Thrasher is an excellent writer, able to take us back to those painfully awkward, lonely days of being an outsider in high school with just a few words (read the excerpt below to see what I mean). And his ability to create a sense of place and infuse it with meaning (or emptiness and evil in this case) is something rarely seen. His abilities in these areas reminded me of Stephen King.
Which actually created a bit of a difficulty for me. I love suspense and mystery, but I can't do horror. Mostly likely because I do the bulk of my reading before I go to bed, and if I read horror I have nightmares. This was young adult horror so I thought I could handle it.
When I got to page 42 I put the book down, not sure if I could go on, but torn to know what happened. I decided to finish the book but only read it during the day. Let me tell you, Thrasher can write some heart-pounding scenes. And because of that, I'm not sure if it's exactly a YA book. I would be hesitant to give it to anyone under 14, maybe even 16, because of his ability to so elucidate the pervasiveness of evil. If you know your child is sensitive to these things then be wary. But any kid that loves Stephen King will love Travis Thrasher. The book takes you right up to the edge all the way to the end and leave you wanting more.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2010)
***Special thanks to Audra Jennings Senior Media Specialist at the B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Travis Thrasher is an author of diverse talents with more than twelve published novels including romance, suspense, adventure, and supernatural horror tales. At the core of each of his stories lie flawed characters in search of redemption. Thrasher weaves hope within all of his tales, and he loves surprising his readers with amazing plot twists and unexpected variety in his writing. Travis lives with his wife and daughter in a suburb of Chicago. Solitary is his first young adult novel.Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434764214
ISBN-13: 978-1434764218
Get it here:
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
1 . Half a Person
She’s beautiful.
She stands behind two other girls, one a goth coated in black and the other a blonde with wild hair and an even wilder smile. She’s waiting, looking off the other way, but I’ve already memorized her face.
I’ve never seen such a gorgeous girl in my life.
“You really like them?”
The goth girl is the one talking; maybe she’s the leader of their pack. I’ve noticed them twice already today because of her, the one standing behind. The beautiful girl from my second-period English class, the one with the short skirt and long legs and endless brown hair, the one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s hard not to notice.
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorites,” I say.
We’re talking about my T-shirt. It’s my first day at this school, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think carefully about what I was going to wear. It’s about making a statement. I would have bet that 99 percent of the seven hundred kids at this high school wouldn’t know what Strangeways, Here We Come refers to.
Guess I found the other 1 percent.
I was killing time after lunch by wandering aimlessly when the threesome stopped me. Goth Girl didn’t even say hi; she just pointed at the murky photograph of a face on my shirt and asked where I got it. She made it sound like I stole it.
In a way, I did.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Goth Girl asks. Hersparkling blue eyes are almost hidden by her dark eyeliner.
“Did the shirt give it away?”
“Nobody in this school listens to The Smiths.”
I can tell her that I stole the shirt, or in a sense borrowed it, butthen she’d ask me from where.
I don’t want to tell her I found it in a drawer in the house we’re staying at. A cabin that belongs to my uncle. A cabin that used to belong to my uncle when he was around.
“I just moved here from a suburb of Chicago.”
“What suburb?” the blonde asks.
“Libertyville. Ever hear of it?”
“No.”
I see the beauty shift her gaze around to see who’s watching. Which is surprising, because most attractive girls don’t have to do that. They know that they’re being watched.
This is different. Her glance is more suspicious. Or anxious.
“What’s your name?”
“Chris Buckley.”
“Good taste in music, Chris,” Goth Girl says. “I’m Poe. This is Rachel. And she’s Jocelyn.”
That’s right. Her name’s Jocelyn. I remember now from class.
“What else do you like?”
“I got a wide taste in music.”
“Do you like country?” Poe asks.
“No, not really.”
“Good. I can’t stand it. Nobody who wears a T-shirt like that would ever like country.”
“I like country,” Rachel says.
“Don’t admit it. So why’d you move here?”
“Parents got a divorce. My mom decided to move, and I came with her.”
“Did you have a choice?”
