Saturday, 31 March 2012

Paranormalcy by Kiersten White - Excerpt

Hehe, I've been looking forward to giving you this excerpt! I'm sure you'll see what I mean about the rapier wit and constant hilarity!

Oh, Bite Me

"Wait— did you— You just yawned!" The vampire's arms, raised over his head in the classic Dracula pose, dropped to his sides. He pulled his exaggerated white fangs back behind his lips. "What, imminent death isn't exciting enough for you?"

"Oh, stop pouting. But, really, the widow's peak? The pale skin? The black cape? Where did you even get that thing, a costume store?"

He raised himself to his full height and glared icily down at me. "I'm going to suck the life from your pretty white neck."

I sighed. I hate the vamp jobs. They think they're so suave. It's not enough for them to slaughter and eat you like a zombie would. No, they want it to be all sexy, too. And, trust me: vampires? Not. Sexy. I mean, sure, their glamours can be pretty hot, but the dry-as-bone corpse bodies shimmering underneath? Nothing attractive there. Not that anyone else can see them, though.

He hissed. Just as he reached for my neck, I tased him. I was there to bag and tag, not to kill. Besides, if I had to carry separate weapons for every paranormal I took out, I'd be dragging around a full luggage set. Tasers are a one size-fits-all paranormal butt-kicking option. Mine's pink with rhinestones. Tasey and I have had a lot of good times together.

The vamp twitched on the ground, unconscious. He looked kind of pathetic now; I almost felt bad for him. Imagine your grandpa. Now imagine your grandpa minus fifty pounds plus two hundred years. That's who I'd just electrified.

Tasey's work done, I reholstered her and pulled out the vamp-specific ankle bracelet. Bracelet being a loose definition of a fairly complicated and bulky device.

I placed my index finger in the middle of the smooth black surface. After a few seconds it glowed green. Grabbing the vamp's ankle, I pulled his pants leg up to reveal the skin. I hated looking at these guys and seeing their pure white, smooth skin at the same time as their shriveled corpse bodies.

I clamped the tracker on, and it adjusted to the circumference of his ankle. Two soft hisses sounded as the sensors activated and shot into his flesh. His eyes flew open.

"Ouch!" He grabbed at his ankle, and I backed up a few steps. "What is this?"

"You're under arrest under statute three point seven of the International Paranormal Containment Agreement, Vampire Protocol. You are required to report to the nearest processing facility in Bucharest. If you fail to report within the next twelve hours, you will be—"

He lunged for me. Sidestepping, I let him trip over a low gravestone. "I'll kill you!" he hissed, trying to pick himself up off the ground.

"Yeah, you really don't want to do that. That shiny new piece of jewelry I gave you? It's got two little sensors—think of them as needles—jammed into your ankle. And if your body temperature were to suddenly rise, say by the addition of human blood, the sensors would inject you with holy water."

His eyes widened in horror, as he tried to pull the bracelet off, scraping against its sides.

"Don't do that, either. If the seal is broken, holy water, poof. Got it? And I activated the timer and beacon. So not only do they know exactly where you are, they also know your time limit to get to Bucharest. Miss it, and—do I really need to tell you?"

His shoulders slumped. "I could just snap your neck," he said, but I could tell it was halfhearted.

"You could try. And I could tase you again so hard you wouldn't wake up for six hours, giving you even less time to make it to Romania. So, can I keep reading you your rights?" He didn't say anything, and I picked up where I left off. "If you fail to report within the next twelve hours, you will be terminated. If you attack any humans, you will be terminated. If you attempt to remove the tracking device, you will be terminated. We look forward to working with you."

I always thought that last line was a nice touch.

The vamp looked dejected, sitting there on the ground and facing the end of his freedom. I held out a hand. "Need help up?" I asked. After a moment he reached out and took it. I pulled him up; vamps are surprisingly light. Having no internal fluids'll do that to you. "I'm Evie."

"Steve." Thank heavens he wasn't another Vlad. He looked uncomfortable. "Um, so, Bucharest? You wouldn't happen to have money for a train ticket?"

Paranormals, honestly. I reached into my bag and handed him a bunch of euros. Getting from Italy to Romania wouldn't be easy, and he needed to book it. "You'll want a map and directions," I called as he started to slink off through the graves. Poor guy. He was really embarrassed. I handed him the sheet of directions to the Bucharest Processing and Assignment building. "It's okay to use mind-control tricks to get through borders." I smiled encouragingly.

He nodded, still morose, and left.

Finding Steve hadn't taken as long as I had worried it would. Excellent. It was dark, I was freezing, and my vamp-luring outfit of a wide-necked white blouse wasn't exactly helping. Plus I stuck out like a sore thumb in Latin countries, with my platinum blond hair in a braid trailing halfway down my back. I wanted out of here. I punched in the number of the Center on my communicator. (Think cell phone, without a camera. And they only come in white. Lame.) "Done. I need a ride home."

"Processing your request," a monotone voice said on the other end. I waited, sitting on the nearest gravestone. The communicator flashed five minutes later. "Sending transport now."


Allie

Friday, 30 March 2012

Book Review 14 - Paranormalcy, by Kiersten White

Well, the title gives you an idea, doesn't it? This book is the epitome of YA paranormal romance. There are vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters and faeries. There are haunting dreams and mysterious prophecies. There is the threat of looming destruction. The main character, Evie, is torn between two guys, and of course, intrigued about what's going to happen in the next episode of  Eastern Heights, her favourite soap opera.

As the summary says; Weird as it is working for the International Paranormal Containment Agency, Evie’s always thought of herself as normal. Sure, her best friend is a mermaid, her ex-boyfriend is a faerie, she's falling for a shape-shifter, and she's the only person who can see through paranormals' glamours, but still. Normal. Only now paranormals are dying, and Evie's dreams are filled with haunting voices and mysterious prophecies. She soon realizes that there may be a link between her abilities and the sudden rash of deaths. Not only that, but she may very well be at the centre of a dark faerie prophecy promising destruction to all paranormal creatures. So much for normal.

Kiersten White writes with a perfect mix of realistic description and rapier wit. Evie's voice is one of the strongest I have heard in any book in quite a while. The book is a pleasure to read; the pages might as well be turning themselves. As a reader I admire how everything comes together while still leaving enough to keep you ninterested and hungry for more; as a writer I admire how well it's written and wondering how on earth she could come up with so many good lines and keep them all life like. I lvoe how the tone and images just jump off the page. It has a very American style, which can sometimes agitate a reader if it\s too pronounced or has a strange effect on an otherwise good story, but in this case I can't imagine it being told any other way.

As for the characters...well, Evie aside. Lend was completely different from what I was expecting. Kind, sweet, yet protective when the situation called for it. He was the perfect yang to Evie's yin. He's the type of noble guy that you can always count on. His relationship with Evie is not instant either, it progresses at a great pace where you can see and feel their attraction grow. I was also delighted with the lack of a love triangle - well, there is Evie's dangerous ex-boyfriend, Reth. I didn’t expect it to happen, but he became one of my favorite characters. His scenes were absolutely delicious!

Fom the very first page you're placed straight into the action, and as the plot unfolds there are layers that you didn't expect to be there and enjoy figuring out. The storylines are laid out and then mixed up again - it's the kind of story that definitely keeps you on your toes. It's fast paced and addictive and there's no room for waiting around, because there always seems to be something happening, but it never seems rushed or lacking in detail. There are little dashes of normality among this paranormal world, and there are laugh out loud moments. It's very skillfully put together, and a sure sign of an author with a lot more to give. 
The characters are vivid and easy to imagine - though some of them you'll either love or loathe, the guys will try to steal you heart. It took me a while to warm to some of the girls, and I have to say that I didn't like Evie at times simply through personal preference, but she is feisty and funny and not weak in any way, shape or form. She stood out in my mind, and once I'd started reading her voice wouldn't leave - it's that distinct.

