The fairies are so happy to be a part of this blitz for author VALERIE IPSON's book...
IDEAL HIGH!!!
Genre: YA contemporary
Published: February 24th, 2015
SYNOPSIS
There’s no way Taryn’s taking Blake’s place as president of the student body. As soon as the memorial for him and six of their friends is over, she’s resigning as VP. Really. Except people say the fire was no accident. (She say it’s way too easy to blame someone who’s dead.) When Taryn reads the writing on the wall, literally, the bathroom wall, she knows what it means. To get to the truth she has to come out from under her paisley comforter. But, seriously, what stage of grief says Taryn has to be the one to fix what’s wrong at Ideal High? Maybe she’s the one who’s broken.
SMASHWORDS | B & N | AMAZON
EXCERPT
Whose idea is it to broadcast the super-size
faces of those who died to the far reaches of the school’s auditorium?
Everybody knows they’re gone. Why emphasize the obvious even for the sake of a
memorial? And why no rain on this joyless day? Never a good Texas thunderstorm
when you need one.
I force a glance at the pull-down screen behind
me, but immediately turn to focus on the line where the ceiling meets the wall
at the back of the room. I can’t bear to look into the crowd, but I can’t look
at the screen either. A giant reminder that I will never see those faces again.
Weeks of grief have left me numb, but I should have worn my hair down to give
me something to hide behind. Just in case.
Light pours in through the ribbon of windows high
along the back wall. It crisscrosses the podium, making me squint at the sheet
of paper in front of me.
It doesn’t matter. I know the list by heart.
I blink through the glare and lean in to the
microphone, not sure how loud I need to be. “Ashley Bannister.”
My voice echoes across the vast room. Plenty
loud.
All eyes rivet on the screen and a kid from Drama
Club tugs the rope of the school bell slowly and deliberately for maximum
effect. It must have taken practice to get a perfect mournful clang.
The audience’s collective gaze swings to my
right. To Chelsea standing at a matching podium, staring at her own list. She’s
leaning heavy on her crutches, and on the podium, too. She needs both to keep
her vertical, apparently. I’m just glad I don’t have to share the same half of the
stage with her. As always, I need my distance. That hasn’t changed.
“Weston James Brown.” Chelsea’s lips tighten into
a thin line. I’m amazed she gets the name out. The bell sounds again, even more
slowly than the first time, and a chorus of sniffles and muffled sobs grows
slightly louder.
I measure my breathing and tap my fingers along
the edge of the sheet of paper in front of me. I have to keep my hands busy,
distracted. Maybe if I keep moving I won’t think too hard about the next name.
I switch to rubbing my palms up and down the
sides of my pants. I just can’t look at Kayla’s parents who sit with my mom and
dad in the front row. I pause too long and the principal clears his throat
behind me. Very cliché, Mr. Myers. Doesn’t he get that this is beyond difficult?
“Kayla … Marie … Carter.” I speak her name to the
back wall then take up tapping on the podium again. But not so loud anyone can
hear. So much for avoiding the faces on the screen. All that loops through my
brain is Kayla’s wide smile.
Quit worrying,
Taryn. Blake’s not getting back with Chelsea, Kayla had said that night
after the party. I’ll go find him for you
and you’ll see I’m right. Then she walked right back into the old Gin Co.
building.
Why was I forced to do this? I’m not the one who
should be speaking the names of the dead in front of all these people. The list
reads like the school’s Who’s Who, and I have no business pretending I’m one of
them.
Except for him. How many more names until his?
I’d scanned both versions as soon as they were held out to us, snatching the
one with his name among those highlighted. Chelsea has no right to it, to him.
Not like I do. At least that’s what I tell myself.
The light flickers from behind me, so I know
they’ve moved on to the next abnormous face. A face that should be in the
yearbook, not on a screen at a memorial.
A moan rises from the second row, competing with
the plaintive tones of the bell. Plaintive?
