Novel
By Kim Askew and Amy Helmes
Published by Merit Press
Hardcover: 272 pages
January 18, 2012; $17.95 US/$18.99 CAN; 9781440552618

Description
The Twisted Lit-sters are back, this time with a sinister tale about how the quest for high school royalty can lead to death -- a twist on the darkest of all Shakespearean plays, Macbeth

Shy shutterbug Skye Kingston likes life behind the lens, but if she has a crush on Craig, The Man Who Would Be Prom King, she’s going to have to go through a sociopathic social-climbing cheerleader to get to him. But there are more cold-hearted doings among the seniors at an Alaskan high school. No one knows who pulled the trigger when Duncan, the gorgeous captain of the hockey team, died, and even if people do know, they’re certainly not saying a word. Desperate to find out what really happened, Skye sets out to uncover the truth, but what she doesn’t realize is that the grim journey might just lead to her own demise.

Authors Bios
Kim Askew, co-author of Exposure: A Twisted Lit Novel, whose work has appeared in Elle and other magazines, is a content manager for the Webby-winning teen sitewww.FashionClub.com, for which she has covered the Teen Choice and MTV awards. Follow Kim on Twitter. 

Amy Helmes, co-author of Exposure: A Twisted Lit Novel, is co-author of Boys of a Feather: A Field Guide to American Males and is also a weekly contributor to The Rundown, a free daily e-mail service that keeps subscribers informed on what's new and cool in LA. Follow Amy on Twitter.

For more information please visit http://twistedlitbooks.com and http://www.adamsmedia.com/merit-press-books

Reviews"Exposure is an intelligent, poignant, and riveting mash-up of Shakespearean tragedy and high school politics, which, as it turns out, have a lot in common."
-- Daria Snadowsky, author of Anatomy of a Boyfriend and Anatomy of a Single Girl

"Kim Askew and Amy Helmes write with a delightful assurance in this clever and thrilling second installment from their Twisted Lit series. Wherever he is, the Bard is smiling down on them. "
-- Andrea N. Richesin, editor of Crush: 26 Real-life Tales of First Love

Louder Than Words
By Laurie Plissner
Published by Merit Press
Hardcover: 272 pages
December 18, 2012; $17.95 US/$18.99 CAN; 9781440556654

Description
The debut novel of an American original, Laurie Plissner's is both medical thriller and lyric love story in the tradition of magical realism
Since the snowy night when her family's car slammed into a tree, killing her parents and little sister, Sasha has been unable to speak except through a computer with a robotic voice. Nothing is wrong with her body; that's healed. But, after four years, Sasha's memory, and her spirit, are still broken. Then one day, she's silently cussing out the heavy book she dropped at the library when a gorgeous, dark-haired boy, the kind of boy who considers Sasha a freak or at least invisible, "answers" Sasha's hidden thoughts -- out loud. Yes, Ben can read minds; it's no big deal. He's part of a family with a host of unusual, almost-but-not-quite-supernatural talents. Through Ben's love, Sasha makes greater progress than she has with a host of therapists and a prominent psychiatrist. With him to defend her, bullies keep the world from ever understanding Sasha, he pulls away. Determined to win him and prove her courage by facing her past, Sasha confronts her past -- only to learn that her family's death was no accident and that a similar fate may wait for her, in the unlikeliest of disguises.
Author Bio
Laurie Plissner, author of Louder Than Words, is a Princeton- and UCLA-educated litigator. She gave up the courtroom for life as a full-time mom, although she could not overrule her love of literature. She lives with her husband and two teenagers. This is her first novel.
For more information please visit http://www.adamsmedia.com/merit-press-books

Here's an excerpt for you provided by the publisher!:

Chapter 1
by Laurie Plissner,
Author of Louder Than Words (Merit Press)

Every night it's the same thing. Screeching brakes. Crunching steel. A rush of cold, wet air as the glass crumbles, letting in the snowy night. The chorus of screams and then nothing -- just the slow drip of fluids from the mangled wreck and the hiss of steam escaping the crushed radiator. And the stench -- scorched rubber, gasoline, the metallic smell of blood, burning electrical wiring -- all mingled with a sweet, flowery smell I couldn't identify. Was I dead? Did God work behind the perfume counter at Bloomingdale's?

Why couldn't I dream about something else? The accident was four years ago, and the dream never faded, never changed. If only I could remember more, then maybe I could figure out what really happened. Waking up exhausted every morning, my sheets in a tangle, my nightgown drenched in sweat, I was stuck. More than once I'd wished that I wasn't the one who "miraculously escaped death," as the newspapers put it, "pulled dazed and bleeding from the wreckage." Reliving my family's last moments night after night was not my idea of living, and if I had the guts, I probably would've figured out a way to join them, wherever they were, instead of staying here, in a sort of no-man's-land. But that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. I was a coward and a big talker. Well, actually, I wasn't a talker at all anymore.

When I woke up in the hospital on that Christmas Eve, three days after the accident, my Aunt Charlotte was sitting next to my bed, wringing her hands as I rubbed my eyes, a fluffy mountain of her crumpled tissues on the bedside table.

"Sasha, you're awake. Oh darling, are you okay? Are you in pain?"

I opened my mouth to answer her, to tell her that I felt fine, a little sore, but none the worse for wear. And I wanted to ask her what had happened, why I was in a hospital, judging by the mechanical bed, the IV in my arm, and that horrible antiseptic smell. But nothing came out. Like a fish out of water, gasping for air, my mouth opened and closed, but there was no sound. It was as if someone had pressed my mute button.

Desperately needing to communicate, I mimed a pencil and paper, and when Charlotte handed me a pad and pen, I wrote furiously. What happened? Why can't I talk? Where are Mom and Dad and Liz? Why am I in the hospital?

At that point I hadn't yet started having the dream and had no recollection of the accident. My mind was a jumble, and my lost voice and the panicked expression on Charlotte's face terrified me more than I thought possible.

"You can't talk? I don't know what's wrong." Jumping up, knocking over the plastic water pitcher on the table next to the bed, Charlotte ran to find a nurse, while I tried to rouse my vocal cords.

Hours later, after what seemed like a dozen doctors had looked down my throat with exotic instruments that looked more suited to medieval torture than medical diagnostics, a young man, who barely looked old enough to drive let alone practice medicine, appeared in the doorway. Before he could produce a flashlight or a tongue depressor I was shaking my head and covering my mouth with my hand. No more doctors. Whatever was wrong with me, this wasn't helping.