Admittedly, parts of this book seem stereotypical, or like you've seen it all before. Sometimes, yes, I did feel like it was just another YA paranormal romance; but I tried to keep an open mind as I got further and further in. It's a book that will always draw you back, even if you've read a part you might not like or you feel that you can no longer swim here in the deep end where you've been thrown in (occasionally I did feel like I was reading a sequel to a book I hadn't read yet) but it's hard to keep thoughts of how refreshing some elements of it are out of your mind. It may not suit everyone simply because of the fact that it fels too broad and light hearted - as if in the process of trying to puut in something for everyone, I felt sort of like the author was just vying for fans by putting in certain aspects of the book rather than concentrating on the parts she was passionate about herself.

However, I couldn't deny that it is a fantastic and enjoyable novel, and I would recommend it to anyone looking for a roller-coaster ride of a story to keep them occupied. I am looking forward to the second book in the series!

Re-readability: 3.5/5
Writing: 5/5
Plot: 4.5/5
Characters: 4/5
Impact: 3/4
Overall: 4/5
In five words: fast-paced, action-packed, enjoyable, paranormal, funny.

Allie

Saturday, 24 March 2012

Raised by Wolves, Jennifer Lynn Barnes - Excerpt

OK, I'm going to be all cheaty with this one. I can't find a good excerpt from Raised by Wolves, or even an excerpt at all, except this:

“You don’t miss being human?” I asked. It was one thing to watch the Weres lose their human selves on the day of the full moon, to watch the wolf slowly taking hold of Callum’s body, or Devon’s, but it was another thing altogether to imagine going from being what I was to the thing that Chase was now.
It could have been me.

- which isn't really an excerpt at all, and I can't be bothered to type out a whole one by myself, so I'm going to skip straight to Trial By Fire and give myself a treat as well as you, by posting this whole chunk of chapter one! Come on, you love me for it, don't y'all? 

“No more school, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks . . .”

For a two-hundred-twenty-pound werewolf, Devon Macalister had a wicked falsetto. Leaning back in his chair with casual grace, he shot a mischievous look around our lunch table. “Everyone sing along!”

As the leader of our little group—not to mention the alpha of Devon’s pack and his best friend since kindergarten—the responsibility for shutting down his boy-band tendencies fell to me. “It’s Thanksgiving break, Dev, not summer vacation, and technically, it hasn’t even started yet.”

My words fell on deaf ears. The smile on Devon’s face wid­ened, making him look—to my eyes, at least—more puppy than wolf. To my left, Lake, whose history with Devon’s flare for the dramatic stretched back almost as far as mine did, rolled her eyes, but her lips parted in a grin every bit as irre­pressible and lupine as Devon’s.

A wave of energy—pure, undiluted, and animalistic—vibrated through my own body, and I closed my eyes for one second .. . two.

Three.

In control of the impulse to leap out of my chair and run for the woods, I glanced across the table at the last member of our little quartet. Maddy was sitting perfectly still, blinking her gray eyes owlishly, a soft smile on her lips. Images—of the night sky, of running—leapt from her mind to mine through our pack-bond, as natural as words falling off lips.

The impending full moon might have been giving the rest of our table werewolf ADD, but Maddy was perfectly Zen—much more relaxed than she normally would have been when all eyes were on the four of us.

Despite our continued efforts to blend in, the buzz of power in the air and the unspoken promise that within hours, my friends would shed their human skin were palpable. I rec­ognized the feeling for what it was, but our very human—and easily fascinated—classmates had no idea. To them, the four of us were mysterious and magnetic and just a bit unreal—even
me.

In the past nine months, my life had changed in more ways than I could count, but one of the most striking was the fact that at my new high school, I wasn’t an outsider, ignored and avoided by humans who had no idea why people like Devon and Lake—and to a lesser extent me—felt off. Instead, the other students at Weston High had developed a strange fascination with us. They didn’t approach. They didn’t try to penetrate our tight-knit group, but they watched and the whispered, and whenever Devon—Devon!—met their eyes, the girls sighed and fluttered their eyelashes in some kind of human mating ritual that I probably wouldn’t have completely understood even if I’d grown up like a normal girl.

Given that I’d been raised as the only human child in the largest werewolf pack in North America, the batting of eye­lashes was every bit as foreign to me as running through the woods, surrounded by bodies and warmth and the feeling of home, would have been to anyone else. Some days, I felt like I knew more about being a werewolf than I would ever know about being a teenage girl.

It was getting easier and easier to forget that I was human.

Soon. Soon. Soon.

The bond that tied me to the rest of the pack vibrated with the inevitability of the coming moon, and even though I knew better than to encourage Devon, I couldn’t help the way my own lips tilted up at the corners. The only things that stood between the four of us and Thanksgiving break were a couple of hours and a quiz on Shakespeare.

The only thing standing between us and delicious, feral freedom was the setting ofthe sun.

 And the only thing that stood between me and Chase—my Chase—was a distance I could feel the boy in question closing mile by mile, heartbeat by heartbeat,second by second.

“Bronwyn, please, you’re making me blush.”  Dev—who could read me like book, with or without whatever I was projecting through the pack-bond—adopted a scandalized tone and brought a hand to his chest, like he was seconds away from demanding smelling salts and going faint. But I sensed his wolf stirring beneath the surface and knew that it was hard for Devon on a day like today to be reminded that I wasn’t his to protect in the same way anymore.

ThatI was alpha.

That Chase and I were . . . whatever Chase and I were.

“Fine,” I said, flicking a French fry in Devon’s general direction. “Have it your way. No more school, no more books . . .”

Dev made an attempt at harmonizing with me, but given my complete lack of vocalchops, it did not go well, and a horrified silence descended over our entire table.

After several seconds, Devon regarded the rest of us with mock solemnity. “We shall never speak of this moment again.”

“Inyour dreams, Broadway boy.” Shaking out her long blonde hair—a motion laden with excess adrenaline—Lake stood and stretched her mile-long legs. If the girls in school were all secretly pining for Devon, the boys were absolutely smitten with Lake. Clearly, they’d never met the business end of her shotgun or had their butts whipped at pool.

Soon. Soon. Soon.

Across the table, Maddy sighed, and Devon bumped her shoulder with his, a comforting gesture meant to communicate that he understood. Soon, our entire pack would be gathered in the woods. Soon, the Weres would Shift and I would let their power flow through me, until I forgot I was human and the difference between four legs and two virtually disappeared.

Soon—but not soon enough.

“So,” I said, my voice low and soothing, intent on keeping my pack-mates focused, however briefly, on the here and now. “Hamlet. What do I need to know?”

“New girl.”

I balked at Lake’s answer. “I was thinking more along the lines of Guildencrantz and Frankenstein.”

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” Devon corrected absentmindedly as he followed Lake’s gaze to the double archway at the front of the cafeteria. I turned to look, too, and the rest of the student body took their cue from us, until everyone was eyeballing the girl who stood there.

She was small—the word tiny wouldn’t have been a misnomer—and her eyes seemed to take up a disproportionate amount of her face. Her skin was very pale, and she was dressed almost entirely in black, save for a pair of white leather gloves that covered her arms from the elbows down.