Where’d that come from? Now I’m conjuring up junior year Vocab?
One of Chelsea’s crutches bangs against her
podium. I can’t help shooting her a sideways glance. She’s still hunched
forward. Definitely struggling and the service is just getting started.
Thankfully, I don’t have to maneuver crutches and
the names in front of me. Still, I will it to be over. My knotted stomach begs
for it, and the fetal-position imprint on my bed is only growing colder. Who
knows how long Principal Myers will feel obligated to address the assembled
after our part is done?
Chelsea finally speaks, but the name comes out in
a hiccupped sob. The noise of a bump, then a scrape carry through the sound
system when she adjusts her crutches again.
“Keisha Lambert.” I blurt it out when it’s my
turn, afraid to get stuck on a name again. I shut my eyes and try to erase the
image that the crowd views behind me. Her exotic-for-small-town, multi-color-ed
cornrows and pierced eyebrow, her excitement at being named cheerleader last
May.
Chelsea reads the next name, verbally struggling
yet again. It’s understandable. She and Becca Martin were closer than sisters.
My throat tightens when I move in closer to the
mic, but I’m determined not to lose it like Chelsea. Fixating on the list, I
draw in a breath and the amplification of it hits the back wall. I cover my
mouth, but it doesn’t hide my embarrassment. The faces of the crowd blur, and
all I can see is Blake’s, creased with alarm as flames leap out of the building
behind him.
Don’t turn to look at the screen. Say his name,
but don’t look at his face. I
hesitate, wanting — needing to. Wishing I could ask him the questions that
plague me. They all start with “Why?”
Chelsea’s crutches bump and scrape again, sending
javelins of adrenaline into the pit of my stomach. I drop both hands onto the
podium in front of me. I suddenly need something to hang onto.
Just say
it. Say his name loud and strong. He deserves
that. My lips brush the microphone and I taste metal.
“Blake Austin Montgomery.”
His name erupts from my mouth and startles the
crowd. The hushed crying and sniffling silences for a moment as if proper
tribute to the late student body president mandates it.
Ignoring the looks from the audience, I clench
the neatly-typed names on the paper into a fist. Relief surges through me now
that my part of the program is over.
But it isn’t over, not really. The memorial is
only the beginning of what was
supposed to be the perfect senior year.
Blake, the object of my years-long crush, and I
were a couple. Sort of.
We’d been elected student body officers —
president and vice-president. We spent the entire last month of school sitting
in homeroom eating doughnuts on the sly, discussing senior year. True, Blake
had done most of the talking and me a lot of nodding, but he intended for us to
be a couple, right? I was his date to Junior Prom. That has to mean something.
I head to my seat on the stage, avoiding
Chelsea’s eyes as the too-tanned blonde hobbles over to drop into the chair
next to me. The principal takes my place at the podium on the left.
“I want to thank these ladies for volunteering
for this assignment.” He nods in our general direction, before addressing the
audience. “As you know, Taryn Young will step into the position of student body
president and Chelsea Manor as head of the cheerleading squad.”
Volunteered? Yeah, right. I stare at my shoes,
afraid to look anyone in the eyes. I’m on stage by default. I’m the only one of
the newly-elected class officers to survive the fire. But more than that I am a
fraud. An abnormous fraud. An enormous abnormal fraud.
I would have never run for vice president if
Blake hadn’t talked me into it. The position full-out scared me, but how could
I turn him down? Ever since that day in homeroom when he first noticed the
doughnut glaze on my shirt sleeves, I couldn’t tell the difference between
dream and reality anymore. They were the same. Now I wish I could erase the
nightmare, or better yet, rewind it all so the night of the Ideal Gin Co. fire
never happened.
