Shine

Lauren Myracle

Description

When her best guy friend falls victim to a vicious hate crime, sixteen-year-old Cat sets out to discover who in her small town did it. Richly atmospheric, this daring mystery mines the secrets of a tightly knit Southern community and examines the strength of will it takes to go against everyone you know in the name of justice. Against a backdrop of poverty, clannishness, drugs, and intolerance, Myracle has crafted a harrowing coming-of-age tale couched in a deeply intelligent mystery. Smart, fearless, and compassionate, this is an unforgettable work from a beloved author. Praise for Shine Cat eventually uncovers the truth in a cliffhanging climax in which she confronts fear, discovers that love is stronger than hate and truly shines. Raw, realistic and compelling. Kirkus Reviews The page-turning mystery and Cats inspiring trajectory of self-realization will draw readers in and give them plenty to ponder. The Bulletin of the Center for Childrens Books Dramatic in both content and presentation." Los Angeles Times Myracle captures well the regret that many feel for things in their past about which they are ashamed. Cats reflections on these moments are spot-on. School Library Journal AWARD: WINNER: Amelia Elizabeth Walden Award for young adult fiction YALSA 2014 Popular Paperbacks for Young Adults

Informations

• Publié par: ABRAMS BOOKS
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781613121450
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Also by LAUREN MYRACLE
Luv Ya Bunches: A Flower Power Book
Violet in Bloom: A Flower Power Book Rhymes with Witches Bliss ttyl ttfn l8r, g8r bff: a girlfriend book u write 2gether Eleven Twelve Thirteen Thirteen Plus One Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances (with John Green and Maureen Johnson) How to Be Bad (with E. Lockhart and Sarah Mlynowski)
PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of congress. ISBN 978-0-8109-8417-2
Text copyright 2011 Lauren Myracle Book design by Maria T. Middleton
Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discount when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [e-mail] or the address below.
www.abramsbooks.com