She looked like a porcelain doll, and she felt like a threat. Given that I could tell, even from a distance, that she wasn’t a Were, I had no idea why something inside me insisted I track her every move.

“The natives are getting kind of restless,” Devon commented offhand. Weston wasn’t a big school, and mid-semester transfers were practically unheard of, so White Leather Gloves was garnering more than her fair share of murmurs and stares.

Including mine.

“Mayhaps I should go play the white knight, divert the spotlight a little?”

Devon’s suggestion was enough to make me switch my gaze from the new girl to him.

“No.”

I wasn’t sure who was more shocked by the sharpness with which that word exited my mouth—Devon or me. Our pack didn’t do orders. Given the way I felt about people getting dictatorial with me, I wasn’t prone to pulling rank on anyone else. Besides, Devon and I had spent so much time together growing up that even if he hadn’t been my second-in-command, I still wouldn’t have been able to force my will on him. The closest I could come to ordering him to do anything was threatening to decapitate him if he didn’t stop singing The Best of ABBA at the top of his lungs, and even that was mostly futile.

With a lightly inquisitive noise, Devon caught my gaze and held it. “Something you’d like to share with the class there, Bryn?” he asked, arching one eyebrow to ridiculous heights while keeping the other perfectly in place.

I debated answering, but it was probably nothing—just that time of the month, with emotions  running high and my heart beating with the power of the impending full moon. Still, I hadn’t spent my entire life growing up around people capable of snapping my neck like a Popsicle stick without learning to pay attention when my instincts put me on high alert.

If my gut said someone was a threat, I had to at least consider the possibility that it was true—even if the someone in question was five foot nothing and human down to the tips of her leather-clad fingers.


Allie

Friday, 23 March 2012

Book Review 13 - Raised by Wolves, Jennifer Lynn Barnett

It really was the cover that made me
pick up this book. It screams YA, but
also mystery and adrenaline, which was
 what I really needed at the time! I love it.
OK, so y'all know wolves aren't really my thing. But I think my opinion may just have been calmed by this book! I barely even had to read the blurb before I knew I wanted to read it, werewolves or no. I was looking for something exciting, supernatural and kick-ass, and that was exactly what I got. Raised By Wolves is an in-depth book that not only introduced me to the snarky, won't take no for answer, strong willed main character Bryn, but it captured me and brought into the amazing world of werewolves. Jennifer's world building and writing style allowed me to get a bird's eye view of what it would be like to live with these Weres.


Adopted by the Alpha of a werewolf pack after a rogue wolf brutally killed her parents right before her eyes, fifteen-year-old Bryn knows only pack life, and the rigid social hierarchy that controls it, but that doesn't mean that she's averse to breaking a rule or two. When her curiosity gets the better of her and she discovers Chase, a boy locked in a cage in her guardian's basement, and witnesses him turn into a wolf before her eyes, the horrific memories of her parents' murders return. Bryn becomes obsessed with getting her questions answered, and Chase is the only one who can provide the information she needs. But in her drive to find the truth, will Bryn push too far beyond the constraints of the pack, forcing her to leave behind her friends, her family, and the identity that she's shaped?

'That doesn't mean that she's averse to breaking a rule or two' - what an understatement! Bryn's voice is lifelike and laugh-out-loud, and right from the very first chapter we get a sense of both her love for her Pack and her unwillingness to bend over backwards in order to stick to their rules, since she clearly defines herself as human and them as werewolves. It doesn't mean she views them as her family any less, but it does give her the freedom to stand up for herself and push the boundaries a little. Since she is Marked, there are certain things she has to do, but it's easier to take because we know how hard she is trying to be her own person. She's that girl everyone wants to play truth or dare with because they just know she'd take whatever was thrown at her and give as good as she got. Bryn is feisty, independent and sneaky, but she is also intelligent, deeply caring, and easy to adore. Bryn is everything Calla is supposed to be in Andrea Cremer's Nightshade, except for one major difference: she succeeds.

Barnes writes in such a captivating and electrifying way that keeps you on your toes, always second guessing any speculations you may have about the plot line and outcome of the book. Raised by Wolves is told in the first person and a mature, smart, funny narrative is created that can still be believed and go into great detail. The balance between plot and personality is deftly achieved and it was one of the things I really enjoyed about the book.

The way the characters interacted with each other was endearing and sincere, especially the interactions between Callum and Bryn. She's one of those girls that just doesn't really care what other people think, but she understood why Callum was more strict with her than other members of the pack, and just because she understood it, it didn't mean she was going to keep quiet and let him get away with it. However, we're also quickly introduced to other characters; the pack is made up of both wolf pack traditions and human family emotions. There's tight bonds, frustrations, heart ache, love, action and strong unbreakable bonds formed that will forever change the way Bryn's pack has lived for centuries. I thought Devon was brilliant, acting as a comedic relief when needed but also as a genuine, trusted friend and a connection for Bryn that never strays as the plot progresses. Ali was also very funny and the twins were just plain adorable.

Speaking of the plot; it all starts off with one simple catalyst. When Bryn finds Chase - a newly turned werewolf - locked in Callum's basement she begins to realise that the pack has been keeping secrets. She is determined to uncover the truth and needs to work with Chase to do that. Although one of my only disappointments was my lack of ability to believe the forbidden love between them both - though I sup[pose that was one of the reason why I didn't like it; it was forbidden, and the rest of Bryn's world seemed so perfect that I just didn't want her to have to leave it! -  it was still nice to see her breaking away from what she knew to do what she felt in her heart was right. The story is fast paced and has plenty of action.Jennifer Lynn Barnes has created an interesting world with an unusual twist to the werewolf mythology. The story sucks you in and takes you along a roller coaster journey until the very last page. I won't give too much away, but let's just say there is a lot of character growth and some very surprising twists. And besides, the story is always better when a character has a depressing back-story which adds to the plot!

Writing: 5/5
Characters: 4.5/5
Plot: 4/5
Impact: 4/5
Re-readability: 3/5
Overall: 4/5

Barnes has created a captivating story with a first class heroine and plenty of twists that took me completely by surprise.Although the story ended well things have definitely been left open for the next book Trial by Fire and I can't wait to get my hands on it. If you're a fan of paranormal stories then this is a must read book, one that I would highly recommend - I'd rate it right up there with Shiver, if not slightly more....but n'aww, I don't think anything could ever beat Shiver for me...*sighs dreamily* Speaking of which, I should probably review that soon, too!

Allie

Friday, 16 March 2012

Pretty Pictures

Yeah. SO. This is what I do when I should be writing or readingor doing something else constructive. Purely so I can go and berate myself about my procrastination and lainess afterwards.

Even so, enjoy the products of my aimless wandering around the house and outside with my camera/through old computer files/across the interwebz.