"Sasha, Mrs. Thompson, I'm Dr. Klein. Don't worry, I'm a different kind of doctor. I won't be putting anything down your throat."

He smiled reassuringly at us both and took my aunt out into the hallway, leaving me to visualize the worst that a kid could imagine. The doctor only left the room when there was bad news. By the time they returned I had decided that I was dying. Tears gushed down my cheeks, my shoulders shook, but even then, not so much as a whimper.

"Sasha, it's okay. You're going to be fine. I promise."

Charlotte didn't look as convincing as she sounded, but my parents were nowhere to be seen, and I needed to believe in someone. I bit my lip, blinked back my tears and tried to suck it up. If she could be brave, then so could I. We both looked at Dr. Klein, who just stood with his arms folded, a sympathetic thin-lipped smile on his face.

"Sasha, your aunt's right. You will be just fine. Miraculously, you suffered virtually no injuries in the accident -- no physical injuries that is. Your inability to speak is a phenomenon called hysterical mutism, a rare but not unheard of manifestation of post-traumatic stress. As an adolescent -- how old are you?"

What accident? I wanted to scream. What is this weirdo talking about?

"She's thirteen today," my aunt said softly.

I hadn't known what day it was myself. So this was what it felt like to be a teenager. Not at all what I'd imagined.

"Oh, dear. Wishing you a happy birthday doesn't seem particularly appropriate. Anyway, as I was saying, the adolescent brain is in a state of flux and is especially vulnerable to psychic trauma. But the good thing is that the pubescent brain is also very elastic, capable of healing itself in ways that an adult brain cannot." He paused to let this sink in, but when he noticed my bewildered expression, he suddenly seemed to realize that he wasn't talking only to adults, and that I hadn't understood a word he'd said, other than the part about my birthday. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. What I'm trying to say, and not doing a very good job, is that although your body was not seriously injured in the accident, your mind was. In response to this terrible thing that has happened to you, your brain has reacted by taking away your ability to speak. Your vocal cords are perfectly fine. While you may remember very little of what happened the night of the accident in your conscious mind, the deepest part of your brain remembers everything and is very upset by it."

Dr. Klein, overcompensating for his initial, convoluted explanation, was speaking incredibly slowly, enunciating every syllable, as if my inability to speak had somehow affected my ability to understand English. Unbelievable. Who knew my brain was that powerful, and that stupid? How could it shut down my voice box like that? What for? I couldn't even remember what happened that night, or much of the rest of my life, for that matter. I nodded at Dr. Klein. What else was there to do? Why couldn't I have a broken leg or a ruptured spleen, something run-of-the-mill that could be healed with a cast or some stitches?

"I'm a general psychiatrist, but I think Sasha would benefit most if she worked with someone who specializes in the area of posttraumatic stress. Dr. Colleen O'Rourke, who is at the forefront of this field, recently moved here from Boston. She works primarily at New York General, but she does see a few patients locally. She's eager to take your case." Dr. Klein patted my feet through the blankets and handed Charlotte a business card. "I wish you a speedy recovery, Sasha, and I'm so sorry for your loss."

Charlotte glared up at him, shaking her head violently from side to side. "I hadn't . . . " She didn't finish the sentence.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't realize." Dr. Klein reddened, realizing that he had let the cat, the dead cat, out of the bag. But it didn't matter -- I already knew.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman peeked in. Unable to face another doctor, I yanked the sheet over my head.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Perfect timing," said Dr. Klein. "Mrs. Thompson, Sasha, this is Dr. O'Rourke."

"Hello. Please accept my condolences for your terrible loss."

Charlotte gently pulled the sheet from my face. "So nice to meet you, Dr. O'Rourke. Thank you for taking us on."

The two women shook hands, and Dr. O'Rourke nodded at me.

"I very much look forward to helping Sasha cope with what has happened. You are a brave little girl."

Brave was the last thing I was, but she didn't know me yet.

"She is," Charlotte sniffed.

"I actually knew your father many, many years ago. We went to high school together in Boston. He was the captain of the football team, the quarterback."

Three pairs of eyes stared at my mouth, as if waiting for me to have a breakthrough right there, as if a famous doctor standing at the foot of my hospital bed would be enough to jog my memory and cure my voice. I didn't remember that my father had grown up in Boston or played football in high school. It was like they were talking about a complete stranger. Not knowing what else to do, I nodded. Maybe if I agreed with this person, she would leave.

"That should make things easier, shouldn't it?" Charlotte said, sounding desperate for something positive to grab onto.

"Absolutely," said Dr. Klein, and Dr. O'Rourke nodded. "The fact that Dr. O'Rourke knew Sasha's father, even so long ago, gives her insight into the entire dynamic."

Since when did my dead family become a dynamic? What did that even mean? I closed my eyes. I couldn't make them stop talking, but at least I didn't have to look at them.

Dr. O' Rourke whispered, "You need to rest, Sasha. I will see you very soon. Mrs. Thompson, call me in a few days and we'll set something up. Goodbye."

"I'm going to go, too," Dr. Klein said.

The door clicked shut and I opened my eyes. For a few minutes, Charlotte and I just looked at each other. Then I tapped the pad of paper where I had earlier scrawled my questions. My parents and my sister were gone forever. There was no denying it. At the moment it didn't really matter how it had happened, but I might as well get it over with.

Haltingly, Charlotte began telling me her version of events, still dancing around the fact that my entire family was dead. My mother and Charlotte were sisters, only a year apart, and had been as close as twins.

"You were driving with Liz and your folks to the church for the holiday concert when the accident happened. It was snowing, but the roads looked okay, and your dad had just put the snow tires on the car. I spoke to your mom right before you left, at about seven o'clock. She wanted to know if Stuart and I wanted to join you, but we both had court in the morning and had work to do. Do you remember any of this?"

Charlotte seemed more comfortable now that she could be helpful, using her lawyerly skills to remind the witness of what had happened. The color was slowly returning to her cheeks.

I shook my head. Church? Christmas concert? I remembered I had two parents, a sister named Liz, and Aunt Charlotte, but not much else before waking up in a hospital bed. My brain was wrapped in thick fog, and no matter how hard I concentrated, the haze wasn't lifting.

"Do you remember the car ride?" she coaxed.

Charlotte leaned forward, her hands clutching the thin, white cotton blanket, as if she were physically trying to pull the memories from wherever they were trapped inside of me. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying to picture what had happened in the car, during what had been my family's last few minutes alive. What was I wearing? How hard was it snowing? What was playing on the car radio?

