SNEAK PEEK FIRST CHAPTER PREVIEW: FATBOY vs THE CHEERLEADERS by Geoff Herbach

Title: Fatboy vs. the Cheerleaders

Author: Geoff Herbach

Publisher: Sourcebooks Fire

Expected Publication Date: May 6, 2014

Genre: Young Adult

SUMMARY

It's geeks versus jocks in an epic battle of the beverages!

From "one of the most real, honest, and still funny male voices to come around in a while" (YALSA) comes a brand-new cast of quirky characters, pitting fat boy Gabe against the high school cheerleading team in a battle over control of the school's soda machine.

The war is ON! Never have the stakes been so high. Never have the trenches been so deep. Never has one soda vending machine been so vital. When the high school cheerleading team takes over the machine's funds previously collected by the pep band, Gabe will not stand for it. Something must be done.

OTHER BOOKS by GEOFF HERBACH

Stupid Fast

Nothing Special

I’m with Stupid

The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg

ABOUT the AUTHOR

I am the author of the YA title, Stupid Fast (June 2011 from Sourcebooks Fire). I also wrote The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg, a Novel from Three Rivers Press. When I'm not writing books, I'm writing for Radio Happy Hour or developing ridiculous musical bits.

When I'm not writing, I'm teaching writing at Minnesota State, Mankato, which means I write a lot of comments about writing on student writing. 

Writing a lot of writing and reading about writing and writing on reading.

AUTHOR LINKS

Blog    *    Website    *    Twitter   *    Goodreads

  

EXCERPT

MEMORANDUM

From: Henry P. Rodriguez, Attorney at Law

Submitted To: Seventh District Court, Otter County

Re: Case No. 1745321—Gardener et al v. MLA Independent School District

SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT ON JUNE 15, GABRIEL JOHNSON, A SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD FROM MINNEKOTA, MN, WAS APPREHENDED OUTSIDE CUB FOODS BY OFFICER REX McCOY. JOHNSON POSSESSED $17.75 IN SMALL BILLS AND CHANGE, WHICH HE CONFIRMED HAD BEEN REMOVED FROM THE VENDING MACHINE AT MINNEKOTA LAKE AREA HIGH SCHOOL.

POLICE SUGGESTED THE ALLEGED ROBBERY WAS RELATED TO A LARGER CONFLICT INVOLVING ASSAULT, VANDALISM, AND DEFAMATION OF CHARACTER THAT HAS COME TO BE KNOWN AS THE SPUNK RIVER WAR.

THE FOLLOWING TRANSCRIPT IS GABRIEL’S VERBATIM ACCOUNT, RECORDED IN A CONFERENCE ROOM AT THE MINNEKOTA POLICE DEPARTMENT BETWEEN 10 A.M. AND 5:40 P.M. ON JUNE 16.

WE SUBMIT THIS DOCUMENT AS CONTEXT FOR THE ABOVE NOTED CASE. THERE IS A SPECIFIC HUMAN COST WHEN THOSE IN POWER WIELD POWER ARROGANTLY. THIS CASE SUPPORTS A TEENAGER’S FIGHT FOR DIGNITY, OPPORTUNITY, AND FAIRNESS.

Chapter 1

Ripping off the pop machine last night wasn’t meant to be funny. It was my duty to all the geeks, burners and oddballs in school, because that machine sucks. Robbing it was serious business, okay?

Why are you laughing, Mr. Rodriguez?

I did it myself. I robbed the machine all by myself.

There were sheep in the school this morning? Real sheep?

How—? Oh, wait, I remember now. I must’ve let them in there by accident. Whoops. Like, left the door open after I robbed the machine and all those sheep wandered in by themselves.

No, it’s not funny, sir. Really.

I’m telling you, I’m the one who stole the money. It was eighteen dollars, but I lost a quarter when Officer McCoy roughed me up. Look at my chin! I have scrapes all over my stomach and knees, too.

That stupid pop machine. Stupid pop! It all started with that stupid…

Yeah I hate that machine! For so many reasons.