Allie

Forgotten by Cat Patrick - Excerpt

I'm glad I managed to track down an excerpt from this book! I'ts not going to be the first chapter, but the second, which is altogether more interesting. And swoonworthy. But I digress. Here you go~~

The gymnasium is close to an exit, so we’re among the first to make it to the safety of the faculty parking lot. Surrounded by the odd assortment of vehicles, from a station wagon here to a cherry red Porsche there, I watch apathetic students saunter out of the concrete block that is our high school, as if they’re impervious to fire.
Not that I believe there’s a fire.My guess is that some moron pulled the alarm to be funny, not having the foresight to realize that he or she would then be forced to stand in the cold for an hour
while waiting for the fire trucks to arrive and the firemen to clear the building and finally make the screeching alarm stop.
It’s windy, and I think I see snow flurries. With every gust, I pull myself tighter into a ball to try to stay warm.
It’s not working.
I yank my hair out of its messy knot at the nape of my neck, hoping it will act as a scarf. Immediately, the wind sets flight to my bright auburn locks, and I am both blinded and repeatedly face-whipped.
As the hordes of students gather, I hear whispers and chuckles, presumably about my outfit. I swear I hear the click of a camera phone, but by the time I peer through my wild mane, the photographer has hidden the evidence.
Still, the trace of giggling from the inside of a tight circle of cheerleaders makes me nervous.
I stare at their backs until Alex Morgan whips her head of shiny black hair in my direction and locks eyes with me. She looks like she took time to apply an extra layer of jet-black eyeliner before evacuating the building.
Priorities.
Alex smirks at me and turns back to the huddle, and more giggles erupt from it.
At this moment, I wish for my best friend, Jamie. The girl has her faults, but she’ll never back down from a cheerleader’s slams.
Alone with my bare legs and purr-fect T-shirt, I hear bits and pieces of conversations about weekend plans, the “test we’re missing right now,” and “let’s just take off and
drive to Reggie’s for breakfast, since we’re already out here.” I hug my arms to my torso even tighter, partially to shield myself from the weather and partially to obscure the cat.
“Nice T-shirt,” says a smooth male voice, with just a touch of mockery. Using my left hand as a makeshift ponytail holder, I grab all the hair I can catch and turn in the direction of the voice.
And then time stops.
I see the smile first. There is an unmistakable sweetness peeking through the teasing. My armor begins to crumble before I’ve made my way up to the eyes; what’s left of it melts away at the sight of them. Sparkling pale cornflower blue with darker flecks, surrounded by eyelashes any girl would envy.
Looking at me.
Right at me.
Even more than his mouth, his eyes are smiling.
If there was something near me—  a piece of furniture, even a nonhostile person—  I might reach out and physically steady myself because I feel off balance in his presence. In a good way.
Wow.
And then it’s all gone. The shirt, the phone, basketball, Alex Morgan.
There’s nothing but the boy before me.
He looks like he belongs in either Hollywood or heaven. I could stare at him all day.
 “Thanks,” I say after who knows how long. I force myself to blink. His face looks familiar somehow, but only in the way that I want it to.
Wait, do I remember him?
Please, oh please, oh please let me remember him.
I thumb through years and years of faces in the album in my brain. This face is nowhere to be found.For a glimmer of a second, I’m sad about that fact.
Then my optimistic side springs forth. I’m probably wrong. He has to be in there somewhere.
Where were we? Oh, the outfit. . .
“I’m starting a new trend,” I joke.
I shift my body so that the wind blows my hair out of my eyes; I force myself to notice something other than his.
“I like your shoes,” I add.
“Uh, thanks,” he says awkwardly as he, too, looks down at his chocolate brown Converse All Stars. With not much left to say about shoes, he unzips and removes his tan hoodie.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s draping it around my shoulders and it’s like I’m protected from the world, not just the elements. The fleece lining is warm from his body and smells faintly of soap and fabric softener and just. . .  guy. A perfect kind of guy.
He’s standing a little close to me for being a stranger, now in just his own T-shirt. It looks vintage; I’ve never heard of the band.
 “Thanks,” I say again, as if it’s one of only ten words I know in the English language. “But aren’t you cold? ”
He laughs, as though that’s the most ridiculous question in the world, and says, simply, “No.”
Can’t guys be cold?
“Okay. Well, thanks,” I say, for the millionth time in two seconds.
What is it with me and that word?
“It’s really no problem,” he says. “I figured you could use it. You’re turning blue,” he adds, nodding toward my legs. “I’m Luke, by the way.”
“London,” is all I can manage.
“Cool name,” he says with an easy smile. I can see a hint of a dimple in one of his cheeks. “Memorable,” he adds. Very funny, I think.
A shriek pulls me from my Luke-induced trance.
“London, WHAT are you wearing?” Jamie Connor screams so loudly that at least five people stop their conversations and turn toward us. “Please tell me you have pants on.”
I take back my wish for her to appear. She can go away now.
“Shhh, Jamie, people are staring,” I say, pulling her close to me to try to shut her up. I can smell the perfume that my best friend will wear forever.
“Sorry,” she says. “But you’re kind of a disaster,” she adds with a little laugh. I frown at her.
“Bad morning?” she asks, looping her arm through mine.
 “Yep,” I answer quietly, still very aware that Luke is nearby. “I forgot my gym shirt. Again.”
Jamie gives me a sympathetic shoulder nudge before changing the subject. “I don’t even want to ask who lent you that one. Have you seen Anthony out here?” she asks as she searches the crowd. But then her interest in Anthony comes to a screeching halt when she spots Luke. My Luke.
“Hey,” she says to him.
“Hey,” he says back. He refuses to look right at Jamie; I
might like it a little.
“Who are you?” she asks, head cocked like a curious cat.
“Luke Henry,” he says, finally focusing on her for a blink. “It’s my first day.” He looks away again and scans the crowd, as if he’s grown tired of being where he is. I notice that he keeps his head low, like he doesn’t want to attract attention.
Jamie is not used to boys looking away, and, frankly, with the short skirt and tight top she’s wearing, I’m surprised by Luke’s disinterest. She shifts her weight, pops a hip, and continues.
“What year are you?” Jamie asks.
“Junior,” Luke answers.
“Cool. Us, too,” she says. I think she might be finished with the questions, but no such luck. “So, why start on a Friday?”
Luke glances at Jamie, then his eyes find mine and there it is again. He’s back.
“I didn’t have anything better to do today,” he says matter-of-factly. “We were unpacked. Why not?”
“I see . . .  and where did you come from?”
Make it stop!
“I just moved here from Boston.”
“You don’t have an accent,” Jamie points out.
“I wasn’t born there.”
“Gotcha,” Jamie says as she flips her blonde hair out of her eyes. It’s one of her signature moves—  one she’ll do in college and beyond—  and, best friend or not, my claws are out.
My posture has obviously stiffened, because Jamie pulls back a little from me to examine my face. She looks at Luke, then back at me again.
“Hmm,” she grumbles, and I’m terrified that she is going to state the obvious, but instead, she continues the third degree. “Well, where were you before Boston—”
Jamie is interrupted by the sudden, quiet calm. Alarm under control, Principal Flowers grabs his bullhorn and herds us back inside in a tone that says he loathes every waking minute spent in our presence. Jamie and I look at each other, then burst out laughing  at the booming voice coming from tiny Principal Flowers.
At least that’s what I’m laughing about.
When we recover, I look back at Luke. Well, I want to look back at Luke.
But he’s gone.
I pan the crowd furiously, but all that stands out in the sea of drab colors are bright red, white, and black cheerleading sweaters. Definitely not what I’m looking for. I feel myself beginning to panic, in that way you do when you lose something you really love, like a favorite watch or pen or pair of jeans.
We’re moving now, Jamie and I, arm in arm. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m moving: because Jamie is pulling me forward.
Finally, I see it.
My insides do cartwheels when I spy Luke’s  T-shirt making its way toward the building. His head hangs low and he walks slowly but with purpose, conveying untouchable coolness. I am thrilled by the sight of him, but then disappointed.
How could he just walk away like that?
We had a moment, didn’t we?
We had a moment, he lent me his hoodie, and he left.
And now, he’s walking back to class like nothing happened. Like he never met an interesting, albeit vertically challenged, redhead.
We had a moment, and now Luke Henry from Boston is over it, and I’m gripping my best friend’s arm so tightly at the sight of his backside that said best friend gives me a look and twists her arm free.
All at once, my morning dips again, and I feel lower than I did when I discovered that my cell phone was dead.
Funny how possibility can lift you. Funny how reality can slam you down.
I watch Luke’s back from twenty feet behind as he strides down the PE corridor, past the locker rooms and the Driver’s Education and ROTC classrooms, and toward the commons. It’s as if nothing happened. Nothing at all.
And who knows? Maybe it didn’t.
But as Luke Henry rounds the corner and slips out of view, there is one thing I know for sure. One thing that gives me a glimmer of a shard of a bit of hope that we’ll see each other again. I’m still wearing his sweatshirt.
“Good day today?” Mom asks when I jump into the Prius.
“It was okay,” I say, turning on the radio.
“You seem to have survived without your cell phone. Anything interesting happen?” She drives us out of the school lot and turns toward home.
Shrugging, I say, “A new guy started today.”
My mom glances in my direction, then faces forward. I can tell she’s trying not to smile, but her efforts aren’t working.
“A cute guy?” she asks. I can’t help but smile, too.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Luke.”
“Did you talk to him?” she asks.
 “A little. We had a fire drill and we ended up standing near each other. He’s pretty cool.”
My mom is quiet a moment, probably sensing that I’m about to put an end to the conversation. But then, nosy as she will always be, she can’t resist one more question.
“Was he in your notes this morning?” she asks casually. I consider changing the subject or cranking up the radio even louder, but since she’s one of two people I can talk to about my condition, I turn to face her in my seat and answer.
“That’s what’s weird!” I say.
“What do you mean?” she asks excitedly.
“Well, he wasn’t in my notes this morning, but I had this whole conversation with him and everything,” I say. “It was bizarre.”
“Maybe you just forgot to mention him,” Mom offers.
We’re turning into our development now. I shake my
head.
“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to discuss him anymore.
In truth, I know there’s no way I would forget to mention Luke Henry.
We’re almost home when my mom’s cell phone rings from the center compartment. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got to grab this.”
“No problem,” I say, happy to be left alone to daydream.
In the middle of the night, pen in hand, the hope seeps
out of me. Luke’s hoodie is in the laundry, but his face is almost gone. For three hours, I’ve tried to attach him to my forward memories. I’ve quizzed myself: Do we share a class? Will we go out? Will I know him for years to come? But with the clock counting down to 4:33 AM—  the time
when my mind resets and my memory is wiped clean—  I have to admit that Luke Henry is nowhere to be found. He’s not in my memory, which means he’s not in my future.When I finally accept it, the truth stings. But there’s no time to dwell on it, and there are only two choices: I can remind myself about someone who is not a part of my life, or I can leave him out of my notes to save myself from going through this all over again tomorrow.
This late, with my mind just minutes from “reset,” it doesn’t seem much of a choice at all. I grit my teeth and grip the pen and do what I have to do.
I lie to myself.

