This special edition features a foil-stamped paper over board cover, stenciled sprayed edges, and bonus content!

Amber Smith's extraordinary, New York Times bestselling, TikTok sensation debut novel "is a heart-twisting, but ultimately hopeful, exploration of how pain can lead to strength" (The Boston Globe) about a teenager struggling to cope in the aftermath of being assaulted.

Eden has always been good at being good. Starting high school doesn't change that. But the night her brother's best friend rapes her, Eden's world capsizes.

What was once simple is now complex. What Eden once loved-who she once loved-she now hates. What she thought she knew to be true is now lies. Nothing makes sense anymore, and she knows she's supposed to tell someone what happened, but she can't. So she buries it instead. And she buries the way she used to be.

Told in four parts-freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior year-this provocative debut reveals the deep cuts of trauma. But it also demonstrates one young woman's strength as she navigates the disappointment and unbearable pains of adolescence, of first love and first heartbreak, and of friendships broken and rebuilt, all while learning to embrace the power of survival she never knew she had hidden within her heart.

Autorentext

Amber Smith is the New York Times, USA TODAY, and internationally bestselling author of the young adult novels The Way I Used to Be, The Last to Let Go, Something Like Gravity, Fade into You, and The Way I Am Now. An advocate for increased awareness of gendered violence and LGBTQIA+ equality, she writes in the hope that her books can help foster change and spark dialogue. She lives in Ithaca, New York, with her wife and coauthor, Sam Gellar, and their ever-growing family of rescued dogs and cats. You can find her online at AmberSmithAuthor.com.

Klappentext

"After fourteen-year-old Eden is raped by her brother's best friend, she knows she'll never be the way she used to be"--

Leseprobe
Chapter 1
I DON'T KNOW A LOT of things. I don't know why I didn't hear the door click shut. Why I didn't lock the damn door to begin with. Or why it didn't register that something was wrong-so mercilessly wrong-when I felt the mattress shift under his weight. Why I didn't scream when I opened my eyes and saw him crawling between my sheets. Or why I didn't try to fight him when I still stood a chance.

I don't know how long I lay there afterward, telling myself: Squeeze your eyelids shut, try, just try to forget. Try to ignore all the things that didn't feel right, all the things that felt like they would never feel right again. Ignore the taste in your mouth, the sticky dampness of the sheets, the fire radiating through your thighs, the nauseating pain-this bulletlike thing that ripped through you and got lodged in your gut somehow. No, can't cry. Because there's nothing to cry about. Because it was just a dream, a bad dream-a nightmare. Not real. Not real. Not real. That's what I keep thinking: NotRealNotRealNotReal. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like a mantra. Like a prayer.

I don't know that these images flashing through my mind-a movie of someone else, somewhere else-will never really go away, will never ever stop playing, will never stop haunting me. I close my eyes again, but it's all I can see, all I can feel, all I can hear: his skin, his arms, his legs, his hands too strong, his breath on me, muscles stretching, bones cracking, body breaking, me getting weaker, fading. These things-it's all there is.

I don't know how many hours pass before I awake to the usual Sunday morning clamor-pots and pans clanging against the stove. Food smells seeping under my door-bacon, pancakes, Mom's coffee. TV sounds-cold fronts and storm systems moving through the area by midday-Dad's weather channel. Dishwasher-running sounds. Yippy yappy dog across the street yips and yaps at probably nothing, as always. And then there's the almost imperceptible rhythm of a basketball bouncing against the dewy blacktop and the squeaky-sneaker shuffling of feet in the driveway. Our stupid, sleepy suburbia, like every other stupid, sleepy suburbia, awakens groggy, indifferent to its own inconsequence, collectively wishing for one more Saturday and dreading chores and church and to-do lists and Monday morning. Life just goes, just happens, continuing as always. Normal. And I can't shake the knowledge that life will just keep on happening, regardless if I wake up or not. Obscenely normal.

I don't know, as I force my eyes open, that the lies are already in motion. I try to swallow. But my throat's raw. Feels like strep, I tell myself. I must be sick, that's all. Must have a fever. I'm delirious. Not thinking clearly. I touch my lips. They sting. And my tongue tastes blood. But no, it couldn't have been. Not real. So as I stare at the ceiling, I'm thinking: I must have serious issues if I'm dreaming stuff like that. Horrible stuff like that. About Kevin. Kevin. Because Kevin is my brother's best friend, practically my brother. My parents love him like everyone does, even me, and Kevin would never-could never. Not possible. But then I try to move my legs to stand. They're so sore-no, broken feeling. And my jaw aches like a mouthful of cavities.

I close my eyes again. Take a deep breath. Reach down and touch my body. No underwear. I sit up too fast and my bones wail like I'm an old person. I'm scared to look. But there they are: my days-of-the-week underwear in a ball on the floor. They were my Tuesdays, even though it was Saturday, because, well, who would ever know anyway? That's what I was thinking when I put them on yesterday. And now I know, for sure, it happened. It actually happened. A