Camp Scare

Auteur
Delilah S. Dawson thought she would be a visual artist, but she somehow ended up a writer. She has worked as a muralist, an art teacher, a barista, a reptile caretaker, a project manager, and a dead body in a haunted house, which was probably the most fun. She is the New York Times bestselling author of Mine, Star Wars: Phasma, and seventeen other books for kids, teens, and adults, as well as the comics Ladycastle, Sparrowhawk, and Star Pig. She loves gluten-free cake, adventures, the beach, Disney World, Star Wars, and vintage My Little Pony. She lives in Atlanta with her family. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter at @DelilahSDawson or visit her online at whimsydark.com.

Texte du rabat

"Bullied and lonely, Parker Nelson is excited to make a new friend at camp, but then bad, unexplainable things start happening to Parker's tormenters, and she soon discovers that her new friend might not be so friendly--or human--after all"--

Résumé
**An eerie, twisty ghost story about twelve-year-old Parker, who only wants a summer of fun and new friendship at sleepaway camp but ends up finding a nightmare instead!

Don't forget your flashlight. . . .

Parker Nelson can’t wait for summer camp. She’ll have fun and make amazing memories, far away from the bullies who made seventh grade unbearable.

But then something terrible happens: The mean girl who made life a living nightmare is in Parker’s cabin. Soon all the other girls turn on Parker, too—no one wants to be her friend. Except Jenny.

Jenny’s the only one who is willing to listen. The only one who understands. The only one who feels the same way Parker does: that there's a deep, dark secret to making friends and she’s the only one who doesn't know it.

But there’s something else Parker doesn’t know. Something bad happened at the camp a long time ago, and it just won’t stay buried. . . .

Échantillon de lecture

Finally—­finally!—­all of Parker Nelson’s dreams were coming true.

The 102 on today’s math test hadn’t been a surprise, but getting paired up with the Cassandra DiVecchio for the big Language Arts project and then invited to her house to work on it? That was a huge score. Parker didn’t need any help with the project—­she was the biggest poetry nerd in her class and already had ideas—­but she had been trying to break into the popular clique since kindergarten.

Okay, maybe that was an understatement.

Parker had been trying to break into any friend group ever since people started declaring their besties and inviting each other to slumber parties. She’d lived in the same house in the same town her entire life, gone to the same schools with the same kids, and yet it felt as if all of the friend groups had been established without her knowledge, as if there were no seats left in the musical chairs of friendship.

Sure, she could get a little braggy about her grades and had been told by several adults that she had a tendency to talk too much, too fast, mostly about herself, and not really give other kids a chance to say anything. And, yes, she was proud to be a teacher’s pet and loved to spout weird facts whenever she could. But she thought she was, in general, a good person who would make a great friend, and she was trying harder to fit in. So far, she hadn’t been able to crack the code, but she’d really been studying Cassandra and her crew and was starting to see where she’d been going wrong. After a trip to the outlet mall for new sneakers and her first attempt at eyeliner after multiple YouTube tutorials, Parker felt as ready as she’d ever be.

Her mom watched anxiously from the car as Parker hitched her backpack up on her shoulder—­the cool kids never wore both straps—­and walked up the curved stone sidewalk to Cassandra’s house, or maybe mansion would be a better word. The house was so tall and white that it was almost blinding, and Parker wondered what it would be like to pack up everything she owned and pull up to a house like this, as Cassandra must have last year when she moved here from Tennessee and was immediately absorbed into KJ Worthington’s highly selective lunch table, forming a trio along with KJ’s second-­in-­command, Olivia Blanchard.

Giddy, her stomach full of butterflies, Parker rang the doorbell and glanced back at her mom, motioning for her to leave. Her mom gave her a thumbs-­up, pointed at her cell phone, waved, and backed out of the driveway right as the big stained-­glass door opened to reveal the third most popular girl in seventh grade.

Cassandra stood there looking a little uncertain, which was unusual for her. She had long, straight black hair and honey-­gold eyes, and everything about her was pretty much perfect. Her style was careless—­a big sweatshirt and ragged jean shorts, like everybody wore—­but somehow, on her, it looked effortless and cool.

“Oh,” Cassandra said, looking Parker up and down. “You look cute.”

The hour Parker had spent with the straightening iron and her mom’s makeup drawer must’ve worked, to get a compliment like that. She was smiling so hard that her face hurt. Her sweatshirt was almost exactly the same as the one Cassandra wore, which had to be a sign. “Thanks! I love your house.”

“Come on in. You can leave your shoes here. My room’s upstairs.”

Cassandra’s house was decorated like something from a magazine or a movie, like someone had professionally tossed blankets around and karate-­chopped pillows right before Parker walked in. She left her shoes at the door and followed Cassandra’s swinging ponytail, glad that she could ogle the house as much as she wanted behind Cassandra’s back. On the way up the perfectly white stairs, she longed to pause and study all the framed black-­and-­white pics of Cassandra and her older sister, starting from when they were super tiny. It was a big surprise, learning that even Cassandra DiVecchio had had an awkward phase that involved chipmunk cheeks, braces, glasses, and horrible bangs.

When they reached Cassandra’s room, Parker was again in awe. It was like the dressing room of a really fancy store, right down to the pink couch with furry white pillows. Parker tossed down her backpack and flopped onto the couch, grinning.

“So I was thinking we could do iambic pentameter,” she started. “Like one of Shakespeare’s poems, but—­”

“Yeah, sure,” Cassandra agreed, eyes glued to her phone. “But, hey. I forgot—­my mom ordered this gourmet ice cream. Want to go downstairs and get some?”

Parker’s jaw nearly dropped. Gourmet ice cream at Cassandra DiVecchio’s house? She wanted to pinch herself but knew that sort of thing just made girls like Cassandra roll their eyes.

“Sure!” she said, hopping up off the couch. “Ice cream is always good. I had gelato once, and that was good, too, but it came with this really tiny spoon, which was weird. And there were no chunks. So I probably like ice cream better, because human beings are wired to enjoy digging up chunks. It’s this anthropology thing—­”

“Oh, totally. Come on.” Cassandra smiled and nodded, but she seemed almost . . . nervous. Not like Parker’s brand of loud, nervous energy—­where she talked too much, too fast, and said weird things and made a fool of herself—­but as if she was afraid of making someone mad. Maybe Cassandra’s parents were really strict. Maybe her mom didn’t want anyone to eat her gou…