Allie

Thursday, 15 March 2012

Book Review 12 - Forgotten, Cat Patrick

Yet another stunning YA cover!

It was the idea behind Forgotten that made me pick it up. Sure, I had vaguely heard of it in book blogger circles' and around the internet, but I was really just intrigued by the premise and the research that must have gone into a story like this.

London Lane remembers her future the same way we remember our past. And while the average person doesn't 'remember' their future, London doesn't remember her past. Her memories are of the future, but the moment they become the past, they're forgotten. At precisely 4:33am every morning she forgets the day she's just lived and awakens with only what she sees of the future and her daily notes on what's happened in her life. She has to remind herself of the clothes she wore yesterday, the conversations she had, what she needs to do for school, why she's angry at certain people and to remind herself to stay angry at certain people. She's is used to relying on these notes and a trusted friend to get through the day, but things get complicated when a new boy at school enters the picture. Luke Henry is not someone you'd easily forget, yet try as she might, London can't find him in her memories of things to come. When London starts experiencing disturbing flashbacks, or flash-forwards, as the case may be, she realizes it's time to learn about the past she keeps forgetting - before it destroys her future.

The writing in Forgotten is classically American YA. It's nothing truly remarkable, but Cat Patrick does weave intelligence and intrigue into her style and fills every word with the promise of mystery and excitement.

An interesting thing about the book is the presence of a love story that not only affects the characters, but the plot. A novel about a girl like London could have taken places anytime in her life, but Luke is the cataclysmic reason for the book to be written. There's an instant attraction between them; he's gorgeous and seems like such a genuinely sweet boy. I loved the way Cat Patrick described meeting Luke, the first time and every other. It was like a new experience each time, not just for London, but for me as well! As she described him a bit differently every time focusing on his unwavering gaze, to his obvious ease or his effortless smile. I had to smile to myself when I came across this short, yet sweet paragraph in the book:


I thought I was prepared. This morning, I read months of notes. I flipped through dozens of photos. But Luke in real life is something else. Luke in real life is something no amount of notes could prepare me for. My living, breathing boyfriend is amazing. 


You want to like him straight away, but there is something too oddly familiar about Luke for London, though she doesn't see him in any of her future memories. So as much as she'd love the idea of seeing and talking to him again, she doesn't torture herself by dwelling on what she knows will never come. Until it does. She talks to him again the next day. And the next. And the next. Luke Henry is very much a part of her future, he becomes an incredibly important part but she still can't remember him. Which means every day she must read her notes growing notes on this wonderful boy and meet him all over again. All the while keeping up the facade that she 'does' remember him - since only two people in her life know of her condition.


To me, London's condition is heartbreaking. To have these 'future memories' of days, months, years to come and know they're only temporary in your mind - the moment you actually live in them, the dreaded 4:33am curse comes around and nothing. Just words; ink and paper reminders of what once was.

There are two things about this book that you should know; first, it is pretty much character-led. London is the central part of the story, with Luke as the catalyst for her emotions, and the other characters simply serving as facilitators for the plot and what London needs. Second, it's not for people who like good old a fast-paced action story. It's short and succinct, but it is, essentially, a modern-day mystery that attempts to become a YA thriller and doesn't completely reach its target.

Don't get me wrong, the story was a mesmerizing page-turning psychological mystery; full of drama and young love that I greedily consumed in one evening, but there was just a certain...nothingness about it that made me not instantly fall in love with it. I wanted more - so much more. There honestly could be no other reason for my blah reaction except personal preference, but I think the pacing, characterization, lack of subplot(s) and other features need to be taken into account. There were just too many things that I couldn't believe about it, and though I did enjoy reading it somewhat, I felt sort of let down.

However, I'm sure many readers out there will love it and will probably hate me for the rest of my life for saying that I dislike how all the elements of the story seemed to reach a certain level, and then just stopped, when I wished they could have gone so much further.

Writing: 4/5
Plot: 3.5/5
Characters: 4/5
Impact: 2/5
Re-readability: 3/5
Overall: 3.5/5
In five words: mysterious, romantic, intriguing, well-written

Allie

Monday, 12 March 2012

Inheritance, by Christopher Paolini - Excerpt

All right, this excerpt isn't going to be too long. It's one of the official extracts posted up by Christopher Paolini so I hope not too many of you have read it before...From the chapter "Into the Breach" - the first pages of Inheritance: 

The sound was stabbing, slicing, shivering, like metal scraping against stone. Eragon’s teeth vibrated in sympathy, and he covered his ears with his hands, grimacing as he twisted around, trying to locate the source of the noise. Saphira tossed her head, and even through the din, he heard her whine in distress.