I squirm in my seat, trying to get comfortable as
Mr. Myers’ words buzz through the sound system. No rewinds. No do-overs. Now I
sit with the only other survivor of the fire in front of an auditorium full of
people with questions. Why Taryn Young, they must be thinking? Why not my son
or daughter, my sister or brother? No, just Taryn and Chelsea. A cruel reminder
of those who hadn’t made it out alive.
Things like this don’t happen at my school. Not
in a town called Ideal, Texas.
I half-listen as the principal begins his
concluding remarks. “The first day of class is one week from today and counselors
will be available. Line up outside Ms. McKinney’s door, no appointments needed.
Our goal is to get things back to normal as quickly as possible. Let’s not
forget,” he stresses, “here at Ideal High School we have a long-standing
tradition of unity, pride, and respect. This will carry us through.”
I just want to crawl back into bed where only my
pillow hears me scream.
“What about my brother?” A masculine voice coming
from the side of the stage jars me. From the shadowed steps, the voice
addresses the principal again. “You didn’t call out his name. Isn’t he good
enough for your program?”
A figure steps into the stage lights. He wears
faded jeans and a gray plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up and shirt tails
hanging. The thud of cowboy boots punctuates his step as he edges closer to the
podium opposite the principal. He’s about my age, and I can’t help noticing the
square confidence of his shoulders, despite the pain that ruts his brow.
“My brother died in the fire, too.”
“Who’s that?” hisses Chelsea. She doubles over
like she’s in pain, but maybe she’s just trying to get a better look. The same
question seems to vibrate across the auditorium.
I fix my eyes on the intruder. I can’t wrap my
brain around his claim. I know everyone who was at Ritter’s Crossing that night
where the crumbling old cotton gin had stood for a hundred years before the
fire destroyed it.
Mr. Myers takes a step toward the young man. “May
I help you after the service? We’re almost finished here.”
“You can help me. You can have one of these
pretty girls with their expensive clothes and neon-white teeth stand at the
microphone and shout out Tim’s name.” The stranger’s voice breaks, but he
continues, “He’s important, too, even though no one knows his name.”
“Son, please,” Mr. Myers begins again. “Let’s
discuss this afterwards in my office. I’m sure we can clear up any
misunderstanding.”
I sense movement among the faculty members
sitting on the stage around me, but I don’t take my eyes off the stranger. Mr.
Myers seems unruffled, but my mood moves quickly from confusion to irritation.
Who is this guy? Who’s his brother?
“Let me do
it. Then I’ll leave y’all alone.” He reaches the podium where Chelsea stood
moments before. The mic’s movement grates through the sound system when he
pulls it to him, and I slide to the edge of my seat. I have to admit, now he’s
really got my attention.
“He was my younger brother. My only brother.” The
guy turns away from the mic, momentarily pressing his left thumb and index
finger to his eyes. Mr. Myers motions for the others to hold back as the young
man continues. “Sure he was new, an easy target for bullies. But he was a
student here.”
His words are half-whispers now where before he
had been practically shouting. “Can’t you say his name? Can’t you give him even
that much?”
The guy takes a deep breath. His next words echo
across the room, calm and clear. “Timothy Wade Jenks.”
He turns, steps straight to the bell, and grabs
the rope. Yanking it, he sends a single deafening bong reverberating across the
room. He pauses, head bowed, then disappears down the same steps from which he
came, leaving behind a brief, bewildered silence.
As the auditorium door closes behind him, the room erupts into chaos.
GIVEAWAY
a Rafflecopter giveaway
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Valerie Ipson loves her family…and reading, writing, genealogy, and Hershey Milk Chocolate Almond & Toffee Nuggets. She lives in Mesa, Arizona, and IDEAL HIGH is her debut novel. Reading has always been a huge love in her life, but she never thought she’d be on the author side of a book. Valerie hopes she can give readers the same experience that she has enjoyed through the years while being curled up with a good book!
Twitter: https://twitter.com/valerieipson
great post and giveaway
ReplyDeleteGreat excerpt! Looking forward to reading this book!
ReplyDelete