“Not really. But if I had I would’ve chosen to move with her.”
“Why here?”
“Some of our family lives in Solitary. Or used to. I have a couple relatives in the area.” I choose not to say anything about Uncle Robert. “My mother grew up around here.”
“That sucks,” Poe says.
“Solitary is a strange town,” Rachel says with a grin that doesn’t seem to ever go away. “Anybody tell you that?”
I shake my head.
“Joss lives here; we don’t,” Poe says. “I’m in Groveton; Rach lives on the border to South Carolina. Joss tries to hide out at our places because Solitary fits its name.”
Jocelyn looks like she’s late for something, her body language screaming that she wants to leave this conversation she’s not a part of. She still hasn’t acknowledged me.
“What year are you guys?”
“Juniors. I’m from New York—can’t you tell? Rachel is from Colorado, and Jocelyn grew up here, though she wants to get out as soon as she can. You can join our club if you like.”
Part of me wonders if I’d have to wear eyeliner and lipstick.
“Club?”
“The misfits. The outcasts. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Not sure if I want to join that.”
“You think you fit in?”
“No,” I say.
“Good. We’ll take you. You fit with us. Plus … you’re cute.”
Poe and her friends walk away.
Jocelyn finally glances at me and smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified.
I might look cool and nonchalant and act cool and nonchalant, but inside I’m quaking.
I spent the first sixteen years of my life around the same people, going to the same school, living in the same town with the same two parents.
Now everything is different.
The students who pass me are nameless, faceless, expressionless. We are part of a herd that jumps to life like Pavlov’s dog at the sound of the bell, which really is a low drone that sounds like it comes from some really bad sci-fi movie. It’s hard to keep the cool and nonchalant thing going while staring in confusion at my school map. I probably look pathetic.
I dig out the computer printout of my class list and look at it again. I swear there’s not a room called C305.
I must be looking pathetic, because she comes up to me and asks if I’m lost.
Jocelyn can actually talk.
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Where are you going?”
“Some room—C305. Does that even exist?”
“Of course it does. I’m actually heading there right now.” There’s an attitude in her voice, as if she’s ready for a fight even if one’s not coming.
“History?”
She nods.
“Second class together,” I say, which elicits a polite and slightly annoyed smile.
She explains to me how the rooms are organized, with C stuck between A and B for some crazy reason. But I don’t really hear the words she’s saying. I look at her and wonder if she can see me blushing. Other kids are staring at me now for the first time today. They look at Jocelyn and look at me—curious, critical, cutting. I wonder if I’m imagining it.
After a minute of this, I stare off a kid who looks like I threw manure in his face.
“Not the friendliest bunch of people, are they?” I ask.
“People here don’t like outsiders.”
“They didn’t even notice me until now.”
She nods and looks away, as if this is her fault. Her hair, so thick and straight, shimmers all the way past her shoulders. I could stare at her all day long.
“Glad you’re in some of my classes.”
“I’m sure you are,” she says.
We reach the room.
“Well, thanks.”
“No problem.”
She says it the way an upperclassmen might answer a freshman. Or an older sister, her bratty brother. I want to say something witty, but nothing comes to mind.
I’m sure I’m not the first guy she’s left speechless.
Every class I’m introduced to seems more and more unimpressed.
“This is Christopher Buckley from Chicago, Illinois,” the teachers say, in case anybody doesn’t know where Chicago is.
In case anybody wonders who the new breathing slab of human is, stuck in the middle of the room.
A redheaded girl with a giant nose stares at me, then glances at my shirt as if I have food smeared all over it. She rolls her eyes and then looks away.
Glancing down at my shirt makes me think of a song by The Smiths, “Half a Person.”
That’s how I feel.
I’ve never been the most popular kid in school. I’m a soccer player in a football world. My parents never had an abundance of money. I’m not overly good looking or overly smart or overly anything, to be honest. Just decent looking and decent at sports and decent at school. But decent doesn’t get you far. Most of the time you need to be the best at one thing and stick to it.