Eragon swept his gaze over the courtyard twice before he noticed a faint puff of dust rising up the wall of the keep from a foot-wide crack that had appeared beneath the blackened, partially destroyed window where Blödhgarm had killed the magician. As the squeal increased in intensity, Eragon risked lifting a hand off one ear to point at the crack.

“Look!” he shouted to Arya, who nodded in acknowledgment. He replaced his hand over his ear.

Without warning or preamble, the sound stopped.

Eragon waited for a moment, then slowly lowered his hands, for once wishing that his hearing was not quite so sensitive.

Just as he did, the crack jerked open wider—spreading until it was several feet across—and raced down the wall of the keep. Like a bolt of lightning, the crack struck and shattered the keystone above the door to the building, showering the floor below with pebble-sized rocks. The whole castle groaned, and from the damaged window to the broken keystone, the front of the keep began to lean outward.

“Run!” Eragon shouted at the Varden, though the men were already scattering to either side of the courtyard, desperate to get out from under the precarious wall. Eragon took a single step forward, every muscle in his body tense as he searched for a glimpse of Roran somewhere in the throng of warriors.

At last Eragon spotted him, trapped behind the last group of men by the doorway, bellowing madly at them, his words lost in the commotion. Then the wall shifted and dropped several inches, leaning even farther away from the rest of the building, pelting Roran with rocks, knocking him off balance and forcing him to stumble backward under the overhang of the doorway.

As Roran straightened from a crouch, his eyes met Eragon’s, and in his gaze, Eragon saw a flash of fear and helplessness, quickly followed by resignation, as if Roran knew that, no matter how fast he ran, he could not possibly reach safety in time.

A wry smile touched Roran’s lips.

And the wall fell.

OH NOES!

Allie

Sunday, 11 March 2012

Book Review 11 - Inheritance (The Inheritance Cycle #4) by Christopher Paolini

This cover used to make me giddy
just looking at it...
All right, let's get back to the kind of thing I have always loved, and will always love. GOOD OLD EPIC ACTION FANTASY! WOOOOT! It's the big one. The Big Mac, the iPod, the XBox, the hugest cheese in the whole cave, the one and only- well, you get the idea.

Chris Paolini took so long on this one I nearly died waiting for it.

Then I nearly died reading it. I also cried. I DO NOT CRY AT BOOKS.

Not so very long ago, Eragon--Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider--was nothing more than a poor farm boy, and his dragon, Saphira, only a blue stone in the forest. Now the fate of an entire civilization rests on their shoulders. Long months of training and battle have brought victories and hope, but they have also brought heartbreaking loss. And still, the real battle lies ahead: they must confront Galbatorix.

Obviously, this book is the end of the Inheritance cycle. You have no idea how profoundly sad that makes me. I love this series, and some of my all-time favorite book moments occur during it. I shall never forget you! *clings to books*

Usually my reviews follow a general, if invisible to most people except me, format. I am about to throw this out the window. Into the next field. Where it will slowly sink through the water-logged grass into the depths of the earth. But I digress. Yes, it will be full of spoilers, yes, it won't be very coherent, and yes, it's probably going to be emotional, crazy mush I will delete by tomorrow. I'm going to write it anyway. If you don't like that sort of thing, turn away now.

(But come back later, of course!)

Christopher Paolini, in writing this book you went and ripped my heart into so many pieces I still haven't found them all. Which isn't surprising considering I just got this book today and have already come here to splurge out my feelings and thoughts in some kind of review.

ERAGON AND ARYA WERE MEANT TO BE TOGETHER.

YOU KNEW IT. WE KNEW IT. THEY KNEW IT. FOR GOD'S SAKE EVEN IF THE DRAGONS KNEW IT!!

Okay, fine, maybe they didn't have to traipse off to some mystical, magical other land together, but a kiss would have been nice?! Or even some form of romance other than... well... I CAN'T EVEN COMPARE IT TO ANYTHING BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T PUT ANY ERAGON/ARYA ROMANCE IN THERE!

And then you had the audacity, to go and hint at the Nasuada/Murtagh romance and then PULL IT OUT FROM RIGHT UNDER OUR NOSES! NO! THAT IS NOT RIGHT! I love Murtagh. He is my only epic-fantasy-action-novel bad boy and always will be. And you didn't even give him a chance!

I want a re-write of the ending! I know that your plot was amazingly brilliant and that all the details were intricate and perfect. To be honest I couldn't help but love every single damn page of that stupid story - but to me the ending just wasn't right! What's all this "I cannot" crap?! Of course she can! They can all do whatever the hell they want after what you put them through! I adored Eragon, Eldest and Brisingr. I even learned how to pronounce and use all the words you put in all three books! Both English, and everything else! The Inheritance Cycle was what prompted me to go get Lord of The Rings, my lovely copy of which sits on my 'favourites' shelf at this very moment! IF J.R.R. TOLKIEN COULD WRITE A HALF-SATISFYING ENDING, WHY COULDN'T YOU?

The whole book was amazing. It was filled with so much action and fighting and violence and twists and turns! And then I was so majorly disappointed it's basically taken up the whole review so far. Maybe I've gone soft from reading all that YA fiction lately, but so what if I wanted at least one moment of lvoe and happiness for Eragon? He's still a hormone-ruled, testosterone-fuelled young guy! You could have at least had him make a move on Arya and made her give him a slap! (There seriously needed to be more laugh out loud moments in Inheritance. The tension was so highly strung I couldn't believe it, but even us doggedly loyal fans need a break sometimes.)

I didn't hate Inheritance. No, no, no, no. I loved it and adored it and was so heartbroken by it that it's just not fair. Chris Paolini, if you even have a heart of your own you will make Eragon instantly regret his decision, want to act on all the emotions he wasted on Arya through each of the four incredibly long books, and turn back to get to her. In Inheritance there was such a positive outlook when he stopped moaning and complaining so much and just got on with the job as well as starting to think for himself, and of himself. He very nearly succeeded in becoming my favourite hero of all time.

As did Roran. But Roran is a completely different kettle of fish (at one time I had a debate with my history teacher as to whether or not he would become the next king, let alone the person everyone thought would ebt eh new Rider) and perhaps I will return to contemplate his escapades in Inheritance some other time, when I'm less exhausted.

It's not a bad book. If you're not part of the fandom you're probably thinking; why the hell is she screaming and whining so much? It's just a book! But the thing is, Inheritance isn't just a book. The Inheritane Cycle has never been a series of 'just books'. They are central to a whole new breed of readers and writers who sadly may never return to epic fantasy after the disappointment of, really, just one small part of the story. It wouldn't really have hurt to make them get together, even vaguely, would it? Give us some hope for the future?

Writing: 4/5
Characters: 4/5
Plot: 4/5
Impact: 5/5
Re-readability: 3/5
And one special category:
Ending: 1/5
Overall: 3.5/5


I'm not reading Christopher Paolini's books anymore.

Until I learn the title of his next one.

Then I will become re-obsessed.

*sigh* How fickle I am.


Allie

Friday, 2 March 2012

Inspired by one of Tora's latest posts...

It got me thinking.

About the focus of my life, in a more detailed way than they could ever ask us in school. I believe the possible answers to the question "What do you centre your life around?" were:

Friends: Well. It depends. My friends are very dear to me, and a huge part of my life, but I would never do something they were doing just for the sake of following the crowd, or change myself in a way that suits them, but not me. I could never do that. Yes, it means being on the outside sometimes; but there are more important things than being just the same as everybody else. I value my friends more than I can possibly say, but chances are if they want me to be someone I'm not I won't really stay friends with them for long.