Nothing, just a thudding pain behind my eyes and sudden, overwhelming fatigue. Turning my head away from Charlotte, I slipped into blackness.

*

Two days later I was released from the hospital and moved into Charlotte's house. Although I knew I had lived elsewhere before the accident, I had no conscious memory of that place and no desire to remember. If I could have made time stop, made myself disappear, I would have. Like a robot, I sat where I was told to sit, ate what I was told to eat, and settled into a new life with my aunt and uncle, which unfortunately started with my family's funeral. When I woke up that morning, for a glorious second I thought I had dreamed it all, that my dad was going to march past my bedroom humming Beethoven's Ninth Symphony to himself, just as he did every morning at exactly 7:03, and a few minutes later, the smell of coffee brewing would float up the stairs and under my bedroom door. But then, like a lens coming into focus, my real life emerged from the shadows inside my head.

I don't want to go, I wrote. A yellow legal pad and a pile of Ticonderoga pencils were my only link to the outside world. I was still in my pajamas, and we were due at the cemetery in less than an hour. You can't make me. I stomped my foot on the wood floor, but my socks muffled the sound, undermining the fury that I was so desperate to express.

Charlotte said, "Darling, I know it's hard, but I think -- and Dr. O'Rourke agrees -- that it's important for you to go."

I had met the storied Dr. O'Rourke exactly once, and here she was, making decisions for me, giving unwanted advice, issuing orders.

But I know they're all dead . . . I get it. My pencil dug into the paper as I wrote the word dead. Why do I have to see it? Why can't everybody just leave me alone?

I closed my eyes, imagining three coffins lined up next to three perfectly rectangular holes in the ground. Why wasn't there a fourth for me? It would be so much easier. In the days after the accident I spent much of my time fantasizing about an accident that took four lives instead of three. Charlotte blathered on about my life being spared because I must have some special purpose. Total bullshit. At this point I was just taking up space. Opening my swollen and bloodshot eyes, I stared out the window at the snow-covered trees. By now I should have run out of tears, but I seemed to have an endless supply.

"It's closure. You need to say goodbye to them." She could barely get the words out, turning her back to me so I wouldn't see her cry.

I knew she must be as devastated as I was, but I had no room in my heart for empathy. Feeling sorry for myself was taking up all my energy.

What's the point of saying goodbye to three wooden boxes? Like that's going to help me get over it? They're already gone. The tip of my pencil snapped with the force of my words.

Charlotte gave Stuart a pleading look. Standing at the island in the kitchen, he stirred his tea and looked on helplessly. I felt bad for him. This wasn't supposed to be his life either. Putting down his spoon, he came and sat down next to me on the sofa.

"Sash, funerals suck, and going to your family's funeral is an unthinkable task, but it's just something you have to do. It's not right, but it's what everybody's expecting. If you don't show up, they'll never leave you alone. So let's get this over with, and then you can come home and I won't let anyone bother you. I promise." He held up three fingers like a Boy Scout salute.

That made sense. If I knew my public misery was limited to an hour or two, I could manage. I nodded. No wonder Stuart was so good at his job: he knew how to get things done. As horrible as I felt, I wasn't immune to logic, and Stuart's plan was reasonable and finite.

"But Stu, what about the reception afterward?"

Charlotte stood in front of us, filing her fingernails furiously. She was a taut guitar string, ready to snap at the slightest touch, but Stuart maintained his cool.

"Sasha and I are coming straight home after the funeral. No reception. You can go, and you should, to represent the family, but I don't think any good is going to come of standing around talking about the good old days. It's too soon." Stuart kissed me on the forehead and patted my knee. "She's just a baby," he whispered into my hair. "She needs time."

Charlotte sighed and wiped her eyes, inspecting her hands for mascara. "I suppose you're right. Of course that makes sense. I was so busy thinking about what we were supposed to do that I wasn't thinking about what was the right thing for Sasha. I'm so sorry, kiddo. This is all new for me. We'll figure this out. It's just going to take time to get used to everything."

My tears dripped on the yellow paper, smudging my words. It's okay. I love you guys. Thank you for taking me in. I know you didn't want to have a baby, and now you have me. It must be hard.

"Don't ever say thank you for this. It's a privilege to have you in this house. No more discussing it -- let's get this over with. Go get dressed, Sasha," Stuart ordered. Everything about Stuart made me feel safe.

*

It was a graveside ceremony, and all three coffins were lined up, just as I had pictured. Shiny dark wood, they looked like giant cigar boxes. Two of the caskets were blanketed with pink roses -- my mother, sister and I had all loved pale pink roses. Not anymore. Although it was bitterly cold, there must have been close to a hundred people huddled around the trio of holes in the ground. I didn't recognize most of them -- amnesia or shock, I didn't know which -- so I sat between my aunt and uncle, surrounded by a crowd of strangers, staring at my muddy shoes, trying not to think about my parents and sister being dropped into those pits and covered with dirt.

The worms crawl in . . . I remembered that Liz hated bugs. When there was a spider in the bathroom, she would holler until someone came in to kill it for her. And although she didn't like to admit it, she was a little afraid of the dark. I used to make fun of her, because even though she was two years older, she was the scaredy cat in the family. Now she was alone in the dark, with the bugs, and I couldn't help her. Jamming my fists into my eyes, wishing I could scream out loud, I tried to erase the image of three dead bodies, maggots crawling in and out of their ears.

The minister rambled on about lives cut short, some heavenly grand plan and the duty of the living to carry on the memories of those no longer here. It sounded like a load of crap to me, but I couldn't speak and I don't think the words I wanted to say would have been very well received. What kind of fucking higher power would let this happen? And if He/She/It were going to let this happen, then the least He/She/It could do would be to wipe out the whole family at once. I didn't even have any grandparents: two cancers, one heart attack and a stroke had decimated my family tree long before the crash. Leaving one person behind, a child no less, smacked of poor judgment and bad planning. Where was the mercy in that? Somehow I knew I wouldn't be finding comfort in religion.

Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Three hunchbacked men in black raincoats and rubber boots lowered the caskets into the holes with some cranking device. Charlotte, Stuart and I stood like a tiny receiving line at a vampire wedding, while people said horrible, well-meaning things. "We're so sorry." "If there's anything we can do . . . " "Are you all right?" "How do you feel?" Stupid, obvious, unanswerable questions. And then, as they walked away, I could still hear them, talking about me instead of to me. "How will she survive?" "Did you hear that she may never be able to speak again?" "She looks terrible."