I think about this as I notice more unfamiliar faces. A kid who looks like he hasn’t bathed for a week. An oily-faced girl who looks miserable. A guy with tattoos who isn’t even pretending to listen.
I never really fit in back in Libertyville, so how in the world am I going to fit in here?
Two more years of high school.
I don’t want to think about it.
As the teacher drones on about American history and I reflect on my own history, my eyes find her.
I see her glancing my way.
For a long moment, neither of us look away.
For that long moment, it’s just the two of us in the room.
Her glance is strong and tough. It’s almost as if she’s telling me to remain the same, as if she’s saying, Don’t let them get you down.
Suddenly, I have this amazingly crazy thought: I’m glad I’m here.
I have to fight to get out of the room to catch up to Jocelyn.
I’ve had forty minutes to think of exactly what I want to say, but by the time I catch up to her, all that comes out is “hey.”
She nods.
Those eyes cripple me. I’m not trying to sound cheesy—they do. They bind my tongue.
For an awkward sixty seconds, the longest minute of my sixteen years, I walk the hallway beside her. We reach the girls’ room, and she opens the door and goes inside. I stand there for a second, wondering
if I should wait for her, then feeling stupid and ridiculous, wondering why I’m turning into a head of lettuce around a stranger I just met.
But I know exactly why.
As I head down the hallway, toward some other room with some other teacher unveiling some other plan to educate us, I feel someone grab my arm.
“You don’t want to mess with that.”
I wonder if I heard him right. Did he say that or her?
I turn and see a short kid with messy brown hair and a pimply face. I gotta be honest—it’s been a while since I’d seen a kid with this many pimples. Doctors have things you can do for that. The word pus comes to mind.
“Mess with what?”
“Jocelyn. If I were you, I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts.”
Who is this kid, and what’s he talking about?
And what teenager says, “I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts”?
“What thoughts would those be?”
“Don’t be a wise guy.”
Pimple Boy sounds like the wise guy, with a weaselly voice that seems like it’s going to deliver a punch line any second.
“What are you talking about?”
“Look, I’m just warning you. I’ve seen it happen before. I’m nobody, okay, and nobodies can get away with some things. And you look like a decent guy, so I’m just telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
“Not to take a fancy with the lady.”
Did he just say that in an accent that sounded British, or is it my imagination?
“I was just walking with her down the hallway.”
“Yeah. Okay. Then I’ll see you later.”
“Wait. Hold on,” I say. “Is she taken or something?”
“Yeah. She’s spoken for. And has been for sometime.”
Pimple Boy says this the way he might tell me that my mother is dying.
It’s bizarre.
And a bit spooky.
I realize that Harrington County High in Solitary, North Carolina, is a long way away from Libertyville.
I think about what the odd kid just told me.
This is probably bad.
Because one thing in my life has been a constant. You can ask my mother or father, and they’d agree.
I don’t like being told what to do.
She’s beautiful.
She stands behind two other girls, one a goth coated in black and the other a blonde with wild hair and an even wilder smile. She’s waiting, looking off the other way, but I’ve already memorized her face.
I’ve never seen such a gorgeous girl in my life.
“You really like them?”
The goth girl is the one talking; maybe she’s the leader of their pack. I’ve noticed them twice already today because of her, the one standing behind. The beautiful girl from my second-period English class, the one with the short skirt and long legs and endless brown hair, the one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s hard not to notice.
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorites,” I say.
We’re talking about my T-shirt. It’s my first day at this school, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think carefully about what I was going to wear. It’s about making a statement. I would have bet that 99 percent of the seven hundred kids at this high school wouldn’t know what Strangeways, Here We Come refers to.
Guess I found the other 1 percent.
I was killing time after lunch by wandering aimlessly when the threesome stopped me. Goth Girl didn’t even say hi; she just pointed at the murky photograph of a face on my shirt and asked where I got it. She made it sound like I stole it.
In a way, I did.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Goth Girl asks. Hersparkling blue eyes are almost hidden by her dark eyeliner.
“Did the shirt give it away?”
“Nobody in this school listens to The Smiths.”