Relationships: There are all kinds of relationships. Between friends, neighbours, family - a lot of my life is centred around relationships in that sense, the bonds I build with people and the connections I have with them - and yes, romantically, though the latter not so much lately. I'm okay with that.

Parents: Though I'm reluctant to discuss my very personal life on the internet, I can safely say that I know my parents have my back and thus they always have been, and always will be, a big part of my life. Not the centre, however.

Hobbies: yes. Definitely. I have less than Tora but the ones I do keep up I love and am very dedicated to. I put 100% into them no matter what, because if I don't feel like giving my all then surely it's not worth it in the first place. You have to be prepared to learn, develop and become comfortable with the activities and passions that are probably going to stay with you for the rest of your life, and I've known that for a long time.

Work: again, yes. Sometimes not willingly, but I work hard. I believe in perseverance and effort, and in doing what you have to get the job done. I enjoy the satisfaction of doing something right and hate the feeling of knowing I haven't done my best, so naturally I'm going to try to aim for the former. I know that the ability to graft and stand out from the crowd where laziness and sheer lack of interest reign will make me a better person.

Then there's also the kind of work you really want to do: like giving.

People never realize how easy it is just to give. To make someone else smile is just as simple as pleasing yourself. I do for others what I would want them to do for me, and though people don't always return this philosophy there's no harm in trying. Yes, this attitude has been moulded from an area of my life that most people will never experience, and the instinct of caring has probably been carved from the situation I have been in that I probably wouldn't wish on others, but I always hope people will ask and wonder why you might put aside material or unnecessary things - because someone else needs your help more than you need to be selfish. Sadly, this doesn't happen often enough, but I'm not a preacher and I'm usually content to keep myself to myself and keep going on with what I do already.

Stuff: no, not materialistically. But otherwise: yes, there is a good deal of stuff in my life. Mainly, however, the stuff includes things I have to do, and things I want to do. See my previous point.

So, no, my life is not centred on one thing. However, I think this is a good thing...obession in variation and moderation instead xD

Besides, I can answer yes to any one of the other suggested focuses -  Honesty, Fairness, Equality, and definitely Hard Work.

Ha. Turns out I'm more decisive than I thought!

Anyway. I'm worn out form all this thinking, so I'm off to catch up on a bit of writing.

Allie

Thursday, 1 March 2012

Matched, by Ally Condie - Excerpt

Hehe, I hope you enjoy this extract! It really got me hooked when I first read it! 

CHAPTER ONE

Now that I've found the way to fly, which direction should I go into the night? My wings aren't white or feathery; they're green, made of green silk, which shudders in the wind and bends when I move—first in a circle, then in a line, finally in a shape of my own invention. The black behind me doesn't worry me; neither do the stars ahead.

I smile at myself, at the foolishness of my imagination. People cannot fly, though before the Society, there were myths about those who could. I saw a painting of them once. White wings, blue sky, gold circles above their heads, eyes turned up in surprise as though they couldn't believe what the artist had painted them doing, couldn't believe that their feet didn't touch the ground.

Those stories weren't true. I know that. But tonight, it's easy to forget. The air train glides through the starry night so smoothly and my heart pounds so quickly that it feels as though I could soar into the sky at any moment.

"What are you smiling about?" Xander wonders as I smooth the folds of my green silk dress down neat.

"Everything," I tell him, and it's true. I've waited so long for this: for my Match Banquet where I'll see for the first time, the face of the boy who will be my Match. It will be the first time I hear his name.

I can't wait. As quickly as the air train moves, it still isn't fast enough. It hushes through the night, its sound a background for the low rain of our parents' voices, the lightning-quick beats of my heart. Perhaps Xander can hear my heart pounding, too, because he asks,

"Are you nervous?" In the seat next to him, Xander's older brother begins to tell my mother the story of his Match Banquet. It won't be long now until Xander and I have our own stories to tell.

"No," I say. But Xander's my best friend. He knows me too well. "You lie," he says, teasing. "You are nervous." "Aren't you?" "Not me. I'm ready." He says it without hesitation, and I believe him. Xander is the kind of person who is sure about what he wants.

"It doesn't matter if you're nervous, Cassia," he says gently. "Almost ninety-three percent of those attending their Match Banquet exhibit some signs of nervousness."

I have to laugh. "Did you memorize all of the official Matching material?"

"Almost," Xander says, grinning. He holds his hands out as if to say, What did you expect? The gesture makes me laugh, and besides, I memorized all of the material, too. It's easy to do when you read it so many times, when the decision is so important. "So you're in the minority," I say.

"The seven percent who don't show any nerves at all." "Of course," he agrees.

"How could you tell I was nervous?"

"Because you keep opening and closing that." Xander points to the golden object in my hands. "I didn't know you had an artifact." A few treasures from the past float around among us. Though each citizen of the Society is allowed one artifact each, they are hard to come by. Unless you had ancestors who took care to pass things along through the years.

"I didn't, until a few hours ago," I tell him. "Grandfather gave it to me for my birthday. It belonged to his mother."

"What's it called?" Xander asks.

"A compact," I say. I like the name very much. Compact means small. I am small. I also like the way it sounds when you say it: com-pact. Saying the word makes a sound like the one the artifact itself makes when it snaps shut.

"What do the initials and numbers mean?"

"I'm not sure," I say, running my finger across the letters ACM and the numbers 1940 carved across the golden surface. "But look," I tell him, popping the compact open to show him the inside: a little mirror, made of real glass, and a small hollow where the original owner once stored powder for her face, according to Grandfather. Now, I use it to hold the three emergency tablets that everyone carries—one green, one blue, one red.

"That's convenient," Xander says. He stretches out his arms in front of him and I notice that he has an artifact, too— shiny platinum cuff links. "My father lent me these, but you can't put anything in them. They're completely useless."

"They look nice, though." My gaze travels up to Xander's face, to his bright blue eyes and blond hair above his dark suit and white shirt. He's always been handsome, even when we were little, but I've never seen him dressed up like this. Boys don't have as much leeway in choosing clothes as girls do. One suit looks much like another. Still, they get to choose the color of their shirts and cravats, and the quality of the material is much finer than the material used for plainclothes. "You look nice." The girl who finds out that he's her Match will be thrilled.

"Nice?" Xander says, lifting his eyebrows. "That's all?"

"Xander," his mother says next to him, amusement mingled with reproach in her voice.

"You look beautiful," Xander tells me, and I flush a little even though I've known Xander all my life. I feel beautiful, in this dress: ice green, floating, full-skirted. The unaccustomed smoothness of silk against my skin makes me feel lithe and graceful. Next to me, my mother and father each draw a breath as City Hall comes into view, lit up white and blue and sparkling with the secial occasion lihts that indicate a celebration is taking place. I can't see the marble stairs in front of the Hall yet, but I know that they will be polished and shining. All my life I have waited to walk up those clean marble steps and through the doors of the Hall, a building I have seen from a distance but never entered.

I want to open the compact and check in the mirror to make sure I look my best. But I don't want to seem vain, so I sneak a glance at my face in its surface instead. The rounded surface of the compact distorts my features a little, but it's still me. My green eyes. My coppery-brown hair, which looks more golden in the compact than it does in real life. My straight small nose. My chin with a trace of a dimple like my grandfather's. All the outward characteris¬tics that make me Cassia Maria Reyes, seventeen years old exactly.