"Come on, sweetie, let's get you home," Stuart said, wrapping his arm protectively around my shoulders. "You're frozen solid."

I nodded and leaned against him, comforted by the feel of his rough wool coat against my cheek. His other arm was around Charlotte. If not for Stuart, we would probably both keel over.

"Honey, are you all right? You don't have to go to the reception, either."

Charlotte sniffled. "I have to go."

"There is no such thing as 'have to' in this situation."

"No, I want to go. I won't stay long." We stopped in front of the black Lincoln Town Car that had brought us to the cemetery. "I'll see you at home." The three of us stood with our arms around each other for a long minute.

My life was at the bottom of three holes in the Riverside Cemetery, but I had to keep on living. How was I supposed to do that?

The above is an excerpt from the book Louder Than Words by Laurie Plissner. The above excerpt is a digitally scanned reproduction of text from print. Although this excerpt has been proofread, occasional errors may appear due to the scanning process. Please refer to the finished book for accuracy.

© 2012 Laurie Plissner, author of Louder Than Words

Tempestuous
A Twisted Lit Novel
By Kim Askew and Amy Helmes
Published by Merit Press
Hardcover: 256 pages
December 2012; $17.95 US/$18.99 CAN; 9781440552649

Description
No one understood teen angst like the Bard, as authors Askew and Helmes prove with a hilarious twist on The Tempest
Working off her debt to society (not to mention her father), former prep princess Miranda Prospero now wears the crown of a spinning frankfurter at her job making Hot Dog Kabobs at a Minneapolis mall. When a city-stopping blizzard strands Miranda and the mall workers with the oddest of the die-hard shoppers, she decides to wreak vengeance on the social-climbing clique who froze her out. The townies and the preps line up for battle with whatever merchandise comes to hand, while a rent-a-cop searches for what may be an armed robber. Accidentally (and literally) stuck to Caleb, a rough-cut boy with a heart of gold who would have been beneath her notice just a month before, Miranda learns more about the human heart and human nature in one night than in all of the rest of her life.
Authors Bios
Kim Askew, co-author of Tempestuous: A Twisted Lit Novel, whose work has appeared in Elle and other magazines, is a content manager for the Webby-winning teen sitewww.FashionClub.com, for which she has covered the Teen Choice and MTV awards. Follow Kim on Twitter. 
Amy Helmes, co-author of Tempestuous: A Twisted Lit Novel, is co-author of Boys of a Feather: A Field Guide to American Males and is also a weekly contributor to The Rundown, a free daily e-mail service that keeps subscribers informed on what's new and cool in LA. Follow Amy on Twitter.
Both Kim and Amy think Shakespeare understood the young's true love and pain like no other, from Hamlet's sorry stepdad to Juliet's trauma drama, hence this literate farce, based on "The Tempest."
For more information please visit http://twistedlitbooks.com and http://www.adamsmedia.com/merit-press-books
Reviews
"Tempestuous is truly such stuff that dreams are made on. The compelling heroine brims with hilarious one-liners and ingenious ideas to solve this mall-besieged whodunit. A merry tale told with funny bravado, you'll surely laugh as you race to the end."
-- Andrea N. Richesin, editor of Crush: 26 Real-life Tales of First Love
"This quick, clever read is the perfect combo of classic literature and contemporary storytelling for anyone who likes their lit smart and funny."
-- Heather Swain, author of Josie Griffin is Not a Vampire
"Hilarious and witty, Tempestuous will keep you entertained from beginning to end as the lovable cast of characters jump from the pages into your heart. You'll feel like you're spending the night at the mall with them!" 
-- Gigi Hooghkirk, Fashion Editor, FashionClub.com, Former Associate Editor, Teen Magazine

Here's an excerpt from the publisher!:

Chapter One: Hang Not on My Garments
By Kim Askew and Amy Helmes,
Authors of the Shakespeare-inspired YA series Twisted Lit, featuring Tempestuous and Exposure (Merit Press)

Singing along to the latest overplayed indie rock tune pulsing from the stereo speakers, I pulled my car into a spot at the far end of the parking lot reserved for mall employees and then let it idle, dragging out my last few minutes in the cocooning warmth. The song ended and the deejay's grating baritone voice kicked in:

"That was the latest from a local group, the Drunk Butlers. We're interrupting this music marathon to let you know about a winter storm advisory in effect for tonight, lasting until five A.M. tomorrow morning. Bundle up! It's going to be a B-R-R-R-R-utal one tonight! Grab someone hot to keep you warm, and we'll keep things real with more nonstop hits comin' atcha." 

Snowflakes the size of quarters drifted onto my windshield as I contemplated the slushy expanse between my vehicle and the mall's main entrance. I could think of about a million other things I'd rather be doing on a Saturday night than working a five-hour shift serving lukewarm hot dogs to mall rats before driving home in possibly blizzard-like conditions. Unless I literally broke a leg -- I wistfully imagined slipping on the ice and being rescued by a cute EMT -- there was just no getting around it. I reached into the backseat and grabbed the ridiculously tall, absurdly colorful hat I was forced to wear as part of my Hot-Dog Kebob uniform. Sadly, my recent fall from grace and subsequent mandated employment had coincided with a lack of decent part-time jobs. I'd at least hoped to be spritzing perfume from behind a beauty counter at one of the department stores or playing hostess at the "high end" chain restaurant Teasers, on the other end of the mall, but all the less-humiliating positions were already taken -- so I was resigned to looking like an escaped circus lunatic in head-to-toe garish blue-and-yellow stripes. Have I mentioned the worst part? The fake plastic wiener that sits atop the hat, spinning on an axis? It's basically a fashionista's worst nightmare come to life, but try telling that to my dad . . . or the school superintendent who insisted I take a job as part of my "reparations." I sighed deeply, turned off the engine, and wrapped my coat tightly around me.

Stepping gingerly out of the car, I lowered the towering hat onto my head and, shivering, pinned it into place with bobby pins from my coat pocket. I usually waited until the very last second to don this monstrosity, but frankly (pun intended) it was just too damn cold to go without it. I looked to the right and left, hoping no one was observing me. As I glanced behind me, I was startled to see someone standing behind the car.

