Autorentext
Paige Classey is a school librarian who lives with her husband and two sons on the Connecticut shoreline. She is the author of the YA novel Everything You Left Me, which was selected as a Forbes "7 Most-Anticipated YA Mysteries to Dive Into This Winter." She has also contributed articles on libraries and education that have appeared in School Library Journal, TEACH Magazine, and Education Week. Anna-Jane and the Last Summer is inspired by her own time at summer camps growing up...luckily her adventures never lasted more than a few weeks.

Klappentext

Anna-Jane couldn’t wait for camp. But when the outside world goes dark, she and her friends soon realize they’re in for the adventure of their lives this summer—and maybe even beyond.

"A nail-biter of a survival story." -Megan E. Freeman, New York Times bestselling author of Alone and Away

Anna-Jane is thrilled to be back at Camp Chester—the one place she feels like she belongs. She’s excited to swim in the lake, read in her favorite chair, and swap secrets with her best friend under the stars. But not long after Anna-Jane unpacks her trunk, weird things start happening.

First, townspeople near camp begin disappearing. Then, the internet, cell service, and all other forms of communication are cut off. Soon, Anna-Jane and the residents of Camp Chester realize they are completely alone.

Or so they think. Across the lake, the kids spot a strange flashing light. And when animals begin turning up with yellowed eyes and disfigured limbs, it is clear the dangers are only growing. Most alarming of all, though, is the deepening distrust among the campers themselves, which could have deadly consequences. Anna-Jane knows what to expect from a summer at camp . . . but what happens when camp lasts well beyond the summer?

Captured in Anna-Jane’s diary, discover the poignant journey of a young girl’s fight to survive in the face of the unknown.

Leseprobe
Packing

As a seasoned camper,

I know exactly what to pack

for eight weeks away:

shampoo,

conditioner,

toothbrush,

toothpaste,

plus flip-­flops for the shower

(mostly because

Mom made me google

“plantar warts”),

T-­shirts,

shorts,

tons of underwear,

packs of Skittles

rolled up in my socks,

pajamas,

and a dress

(Amaya saw Camp Chester announced a dance

for the first time ever,

planned for the end of the summer;

the thought makes my palms sweat

a little),

photos for our wall,

phone and charger,

plenty of books

for rainy days

and right before lights-­out

(this year,

Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson,

Dry, about California running out of water,

Fahrenheit 451, and a book of poetry

Ms. Zhang gave me,

plus The Penderwicks, for old times’ sake),

and whatever this notebook poem journal

is.

Ms. Zhang

told me I need

to keep writing

over the summer.

“Like . . . for homework?” I asked

on our last day of school,

nose wrinkled.

She snorted.

“Not homework.

Grow work, Anna-­Jane.

Or not even ‘work’ at all.

You’re nourishing your artistic soul!”

She makes everything

sound like

poetry.

I rolled my eyes,

but here I am,

adding “grow work”

to my trunk

for a teacher I don’t even have anymore.

In a few months,

I’ll be an eighth grader

on the third floor.

It sounds too grown-­up

for me,

but Ms. Zhang says I have “tremendous potential”

because I’m a “keen observer,”

and my mom says I have her “natural resilience”

and “staggering intellect”

and other beautiful words

that feel too big,

too shiny,

to describe

me.

Three Hours and a Mountain

I got bottom bunk

like I wanted,

and piled a bunch of stuff

on the top bunk

to save it for Amaya,

who’s still on her way.

The cabin smells musty

but nice,

like a shirt you wore to a campfire

and forgot to wash.

I miss my mom a little already,

her cheering and beeping the horn

as we crept up the mountain to camp.

I cringed and hid my face

so she couldn’t see me also

smiling.

She checked me in,

and we dragged my trunk

into empty Cabin 22.

I hung the picture of us

Mrs. Finkle next door took

the day we moved in.

Mom’s hand is on my five-­year-­old head,

and her mouth looks funny

because she’s in the middle

of saying something.

On the porch,

my mom hugged me close

and said,

“I love you, honeybee.

I’m so proud of you.

Hope you have the best time.”

I hugged her tight around the waist,

tried to swallow

the stone of sorrow

lodged in my throat.

“Wait, don’t go,” I said.

“I’m not ready for you to leave.”

She tightened her arms

around me

and whispered

into my hair,

“You’re ready.

You and Amaya will take care of each other,

like always.”

She smiled down at me.

“And the other kids who are on their way.

Soon they’ll feel like family, too.

A second family.”

I breathed in her coconut shampoo

and nodded.

Mom saves the entire year

to send me to camp,

and even then,

a scholarship

makes up the difference.

I didn’t want her to think

I’d changed my mind.

Then she was gone.

I wonder if she’ll be lonely

in our house on South Pine Street,

three hours

and a mountain

away.

I wonder if tonight

she’ll listen to the creaks and groans

of our old, old house

and miss me

in my room

at the end of the hall.

Amaya

Amaya bursts into the cabin,

followed by Z, her little sister,

who’s at camp with us

for the first time.

She looks like

a miniature Amaya

beaming at me:

same dark eyes,

dimples,

and the buzzing energy

of a bumblebee.

“You got us bunks together!”

Amaya squeals.

We hug in our jumping

I haven’t seen you in almost a whole year hug,

then head outside

to wait for her parents.

“Well, well, well,

if it isn’t Anna-­Jane Thompson!”

bellows Amaya’s dad

as he and Mrs. D. drop a trunk

and two giant duffel bags

on the porch.

“Hi, Mr. D.! Mrs. D.”

Mrs. D. side-­hugs me,

exclaims, “You got so tall, Miss Anna-­Jane!

How are you? Everything good?”

I shrug.

“No twins this year?”

Amaya’s older brothers

are leaving for college

at the end of the summer.

They were counselors-­in-­training last year.

“No, they’re at home for two more months,

coming in at all times of night,

leaving me no gas in the morning,

giving me gray hair,” Mrs. D. chuckles.

I smile and struggle to

lift one of Amaya’s bags.

Z trips over Amaya’s other duffel,

then whines when Amaya cackles at her.

Mr. D. scolds her

for teasing her sister,

while Mrs. D. prays aloud

for strength.

I realize in that moment

how much

I’ve missed the Drakes.

Sometimes

Sometimes I wish

Amaya went to my school.

I imagine sitting with her at lunch

and in language arts.

She would lock eyes with me the second

t…