I turn the compact over in my hands, looking at how perfectly the two sides fit together. My Match is already coming together just as neatly, beginning with the fact that I am here tonight. Since my birthday falls on the fifteenth, the day the Banquet is held each month, I'd always hoped that I might be Matched on my actual birthday—but I knew it might not happen. You can be called up for your Banquet anytime during the year after you turn seventeen. When the notification came across the port two weeks ago that I would, indeed, be Matched on my birthday, I could almost hear the clean snap of the pieces fitting into place, exactly as I've dreamed for so long.

Because although I haven't even had to wait a full day for my Match, in some ways I have waited all my life.

"Cassia," my mother says, smiling at me. I blink and look up, startled. My parents stand up, ready to disembark. Xander stands, too, and straightens his sleeves. I hear him take a deep breath, and I smile to myself. Maybe he is a little nervous after all.

"Here we go," he says to me. His smile is so kind and good; I'm glad we were called up the same month. We've shared so much of childhood, it seems we should share the end of it, too.

I smile back at him and give him the best greeting we have in the Society. "I wish you optimal results," I tell Xander. "You too, Cassia," he says.

As we step off the air train and walk toward City Hall, my parents each link an arm through mine. I am surrounded, as I always have been, by their love.

It is only the three of us tonight. My brother, Bram, can't come to the Match Banquet because he is under seventeen, too young to attend. The first one you attend is always your own. I, however, will be able to attend Bram's banquet because I am the older sibling. I smile to myself, wondering what Bram's Match will be like. In seven years I will find out.

But tonight is my night. It is easy to identify those of us being Matched; not only are we younger than all of the others but we also float along in beautiful dresses and tailored suits while our parents and older siblings walk around in plainclothes, a background against which we all bloom. The City Officials smile proudly at us, and my heart swells as we enter the Rotunda. In addition to Xander, who waves good-bye to me as he crosses the room to his seating area, I see another girl I know named Lea. She picked the bright red dress. It is a good choice for her, because she is beautiful enough that standing out works in her favor. She looks worried, however, and she keeps twisting her artifact, a beautiful red bracelet. I am a little surprised to see Lea there. I would have picked her for a Single.

"Look at this china," my father says as we find our place at the Banquet tables. "It reminds me of the Wedgwood pieces we found last year . . ."

My mother looks at me and rolls her eyes a little. Even at the Match Banquet, my father can't stop himself from noticing these things. My father spends months in old neighborhoods that are being restored and turned into new Boroughs for public use. He sifts through the relics of a society that is not as far in the past as it seems. Right now, for example, he is working on a particularly interesting Restoration project: an old library. He sorts out the things the Society has marked as valuable from the things that are not.

But then I have to laugh because my mother can't help but comment on the flowers, since they fall in her area of expertise as an Arboretum worker. "Oh, Cassia! Look at the centerpieces: Lilies!" She squeezes my hand.

"Please be seated," an Official tells us from the podium. "Dinner is about to be served."

It's almost comical how quickly we all take our seats. Because we might admire the china and the flowers, and we might be here for our Matches, but we also can't wait to taste the food.

"They say this dinner is always wasted on the Matchees," a jovial-looking man sitting across from us says, smiling around our table.

"So excited they can't eat a bite." And it's true; one of the girls sitting farther down the table, wearing a pink dress, stares at her plate, touching nothing.

I don't seem to have this problem, however. Though I don't gorge myself, I can eat some of everything—the roasted vegetables, the savory meat, the crisp greens, and creamy cheese. The warm light bread. The meal seems like a dance; as though this is a ball as well as a banquet. The waiters slide the plates in front of us with graceful hands; the food, wearing herbs and garnishes, is as dressed up as we are. We lift the white napkins, the silver forks, the shining crystal goblets as if in time to music.

My father smiles happily as a server sets a piece of chocolate cake with fresh cream before him at the end of the meal. "Wonderful," he whispers, so softly that only my mother and I can hear him.

My mother laughs a little at him, teasing him, and he reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze. I understand his enthusiasm when I take a bite of the cake, which is rich but not overwhelming, deep and dark and flavorful. It is the best thing I have eaten since the traditional dinner at Winter Holiday, five months ago. I wish Bram could have some cake, and for a minute I think about saving some of mine for him. But there is no way to take it back to him. It wouldn't fit in my compact. It would be bad form to hide it away in my mother's purse even if she would agree, and she won't. My mother doesn't break the rules. I can't save it for later. It is now, or never. I have just popped the last bite in my mouth when the announcer says, "We are ready to announce the Matches." I swallow in surprise, and for a second, I feel an unexpected surge of anger: I didn't get to savor my last bite of cake. "Lea Abbey." Lea twists her bracelet furiously as she stands, waiting to see the face flash on the screen. She is careful to hold her hands low, though, so that the boy seeing her in another City Hall somewhere will only see the beautiful blond girl and not her worried hands, twisting and turning that bracelet. It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures. There is a system, of course, to the Matching. In City Halls across the country, all filled with people, the Matches are announced in alphabetical order according to the girls' last names. I feel slightly sorry for the boys, who have no idea when their names will be called when they must stand for girls in other City Halls to receive them as Matches. Since my last name is Reyes, I will be somewhere at the end of the middle. The beginning of the end. The screen flashes with the face of a boy, blond and handsome.

He smiles as he sees Lea's face on the screen where he is, and she smiles, too. "Joseph Peterson," the announcer says. "Lea Abbey, you have been matched with Joseph Peterson."

The hostess presiding over the Banquet brings Lea a small silver box; the same thing happens to Joseph Peterson on the screen.

When Lea sits down, she looks at the silver box longingly, as though she wishes she could open it right away. I don't blame her.

Inside the box is a microcard with background information about her Match. We all receive them. Later, the boxes will be used to hold the rings for the Marriage Contract.

The screen flashes back to the default picture: a boy and a girl, smiling at each other, with glimmering lights and a white-coated Official in the background. Although the Society times the Matching to be as effcient as possible, there are still moments when the screen goes back to this picture, which means that we all wait while something happens somewhere else. It's so complicated—the Matching—and I am again reminded of the intricate steps of the dances they used to do long ago. This dance, however, is one that the Society alone can choreograph now.

The picture shimmers away.

The announcer calls another name; another girl stands up.

Soon, more and more people at the Banquet have little silver boxes.

Some people set them on the white tablecloths in front of them, but most hold the boxes carefully, unwilling to let their futures out of their hands so soon after receiving them.

I don't see any other girls wearing the green dress. I don't mind. I like the idea that, for one night, I don't look like everyone else.

I wait, holding my compact in one hand and my mother's hand in the other. Her palm feels sweaty. For the first time, I realize that she and my father are nervous, too.

"Cassia Maria Reyes."

It is my turn.

I stand up, letting go of my mother's hand, and turn toward the screen. I feel my heart pounding and I am tempted to twist my hands the way Lea did, but I hold perfectly still with my chin up and my eyes on the screen. I watch and wait, determined that the girl my Match will see on the screen in his City Hall somewhere out there in Society will be poised and calm and lovely, the very best image of Cassia Maria Reyes that I can present.

But nothing happens.

I stand and look at the screen, and, as the seconds go by, it is all I can do to stay still, all I can do to keep smiling. Whispers start around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mother move her hand as if to take mine again, but then she pulls it back. A girl in a green dress stands waiting, her heart pounding. Me. The screen is dark, and it stays dark. That can only mean one thing.

Ooh, it's so exciting! What a lovely way to start March!


 Allie

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