A creepy-looking guy in a long black wool overcoat stood about six feet away, staring at me. I self-consciously realized that my hot-dog propeller must have been spinning in the wind, and I flushed, as if I'd just been caught with my pants at half-mast. Damn this hat! But still, it was seriously rude of him to stare. I glanced again, and he was still standing there -- tall and broad-shouldered, with a mass of thick black hair. I couldn't see his eyes, which were shrouded by a furry cap, but he couldn't have been older than twenty. Snowflakes were collecting on his shoulders -- or was that just colossal dandruff? His coat hung open, revealing faded black jeans and bulky black boots. An indistinguishable piece of black fabric hung limply from his fist. As if bored, he slowly turned on his heel and lumbered toward the mall entrance. Whatever, loser!

I clicked my key fob to lock the door and started off across the wintry expanse of the parking lot. The howling wind swirled around me. I shrieked and placed one hand on top of my hat, lest the propeller somehow succeed in lifting me up off the ground. Small eddies of snow spiraled at my feet on the blacktop, but I walked in baby steps, not wanting to fall on a slick patch. The regulation navy blue sneakers I was wearing offered zero traction. Shivering, I wrapped my down parka closer to my torso, but my legs were freezing, clad only in bright red tights under a polyester, royal-blue-and-yellow-striped jumper. The wind stung my face and brought tears to my eyes. At least, I think it was the wind causing me to well up. I thought about this time last month, when I might have come to the mall only to supplement my wardrobe or hang out with my friends, not to shovel greasy food across a counter at people who seriously needed to rethink their carb intake.

Brian Bishop was to blame for all of this. Correction: Brian along with the girls formerly known as my best friends -- Rachel, Britney and Whitney. I scowled thinking about them and tried to avoid stepping in the big piles of grey, wet slush near the curb. My life had metaphorically turned to slush in recent weeks, and I held them personally responsible. 

Approaching the entrance, I recognized a faux-deputy uniform on the other side of the glass door. It belonged to Grady Pfeiffer, a member of the mall's Keystone Cop security team. He looked unnerved as he glanced out at the snow, but when he saw me, he threw me a chipper nod and leaned on the door to open it for me.

"Thanks," I said, already exhausted and chilled to the bone.

"Afternoon, Miranda. Cold enough for you, huh?" Stamping my feet to get a bit of feeling back in them, I wasn't in the mood for his congenial chit-chat, but he failed to take notice. "How are things?"

"My life is a complete cataclysm, but thanks for asking," I grumbled as I walked past him and into the mall.

"Well, uh . . . " He was stymied by my dose of attitude, and since I wasn't inclined to elaborate on my troubles I decided to issue a momentary gag order on my grousing. Grady hadn't done anything to deserve it, after all.

"Just kidding. I'm freezing my ass off, but other than that I'm fine. Really."

"Well, that's good," he said, joining me as I trudged on toward my destination. "Not for your, er, ass, I mean, but well . . . uhh . . . you know I'm always here to help . . ." 

"Thanks, Grady, I know." I flashed him one of my famous smiles, guaranteed to melt butter. "Oh, actually -- there is one teensy, tiny thing you can do for me . . ." I paused dramatically. I normally tried not to abuse my power on people as defenseless as Grady, but every once in a while I had to flex my muscles.

"Anything! If it's something the law and the sweet Lord above allows, of course." He blushed to the roots of his brown hair, which was close-cropped, military-style.

"My request is innocent enough, I can assure you. It's Ariel's birthday, and I want to surprise her after work with an ice cream cake from Just Desserts. Think you can swing by and pick it up for me on your rounds a few minutes before nine? I can pay you later," I added, feeling up to adjust my idiotic chapeau. The Hot-Dog Kebob refrigerator was crammed full of frozen wieners and some rubbery pasteurized processed cheese -- I didn't want a perfectly good mint-chip cake getting tainted by being stored in the same fetid freezer space.

"Weeellllll," Grady drew out the word as if it contained five syllables, shifted on his heels, then concluded the performance with a broad wink, "I'm really not supposed to do anything like that while I'm on duty. But for you, I'll make an exception." It wasn't as if I was asking him to steal the cake for god's sake, but Grady was a tad obsessed with "protocol." We were both relatively new employees here, but unlike yours truly, he couldn't take his job more seriously if he were guarding the perimeter at Fort Knox.

I thanked the rent-a-cop and headed past Treasure Hunt Antiques & Collectibles and its display window full of creepy china dolls, rare coins, and mint-condition baseball cards. I poked my head in to look for Mike, the store clerk who usually worked this shift, but he wasn't at his usual spot behind the counter. Next door was Hair Apparent, the mall's only salon with its attached Glamour Puss portrait studio. No matter how many times I passed by, I never failed to snort with derision at the decade-old display photos meant to entice middle-aged moms to doll-up like models for their hubbies. The women were plastered with makeup and wrapped in feather boas like a bad Vegas act, wrinkly cleavage spilling out of low-cut sequined gowns.

"Miranda! Miss Fabulous!" Alfredo burst from Hair Apparent and traipsed toward me for a hug and a swoopy air kiss on the cheek. Dressed to the nines as usual, he sported a purple tie and matching sweater vest. "Check out the cufflinks," he said, holding out his arm for inspection. "They're mermaids." The boy did have exquisite, if colorful, taste.

"Nice," I said admiringly. "Hey, I'm throwing a surprise birthday party for Ariel after we close tonight. Can you come by?"

"I don't know," he said, pushing his long, razored bangs out of his face. "I have a scorchingly hot date tonight."

"Stop by, pleassse, and you can have the challenge of a lifetime -- giving Ariel a makeover," I wheedled.

"Well, you know I can't pass up the chance to turn that duckling into a swan. I'll swing by, but just for a few minutes. How old is the tiny thing, anyway? Twelve?"

I made a face. 

"She's turning seventeen and you know it. Oh, by the way, I was going to ask Mike, too, but it looks he's on his break. Can you let him know for me?"

"Sure thing." Alfredo sauntered back inside Hair Apparent and I continued my forced march down the wide hallway. The piped-in easy listening tunes already giving me a killer headache, and I could hear the faint screeching of kids at the Cheeze Monkey pizzeria/arcade on the other side of the mall. Oh well, I thought optimistically, at least I'm not working again until Tuesday night. I mentally added up the amount I'd make tonight. Five hours of work equaled just about forty-two bucks -- it would barely make a dent in what I was expected to pay back in restitution. Back when I'd had an allowance, fifty dollars had been chump change, approximately what I'd spend on a sushi lunch during a shopping spree with my friends. My former friends, that is.