PATRICK S HOUSE WAS A GHOST. DUST COATED the windows, the petunias in the flower boxes bowed their heads, and spiderwebs clotted the eaves of the porch. Once I might have marveled at the webs-how delicate they were, how intricate-but today I saw ghastly silk ropes. Nooses for sawflies and katydids and anything guileless enough to be ensnared.
Movement drew my attention to the upper corner of the porch, where a large web swayed as if it were alive. I stepped closer, and a sour taste rose in my throat. A mourning cloak was trapped within a mass of threads. One wing was pinned to its body, but the other wing, dark brown rimmed with gold, fluttered feebly.
That golden wing made me think of Mama Sweetie, Patrick s grandma. It made me think of her Bible, in particular. Its gilt-edged pages were as thin as tissue, and when I ruffled them, the gold shimmered. For Christmas one year, Patrick made Mama Sweetie a wooden stand for her Bible, and I knew if I pressed my face to one of the dirty windows, I d see both the Bible and the bookstand displayed proudly in the front room.
Well, no, I didn t know that, for the simple reason that just because things used to be a certain way didn t mean they d stay that way forever. Patrick could have stuck the Bible in a drawer, or given it away, or burned it. I couldn t imagine him doing any of those things, but my thoughts on the matter meant nothing.
Sometimes I felt like my entire existence meant nothing.
I went through the motions, however. I showered and generally kept myself clean. I ate at mealtimes, I slept at night, and when it wasn t summer, I went to school and read a lot of books. When it was summer, I still read a lot of books. But mainly, I moved through the world feeling invisible-and maybe I was. Maybe God was a giant eyeball in the hazy June sky, only there was a burn mark on His pupil in the exact spot of Black Creek, North Carolina, and that was why He didn t see me.
If He didn t see me, that meant He didn t see Patrick, either. Was not seeing us better than seeing and not caring?
I backed away from the porch, my head buzzing. I felt blurry around my edges, like smoke, or the soft ssssss of a snuffed candle, and I couldn t for the life of me remember why I d come to Patrick s house in the first place. Church started in half an hour, and it would take me almost as long to bike there. What had I been thinking?
The sun pressed down on me, making me sweat. Back when we were kids, Patrick and I escaped the summer heat by worming into the crawl space beneath his house, which was cool and private and, best of all, ours . It was our secret hideaway, and we spent countless hours down there with no one to keep tabs on us but blind and sluggish bugs. The sort of bugs that would eat us one day, we used to say for the shiver of it. Coffin bugs.
The entrance to the crawl space was a small access door made from a scrap of plywood painted yellow to match the siding. It was all of two feet tall and two feet wide, and it blended in with the house almost perfectly. The only thing that gave it away was the rusty hook-and-eye latch that kept it shut.
Patrick didn t much like the dark, so we snuck down candles and matches, which would have given Mama Sweetie a fit if she d found out. We spread a tarp on the moist soil, and we set up a milk crate for a table. On any given day, we d toss snacks through the crawl space hole and then wiggle in after them, and once we were settled, we d just gab away. That was the magic of it, that Patrick and I could just talk and talk.
The crawl space beneath Patrick s house held happy memories for me, so that s where I went when I left the front porch with its spiderwebs and dying butterflies. I walked around the house and found the access door, and the sight of it sent my blood pulsing.
I sat on the overgrown lawn beside the plywood door. Aunt Tildy would kill me if I got grass stains on my church clothes, but I didn t care. I drew up my legs, tucked my skirt between my thighs, and hugged my shins. Tiny no-see-ums nipped at my ankles. Humidity pasted my hair to my neck.
The last time I was here at the house was three years ago. I was thirteen, and I was so happy I glowed. That s what Mama Sweetie told me, anyway. She said I was lit from within, and I believed her, because I felt it and knew it to be true.
I haven t known that feeling for a long time.
But that last day sure was a good one. Patrick and I had biked here after school, our feet kicking up dust when we hopped off in his dirt driveway. Mama Sweetie met us on the porch and hugged first Patrick and then me, saying, Well, hey there, Cat. Ain t you as pretty as a picture. Fresh-squeezed lemonade waited on the small outside table. No garden spiders or mummy-wrapped bugs that day, because though Mama Sweetie wouldn t kill a spider, she did use her broom to clear their webs away.
I dropped into one of the sagging fold-out chairs and accepted the glass she held out to me. It had a decal of the Tasmanian Devil on it, and it came from the Hardee s in Toomsboro. Hardee s was running a special offer: Buy six cinnamon buns and get a free cartoon character drinking glass. Buy a dozen and get not two free glasses, but three.
Mama Sweetie went for the three. She had no need for them, since she had scores of jelly jars that did the job fine. But she couldn t resist Hardee s cinnamon buns. She couldn t resist anything sugary, and she spent half her food stamps on Coke and Twizzlers and fun-size Snickers. She bought cereal and milk for Patrick, and she made him eat tomatoes and squash and crowder peas from their garden, but their house was junk food central.
She was dead now. She died last year from her diabetes. I went to her funeral, but Patrick and I didn t talk.
Anyway, that Tasmanian Devil. I didn t know who he was until Mama Sweetie told me. I just liked how he looked, with his wild eyes and his fur fluffed out all crazy like a puppy after a good shake.
He s on the show with that Bugs Bunny, Mama Sweetie explained. She worked at the church preschool, and years ago someone donated a used VCR and a cardboard box of old videos. Some were episodes of Sesame Street . Others were cartoons. Mama Sweetie played them for the kids at naptime if they d been good.
I don t know what he s supposed to be, she went on. Just that they call him the Tasmanian Devil. She reached over and squeezed her grandson s knee. You think there s really such a creature, Patrick?
Let s go to Tasmania and find out, Patrick suggested. We were in eighth grade, and already he was dreaming up ways to escape.
Mama Sweetie chuckled, patting Patrick s knee now instead of squeezing it. Patrick s hand went to hers, and their fingers interlocked.
There is no such place as Tasmania , I pronounced, knowing no such thing. But good Lord, it sure did sound like a made-up name. I slipped off my flip-flops and poked Patrick with my toe. Even if there was, how would we get money to get there?
We d get jobs, Patrick said.
I rolled my eyes. Jobs weren t easy to come by in Black Creek, not for grown-ups and especially not for kids.
Undaunted, Patrick said, Well, then we could invent something. Something good, and we d save every penny and not spend it on junk, because God helps those who help themselves. Right, Mama Sweetie?
She ruffled his wheat-colored hair. One day, baby. Ain t no need to rush. Her gaze was proud, but tinged with sadness, because she knew that eventually Patrick would leave. What she didn t know-what none of us knew-was that she would go first.
Yeah, Patrick, stop rushing, I teased. I captured his foot with both of mine, hooking one behind his ankle and curving the other over the top of his beat-up sneaker. You re staying with us forever and ever.
Mama Sweetie smiled, because she loved me, too. Not like she loved Patrick, but she didn t love anyone like she loved Patrick. Still, she hugged me every time she saw me, and sometimes she planted loud, wet smooches on my cheeks, forcing me to complain for the sake of my dignity. Mama Sweetie! I d cry. You better not have left lipstick on my cheek.
Patrick saw through me. I knew from the way he d grin. Some people were happiest when others were unhappy, but Patrick was the opposite. Plus, he knew my family as well as I knew Mama Sweetie. He knew my daddy was a drunk, and that my aunt Tildy was a fine and strong woman, but not one to d