I can tell her that I stole the shirt, or in a sense borrowed it, butthen she’d ask me from where.
I don’t want to tell her I found it in a drawer in the house we’re staying at. A cabin that belongs to my uncle. A cabin that used to belong to my uncle when he was around.
“I just moved here from a suburb of Chicago.”
“What suburb?” the blonde asks.
“Libertyville. Ever hear of it?”
“No.”
I see the beauty shift her gaze around to see who’s watching. Which is surprising, because most attractive girls don’t have to do that. They know that they’re being watched.
This is different. Her glance is more suspicious. Or anxious.
“What’s your name?”
“Chris Buckley.”
“Good taste in music, Chris,” Goth Girl says. “I’m Poe. This is Rachel. And she’s Jocelyn.”
That’s right. Her name’s Jocelyn. I remember now from class.
“What else do you like?”
“I got a wide taste in music.”
“Do you like country?” Poe asks.
“No, not really.”
“Good. I can’t stand it. Nobody who wears a T-shirt like that would ever like country.”
“I like country,” Rachel says.
“Don’t admit it. So why’d you move here?”
“Parents got a divorce. My mom decided to move, and I came with her.”
“Did you have a choice?”
“Not really. But if I had I would’ve chosen to move with her.”
“Why here?”
“Some of our family lives in Solitary. Or used to. I have a couple relatives in the area.” I choose not to say anything about Uncle Robert. “My mother grew up around here.”
“That sucks,” Poe says.
“Solitary is a strange town,” Rachel says with a grin that doesn’t seem to ever go away. “Anybody tell you that?”
I shake my head.
“Joss lives here; we don’t,” Poe says. “I’m in Groveton; Rach lives on the border to South Carolina. Joss tries to hide out at our places because Solitary fits its name.”
Jocelyn looks like she’s late for something, her body language screaming that she wants to leave this conversation she’s not a part of. She still hasn’t acknowledged me.
“What year are you guys?”
“Juniors. I’m from New York—can’t you tell? Rachel is from Colorado, and Jocelyn grew up here, though she wants to get out as soon as she can. You can join our club if you like.”
Part of me wonders if I’d have to wear eyeliner and lipstick.
“Club?”
“The misfits. The outcasts. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Not sure if I want to join that.”
“You think you fit in?”
“No,” I say.
“Good. We’ll take you. You fit with us. Plus … you’re cute.”
Poe and her friends walk away.
Jocelyn finally glances at me and smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified.
I might look cool and nonchalant and act cool and nonchalant, but inside I’m quaking.
I spent the first sixteen years of my life around the same people, going to the same school, living in the same town with the same two parents.
Now everything is different.
The students who pass me are nameless, faceless, expressionless. We are part of a herd that jumps to life like Pavlov’s dog at the sound of the bell, which really is a low drone that sounds like it comes from some really bad sci-fi movie. It’s hard to keep the cool and nonchalant thing going while staring in confusion at my school map. I probably look pathetic.
I dig out the computer printout of my class list and look at it again. I swear there’s not a room called C305.
I must be looking pathetic, because she comes up to me and asks if I’m lost.
Jocelyn can actually talk.
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Where are you going?”
“Some room—C305. Does that even exist?”
“Of course it does. I’m actually heading there right now.” There’s an attitude in her voice, as if she’s ready for a fight even if one’s not coming.
“History?”
She nods.
“Second class together,” I say, which elicits a polite and slightly annoyed smile.
She explains to me how the rooms are organized, with C stuck between A and B for some crazy reason. But I don’t really hear the words she’s saying. I look at her and wonder if she can see me blushing. Other kids are staring at me now for the first time today. They look at Jocelyn and look at me—curious, critical, cutting. I wonder if I’m imagining it.
After a minute of this, I stare off a kid who looks like I threw manure in his face.
“Not the friendliest bunch of people, are they?” I ask.
“People here don’t like outsiders.”
“They didn’t even notice me until now.”
She nods and looks away, as if this is her fault. Her hair, so thick and straight, shimmers all the way past her shoulders. I could stare at her all day long.