I wondered, a tad wistfully, what Rachel and the "Itneys" were doing today. Probably planning their annual winter ski trip to Aspen or breaking in matching pairs of whatever high-priced boots Vogue deemed "must-have" this season. They didn't have a care in the world that their daddies' AmEx cards couldn't fix. As shallow as it sounded, sometimes I wished I could still say the same.

The above is an excerpt from the book Tempestuous: A Twisted Lit Novel by Kim Askew and Amy Helmes. The above excerpt is a digitally scanned reproduction of text from print. Although this excerpt has been proofread, occasional errors may appear due to the scanning process. Please refer to the finished book for accuracy.

The Girl in the Wall
By Daphne Benedis-Grab
Published by Merit Press
Hardcover: 272 pages
December 2012; $17.95 US/$18.99 CAN; 9781440552700

Description
A powerful story of deadly intrigue and the bonds of friendship in the closed world of America's super-rich
After an unforgivable betrayal, Ariel has made it her job to turn everyone at their posh prep school against her former best friend Sera. Yet, Sera's father forces her to attend Ariel's birthday bash in hopes of making amends, and softening the sting is Hudson Winters, gorgeous teen idol, who will be giving a private concert.
But facing the social event of the year in utter disgrace turns out to be the least of Sera's problems on the most fateful night of her life. Dropped off by the family driver at the gated Barrett mansion where she virtually grew up with Ariel, Sera worries only about avoiding the birthday girl. Then, when the lights dim, instead of the opening notes of a ballad, there's a burst set of staircases behind the walls, where the family's servants have always is. As the clock ticks down on the few hours hostage takers give Sera before they execute her, Ariel counts on Sera to remember where she is and the sisterhood they once shared. Sera turns to Hudson, who has been only a face on a CD cover until now, learning the shocking secrets of the singer's life that may be their only hope.
Author Bio
Daphne Benedis-Grab, author of The Girl in the Wall, earned her MFA from The New School in Creative Writing, where she began the thesis that became her first book, Alive and Well in Prague, New York. She has worked a number of jobs including buildings houses for Habitat for Humanity and teaching adult literacy classes. She lives with her husband and their two children in New York City.
For more information please visit http://www.daphnebg.com, and follow the author on Facebook and Twitter

Here is an excerpt from the publisher!: 

Chapter 1: Sera
By Daphne Benedis-Grab,
Author of The Girl in the Wall

What do you wear to the birthday party of your ex-best friend? The one who dumped you flat in the middle of junior year, turn- ing the entire student body against you in the process, and who has made your life hell for the nine months and four days since?

I debate calling my dad and asking yet again if I really have to go to Ariel's seventeenth party, the first one we didn't plan together since she turned eight. But that would be a waste of time, I know what he'll say. He'll talk about his friendship with Simon Barett, my dad being the only person in the world who calls Mr. Barett by his first name, about how they were best friends in college, about how my dad's investments in Barett Pharmaceuticals helped make it the thriving, billion dollar business it is today. About how friendships have ups and downs but some things, like the Barett and French family bond, are forever. Which means that "small tiff" (his words) or not, I need to be there for Ariel's big day.

With a slight crackle the intercom in my room comes to life. "Honey, the car will be ready to take you in ten minutes," my mom says.

Yes, our house is big, all the houses in our town of New Canaan, Connecticut are. But my mom could walk the distance from her bedroom down the hall to tell me this. She, however, is avoiding me. She knows that the thought of going to this party has made me "difficult" (her word) and she'd rather not deal with me face to face. In fairness I have picked an awful lot of fights with her in the past nine months and four days.

Ten minutes to select the outfit that will be ridiculed all night by the senior class of New Canaan Country Day School, along with my hairstyle, shoes and the way I breath. The school is small with an elite group of hand-selected students, each of whom treats me like a total pariah.

I lose no matter what choices I make, so I opt for comfortable: jeans that show off my yoga body (lots of time for working out when you have no social life), black cami, and silky black cashmere sweater. It's October and the nip of fall is in the air. I slide my feet into comfortable black flats, pull my hair up in a loose ponytail with a few wispy curls floating around my face. I grab my little black purse that I've already stuffed with my wallet, house keys, and cell phone, plus the Swiss Army knife my dad insists I carry with me at all times, and my overnight bag. Because, of course, this is no ordinary party, not with Mr. Barett funding it. It's a full weekend of celebration, starting with a private concert with Hudson Winters.

Okay, I have to admit that that is the one thing I'm excited about. I love Hudson's music. Not the few pop songs that made him famous but the ones that are more like folk rock with a dash of something almost like bluegrass thrown in. The ones with the lyrics that are so honest they resonate somewhere deep inside each time I listen to them. Which is pretty much daily since I'm not going out a lot these days and I need something to keep me company.

My phone chirps, a sound I used to hear hundreds of times a day. Now it makes me jump. I pick it up and see the text from my sister Samantha.

Good luck 2nite

She remembered. It's like drinking a hot cup of cocoa after being out in the sleet.

Think it may kill me I write back.

Hi-school sucks. Remember in 11 months you will be here

Sam is a sophomore at Brown and she loves it. I still have to get in but it's a pretty sure thing. My grades are stellar, my extracurriculars pitch perfect, and the huge donations my alumni dad gives every year don't hurt.

Love u she writes.

My sister is probably the only reason I've survived these past months.

I type and send a heart icon, and then slip my phone back in my purse.

There's no avoiding it: I'm ready. I go down the huge curving staircase to our foyer that is filled with orchids, my mother's passion. I complain that it smells like a perfume shop every time I open the front door but really I love the rich, gentle scent of the velvety pink, lavender and white blooms. The car driving me was waiting. I take a last, longing look at my house, then slide onto the buttery leather seats and accept the fate that awaits me.

It's impossible not to be impressed as the car drives through the carefully cultivated woods guarding the Barett estate from the road and you see the mansion for the first time. New Canaan houses are big but none are as big and elegant as this. Its cream-colored wings and turrets and towers make it seem more like a plantation from the Old South than the modern-day suburbs of New York City. Ariel and I went through a brief Gone with the Wind phase back when we were eleven and it truly felt like we were at Tara. 

That was also when we discovered the secret passages that twine through the walls of the house. We had a great time spying from inside the walls until the terrible Saturday night when we peeked through the grate into her father's bedroom. Mr. Barett was in there with Stella, the woman who became his second wife two months later, and it was possibly the night that Abby, Ariel's baby sister was conceived. That image of the two of them, which is unfortunately seared into my brain forever, still makes me feel like I ate a rotten clam.