For instance, in May, me, Justin Cornell and Camille Gardener did this pop study for health class. The study was Camille’s idea, because she turned into a health nut when her dad started organic farming last year (they grew like two tomatoes and a one giant zucchini—they’re not the best farmers). Anyway, out of Camille’s concern for student health, she got us to study usage of the pop machine, her theory being that unhealthy kids would be the heaviest users.

Big, bad study, sir. Mr. Luken, our Health teacher, gave us passes to hang out in the cafeteria all day. We made a chart of jocks, brains, music geeks, gamers, burners, and “others” (sad sacks who are hard to categorize because they have no social connections to anyone) and we took note of who purchased a product from the pop machine and what specific product they purchased.

Almost nobody paid attention to us while we took notes. Only a couple said stuff like, “What are you staring at, dorks?” Seth Sellers, a jock, made fart sounds when he saw me.

This pop project was eye-opening, sir.

After school that day, me, Camille and Justin went to Bitterroot Coffee Shop down on Main Street to tally things up.

“Nick, Gamer, purchased three Pepsis in four hours,” Justin said.

“Kendra, Burner, four different pops in five hours,” Camille said.

“She’s pretty overweight,” Justin said.

“Not as big as Tiff, Other, who bought four bottles of Sierra Mist,” Camille said.

“Oh Lord Mother of all Balls,” I said.

Camille plugged the data into a spreadsheet, squinting.

Justin shook his head, sucked his latte and was all like, “Whoa.”

Then Camille sat back, sipped her green tea and was all like, “Just as I suspected.”

I smiled and said, “Holy Mother of all Balls, right?” I drank a mocha with whipped cream, which has a million calories, by the way.

Here’s the scoop, sir: Purchasers of pop at Minnekota Lake Area High School are fat asses,trailer park kids, addicted gamers, and burner chicks who eat cigarettes for breakfast. Dozens and dozens of these kids. Most of them went for second rounds later in the day. Some for thirds.A couple, fourths (me, for instance). Very few jocks purchased pop from the machine. (Seth Sellers bought one bottle of Pepsi late in the afternoon, so he was able to greet me with the aforementioned fart sounds.) Two cheerleaders purchased from the machine, but they both bought diet.That diet stuff will kill you, but not make you fat on the calories.

What does that tell you, Mr. Rodriguez?

I tried not to show my concern, but Justin and Camille were clearly concerned.

“You drink a lot of pop, Chunk,” Justin said. “Could be part of the problem,”

“Oh, is there a problem?” I said. “I wasn’t aware of a problem!” I smiled big and raised my fat mocha like I was making a toast.

“There’s a problem, Chunk,” Camille said. “A big problem.” She didn’t smile. She didn’t toast me.

“I’m just sayin’,” Justin said.

Yeah. Really.A problem. I drank a hell-ton of Code Red Mountain Dew every day—four bottles, five bottles—and the only pants that fit me were stretchy pants (elastic waistband, sir).

I knew it, too, knew pop was part of my issue. But, see, I also thought it was part of my success! I was winning by buying all that pop! All the vending machine money went to fund the band! I’m a trombone player, you know? That’s one badass, hilarious instrument, right? Trombone! Awesome instrument. I love band so much so I figured I was paying myself by drinking all that pop. Winning it huge.

No. Stupid.

The truth is, I’ve gained a load of weight in the last couple of years. Kids call me fat ass, sausages, fudge balls, butter balls, cake balls, lard ass, 8 Butt Johnson. All kinds of names. I laugh and go along with it, but those names hurt my feelings.

Even my stupid gym teacher calls me names!

The day after our pop study, I was depressed, so it took me a long time to get to school, so I was late to gym class, so Mr. McCartney ordered me to “orbit,” which means run laps. I didn’t want to get detention (McCartney had been threatening me with detention, because I make jokes and I’m quote unquote mouthy). So I did what I was told.

While I was jogging around the gym, Seth Sellers shouted, "Planet turd in orbit!"

I smiled. “Yeah, watch out, planet earth. This shit ball might crash out of the night sky!” I faked being out of control and weaved off course like I was crashing.

McCartney got pissed. “This isn’t a joke, Chunk,” he said. “This is a punishment.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sorry.” I jogged on, but when I got to the far end of the gym, Janessa Rogers, this nasty cheerleader, said, “Shake it, Chunk! Shake it!”