“Glad you’re in some of my classes.”
“I’m sure you are,” she says.
We reach the room.
“Well, thanks.”
“No problem.”
She says it the way an upperclassmen might answer a freshman. Or an older sister, her bratty brother. I want to say something witty, but nothing comes to mind.
I’m sure I’m not the first guy she’s left speechless.
Every class I’m introduced to seems more and more unimpressed.
“This is Christopher Buckley from Chicago, Illinois,” the teachers say, in case anybody doesn’t know where Chicago is.
In case anybody wonders who the new breathing slab of human is, stuck in the middle of the room.
A redheaded girl with a giant nose stares at me, then glances at my shirt as if I have food smeared all over it. She rolls her eyes and then looks away.
Glancing down at my shirt makes me think of a song by The Smiths, “Half a Person.”
That’s how I feel.
I’ve never been the most popular kid in school. I’m a soccer player in a football world. My parents never had an abundance of money. I’m not overly good looking or overly smart or overly anything, to be honest. Just decent looking and decent at sports and decent at school. But decent doesn’t get you far. Most of the time you need to be the best at one thing and stick to it.
I think about this as I notice more unfamiliar faces. A kid who looks like he hasn’t bathed for a week. An oily-faced girl who looks miserable. A guy with tattoos who isn’t even pretending to listen.
I never really fit in back in Libertyville, so how in the world am I going to fit in here?
Two more years of high school.
I don’t want to think about it.
As the teacher drones on about American history and I reflect on my own history, my eyes find her.
I see her glancing my way.
For a long moment, neither of us look away.
For that long moment, it’s just the two of us in the room.
Her glance is strong and tough. It’s almost as if she’s telling me to remain the same, as if she’s saying, Don’t let them get you down.
Suddenly, I have this amazingly crazy thought: I’m glad I’m here.
I have to fight to get out of the room to catch up to Jocelyn.
I’ve had forty minutes to think of exactly what I want to say, but by the time I catch up to her, all that comes out is “hey.”
She nods.
Those eyes cripple me. I’m not trying to sound cheesy—they do. They bind my tongue.
For an awkward sixty seconds, the longest minute of my sixteen years, I walk the hallway beside her. We reach the girls’ room, and she opens the door and goes inside. I stand there for a second, wondering
if I should wait for her, then feeling stupid and ridiculous, wondering why I’m turning into a head of lettuce around a stranger I just met.
But I know exactly why.
As I head down the hallway, toward some other room with some other teacher unveiling some other plan to educate us, I feel someone grab my arm.
“You don’t want to mess with that.”
I wonder if I heard him right. Did he say that or her?
I turn and see a short kid with messy brown hair and a pimply face. I gotta be honest—it’s been a while since I’d seen a kid with this many pimples. Doctors have things you can do for that. The word pus comes to mind.
“Mess with what?”
“Jocelyn. If I were you, I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts.”
Who is this kid, and what’s he talking about?
And what teenager says, “I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts”?
“What thoughts would those be?”
“Don’t be a wise guy.”
Pimple Boy sounds like the wise guy, with a weaselly voice that seems like it’s going to deliver a punch line any second.
“What are you talking about?”
“Look, I’m just warning you. I’ve seen it happen before. I’m nobody, okay, and nobodies can get away with some things. And you look like a decent guy, so I’m just telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
“Not to take a fancy with the lady.”
Did he just say that in an accent that sounded British, or is it my imagination?
“I was just walking with her down the hallway.”
“Yeah. Okay. Then I’ll see you later.”
“Wait. Hold on,” I say. “Is she taken or something?”
“Yeah. She’s spoken for. And has been for sometime.”
Pimple Boy says this the way he might tell me that my mother is dying.
It’s bizarre.
And a bit spooky.
I realize that Harrington County High in Solitary, North Carolina, is a long way away from Libertyville.
I think about what the odd kid just told me.
This is probably bad.
Because one thing in my life has been a constant. You can ask my mother or father, and they’d agree.
I don’t like being told what to do.
by Steven Pressfield.