The rolling green of the lawns are broken up by gardens and artfully placed trees. I see a few of the gardeners lurking about, which is unusual on a Saturday evening. I guess Mr. Barett is making sure everything is perfect.

My car rounds the circular drive and stops at the front door which is flanked by columns. 

"We're here, Sera," Evan, the driver, says.

We don't have a regular driver but the car company we use often sends Evan and he's really nice. For a moment I play with the idea of asking him to drive me away, into town, into the city, anywhere, really, that isn't here. But I'm sure he's under strict orders from my dad.

"Thanks," I say. "Have a good night."

He smiles and I step out onto the smooth stone path that leads up to the house. The door opens before I knock but it's not James, the head of household who usually opens the door at the Barett's. Something else that's changed I guess.

The man who opened the door has blond hair and a tight smile, and he seems awkward as he ushers me into the huge foyer of the Barett home. James definitely had better social graces. I wonder what happened to him.

The huge marble staircase sweeps up to the second floor, famous paintings placed along the way. The huge black-and-white marble foyer has two actual trees in it, bonsais with dark, twisted trunks and artfully shaped branches. There is a large white chest where I realize I am to put my overnight bag. I hesitate. What are the chances it will mysteriously disappear if I leave it with the others?

Over the past nine months and four days I have gotten a hard lesson in what it means to be a pariah and I know the chances are high, so the bag stays with me. I smile at the blond guy and keep my backpack on. He starts to say something but the doorbell rings again. He goes to answer it and I slip off toward the west wing of the house. The east wing has the fancy living room, dining room, glassed-in sun room and library. Around back, in the newest wing, is Mr. Barett's home office suite.

I go into the west wing, through the living room, my chest tight as I try to ignore the fact that this used to be my second home. It smells exactly the same, like a mix of grapefruit-scented cleaner, fresh roses and burning wood from the fireplace. One wall is all windows and I take a second to slow my breathing, looking out on the French garden. The sun is low in the sky and the two gardeners out on the lawn are bathed in shadow. A third joins them holding some kind of weird lawn equipment. Or is it a gun? For a moment my insides clench and then the obvious hits me: They aren't gardeners, they're security. Hudson Winters is here and Mr. Barett must have hired top-notch security.

As I get closer to the game room I hear voices, laughter, the sound of glasses clinking, and my stomach is suddenly twists tight. I close my eyes for a moment. I can survive this.

Everyone looks toward the door when I walk in and then looks away, in that way you avert your eyes when you see a homeless man peeing on the sidewalk. I hear whispers, the word "backstabber" hissed just loud enough to make it to my ears. But I am invisible, vapor, a reaction that still makes me feel like garbage.

I try to walk normally, not slink in like a beaten dog, but it's hard, especially when my legs are shaky and I don't have quite enough air in my lungs. I avoid looking at anyone, especially the group sitting on the sofa and chairs around the unlit fireplace. That's where the inner circle, Ariel's circle, will be. I don't want to see Mike, state-ranked soccer player who I used to let cheat off my geometry tests; Ravi who kissed me at the eighth-grade dance, my first ever kiss; Cassidy, queen of slicing gossip who I thought was hysterical until I was the source of the gossip.

And then there's Bianca, my replacement as Ariel's best friend, who is flaunting the necklace Ariel gave her a few weeks ago, the one that matches her own solid white-gold heart necklace from Tiffany. You could actually call Bianca Ariel's twin because aside from the matching necklaces, Bianca started dying her hair at Vivian's the exact same shade of buttery blond Ariel was born with, and they go together for weekly bangs maintenance and to pick up the French lavender hair products Vivian imports from France. I sat behind Bianca in English and the first time she came in with her new hair, smelling just like Ariel with her wafting lavender, I had to go to the nurse with a crushing headache and eyes that wouldn't stop tearing.

But of course the person I most want to avoid is Ariel herself. I know how she will glance past me like I am invisible, her features hardening just the tiniest bit. I wonder if her new best friend recognizes her sign for pure hatred.

I stuff my purse in my bag and stow it behind the sofa in the back corner of the room and walk over to the bar that has every non-alcoholic drink under the sun and two bartenders ready to serve it. The alcohol is hidden in another room, I'm guessing the study because people seem to be slipping in and out. I won't be welcome in there but that's okay. I'm better off staying sober and alert. Less chance of getting beer "accidently" poured on me if my reflexes are sharp.

I am given a sparkling seltzer fruit punch that is probably delicious but I can't really tell. My taste buds, like the rest of me, go numb when I am near anyone from school.

I drift off to an unoccupied corner of the room. The game room is massive, with leather sofas and arm chairs, a pool table, and a huge TV with every video game console sold. Usually small stuffed stools and tables are scattered around but now they, along with the pool table, have been pushed aside to make room for the concert setup.

I feel a tiny shiver of delight when I see the amplifier, guitar, stool, and single mic, with rows of chairs set arranged in front. I'm going to see Hudson Winters live like this. In the few interviews he's done he comes off as a snob but it's hard to care when his music is so awesome. A big guy lurking nearby, probably Hudson's private bodyguard or something.

"Sera," a commanding voice calls.

I straighten up as Mr. Barett approaches. In his wake is John Avery, his top assistant and Ariel's godfather. He's more like a father to her than Mr. Barett.

"How's your father?" Mr. Barett asks, giving me a solid shoulder slap that nearly topples me.

"Well, thanks," I say. I've known Mr. Barett since I was seven but he still makes me nervous. "He sends his best."

"Trying to get out of that money he owes me on our last round of golf," he says. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out his sleek phone, a model that hasn't even been released on the market yet, checks a text, and tucks it back in.

Mr. Avery smiles and leans over to kiss my cheek. He smells like the lemon lozenges he sucks to soothe his smoker's throat. Mr. Avery sometimes read us bedtime stories when I had sleepovers here, and from the sympathy in his eyes, I'm guessing he realizes me not being over here for the past nine months and four days means bad things for me. That and the fact I've been totally ignored by my classmates.

"Is Abby here?" I ask, glancing around for signs of Abby who was five the last time I saw her but would be six now. Mr. Barett and his second wife Stella had a nasty divorce and he rarely gets visits with Abby, but Ariel adores her sister so I'm guessing she'll make a birthday appearance at some point.

"Not until tomorrow morning," Mr. Barett says.

It'll be nice to see Abby, if she even remembers me. We used to include her in our games whenever she was over and it made her so happy. Ariel said Stella neglected Abby and that made Ariel really protective of her, probably since she'd been pretty neglected herself.

"So are you looking forward to the concert?" Mr. Barett asks in a proprietary way.

"Yes," I say. "I once read that Hudson Winters doesn't do private shows so this is really cool."

Mr. Barett smiles. "He does if the price is right," he says. Then he frowns as he glances outside. "Though he does seem to require an extraordinary amount of security. Who'd have thought a singer needed that many guards with machine guns?"

I follow his gaze and see several figures standing in the yard, machine guns resting over their shoulders. At least I assume they're machine guns since that's what Mr. Barett said.

"That's what his people said he needed," Mr. Avery says. He would know since he's usually the one to handle details like that for the Barett family.

"And whatever he needs, he gets," Mr. Barett says dryly. "I should have been a rock star."

It's hard not to laugh at that.

"The concert is about to start," Mr. Barett says, apparently having received some kind of signal from somewhere. "Come up front with Ariel. I know she'll want you next to her."

Yeah, she wants that like she wants to give up a kidney.

"Um, actually my ears are kind of sensitive so I think I'll stay back here," I say.

Mr. Barett is about to insist when there is a commotion, raised voices, a few shrieks. Hudson Winters has arrived. He's wearing beat-up jeans and a black T-shirt and he's even cuter than he is in his videos, with his piercing hazel eyes, messy brown curls, and the perfect planes of his face. He's muscular and wide, like a jock, but he moves with a feline grace that makes him even sexier as he picks up his guitar from the stand and settles on the stool, not really looking at anyone. His bodyguard guy lurks near the front of the stage but he mostly looks bored.

Mr. Barett rushes across the huge room, almost tripping over the edge of the hundred-year-old Oriental carpet to get to the mic. 

"It's my great pleasure to present Hunter Winters," he says grandly. 

I wince at the mistake. Of course Mr. Barett has no idea who Hudson is; he just asked around for the name of the hottest, most exclusive singer and decided that was who needed to headline this party. Ariel's preferences played no part in the choice, not that I feel sorry for her. She is sitting primly in the center of the first row, Bianca on one side of her and her dad now settling in on her other side. John Avery slips out, probably to the upstairs office suite. This kind of music isn't usually popular with old guys who crunch numbers for a living.

The lights overhead are just giving off a soft golden glow but it's mostly dark, with the last bit of day light coming in through the huge windows that line the west side of the room. The right side has the oversized fireplace, the one that's not yet lit. There are paintings along that wall, one is even an actual Van Gogh, but right now they are just black squares melting into the scenery. The focus is all on Hudson as he strums his guitar lightly and pauses to tune one of the strings.

By now everyone has a seat and I feel safe sitting. Pariahs need to choose seats with care, something I learned the hard way when I went to the end-of-sophomore-year picnic (my mom acted like she might suffer a spontaneous brain aneurysm if I skipped). That night when we were watching the class movie and people were sneaking off to get beer from a keg AJ Green hid in the woods that morning, I was sitting toward the back when a cup of beer got dumped over my head. Sneaking home with beer-soaked clothes and dripping hair was no easy feat and not something I'd like to repeat.

"Hey, I'm Hunter Winters," Hudson says.

I laugh but no one else does. Hudson glances back at me, as do most of my classmates, and I am mortified that I didn't just nod coolly at the joke. I stare down at my hands, my cheeks hot.

"I'm going to start with -- " Hudson continues.

Mr. Barett coughs loudly and Hudson stops.

"Right, yeah, happy birthday Ariel," he says, his voice flat. "Sorry I don't do birthday songs." As he launches into his break-out song, "Wanting You," I notice Ariel and Bianca switching seats, their identical blond hair shimmering in the dim light as they resettle. And then I forget Ariel and her followers, that I'm stuck in this terrible place for the entire weekend, and I just sink into the music.

But just as Hudson begins the chorus, the room goes pitch black, the shades falling silently over the windows as the lights are switched off.

Hudson's voice and guitar trail off into an eerie quiet. A girl giggles and for a moment I think it must be some kind of weird joke. It is dark for about thirty seconds and then I hear a sharp popping sound and the lights flare back on.

I see the body first, a crumpled form by the front of the stage, a growing pool of blood coming from underneath it. It's Hudson's body guard. In that moment Hudson leaps off the stool and goes to him.

"Everyone on the floor, now," someone barks.

The room is chaos as people dive off their chairs to lie flat on the floor.

I stretch out on my belly, my heart thumping violently in the compressed space between my chest and the floor. I lift my head the tiniest bit to look around, trying to make sense of this thing that makes no sense. The room is filled with the men I thought were Hudson's security team, the ones wearing cargo pants and T-shirts, the ones who now have stocking caps pulled low over their faces. The ones who are carrying guns.

Two of them stride over to where Mr. Barett and Ariel lie prone and pull them up. They expertly fold Mr. Barett and Ariel's arms behind their backs with one hand while holding guns to their temples with the other. I can't see their faces, just Ariel's long hair swishing as she is jerked toward the door of the living room.

For a moment everyone else is frozen, but then Ella Kim screams and the person holding Mr. Barett flinches. In that millisecond Mr. Barett shakes free and grabs for the gun. I see his fingers wrap around the barrel just as more shots ring out. I instinctively scrunch down squeezing my eyes shut. I expect to hear more screaming but now silence pulsates like a living thing.

I don't want to see what has happened, but not knowing is even worse so I slowly raise my head. My classmates are where they were, still plastered to the floor. For a moment I think everything is okay, or at least the same, but then I look up toward the front of the room.

Two more people are lying on the floor, both at odd angles. Each has blood running from a head wound, so fast and thick it's like a faucet has been turned on. My breath is stuck in my chest and for a moment the lack of oxygen makes me light-headed, like I will faint, but still I can't look away from the bodies on the floor. The bodies that are most surely dead.

The bodies that are Mr. Barett and Ariel.

The above is an excerpt from the book The Girl in the Wall by Daphne Benedis-Grab. The above excerpt is a digitally scanned reproduction of text from print. Although this excerpt has been proofread, occasional errors may appear due to the scanning process. Please refer to the finished book for accuracy.

© 2012 Daphne Benedis-Grab, author of The Girl in the Wall

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