I puckered my lips duck-face style and started shaking my ass while I jogged.

Everybody laughed.

Everybody except McCartney. He freaked. Way out of control. His face turned dark red and sweat streamed down his forehead. He started yelling, "You wanna be a clown, Chunk? You wanna disrupt my class? Oh, you’re real hilarious!”

I stopped my ass shaking,

“God, I’m sick of it,” McCartney shouted.

I stopped jogging all together. Stared at him, because he was screaming. Everyone else stopped whacking their birds (we were in a badminton unit).

McCartney walked toward me fast. “I’m so sick of your baloney. Sick of your face.”

“My face?” I asked, because I was surprised, because I always thought McCartney sort of liked me, even if I annoyed him.

“Your fat face! Get out of my gym, you sack of shit. Get your fat ass out of here."

Everybody stared. Everybody’s mouth hung open.

I swallowed hard. Stared at McCartney for a second.Then said, "Okay.”I put my head down and bumbled out of there as fast as my fat legs could carry me.

Terrible. Teacher verbally assaults you like that?

Hey. Why are we talking about this, Mr. Rodriguez? Shouldn’t we be talking about how…how you’re going to keep me from going to jail or something? I’m a little nervous about my crime.

The whole story, huh? Okay. You asked for it. I can talk forever.

Pop. The night after I was kicked out of gym, I pulled five empty bottles of Code Red Mountain Dew out of my backpack (there isn’t recycling at school, so I bring my empties home). One bottle didn’t have a cap on it. A little Code Red dribbled out onto my bedroom rug. It made a little stain. I squinted at it and my heart beat hard.

This stain reminded me of Doris our cleaning lady back when Dad was trying to pick up the pieces after Mom hit the road (Mom ran away to Japan while I was in eighth grade, by the way).

Doris was a tiny old lady. She spilled dirty mop water on the carpet. She said, “Better laugh than cry.” She broke a lamp when she whacked it off a side table with the duster. “Better laugh than cry.”

Poor Doris!She was terrible.She could barely lift a broom, she was so old.Dad had to fire her, which made him cry (serious sobbing breakdown, which he did a lot back then), but what was he going to do? She plugged the toilet with Clorox wipes. She broke a whole set of plates. She fell off a stool and ripped down our shower curtain. Dad had no choice. But when the taxi dropped her off at our place on the day he actually fired her, he broke down like a weak-ass baby. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry, Doris.”

Doris shrugged and smiled and put her coat back on. I was so nervous about how she would react. What if Doris cried about getting fired? What would we do then? But she didn't seem to care at all."Better laugh than cry," she said. Then Dad drove her home.

And I exhaled. I relaxed. And I thought: Doris has it right, right? Better laugh than cry. I don’t want to be a fool sobbing mess like my dumb dad, who can’t deal with his wife leaving him (my mom left me, too, and I wanted to cry, but seriously, better laugh than cry). That became my whole way of dealing.

A couple years later, there I was, ass dancing in the high school hallway while Seth Sellers mocked me with fart sounds. Laughing all the way, man.

But I stared at that Code Red stain on my rug and my heart beat and I thought, that’s not funny. For the first time, sir, it occurred to me that my total lack of dignity is not remotely funny.

That feeling continued into the night.

Grandpa, who you met this morning, moved in with me and Dad last summer to help us out. He cooks really well and sort of cleans—better than Doris, I guess. After he got too old to be a professional body builder, Grandpa ran a diner in town and the dude can make comfort food like nobody’s business.

Yes, you heard me right, body-builder.

Why are you laughing?

Everybody in town knows about Grandpa. He was Mr. Minnesota 1977, Mr. Rodriguez.I'm serious.The ladies loved him. Grandpa was Arnold Schwarzenegger's main competition back in the day.

That's what he told me and I believe him.

Long story short, sir, that night Grandpa cooked up some steaks and a bunch of mushrooms in butter sauce and mashed potatoes and green beans and fixed us salads.The deal is I never ate the green beans or the salad part. I doubled up on mashed potatoes, because oh balls, yes, do I love the awesome flavor of my grandpa's cream cheese infused mashed potatoes.

While I was sucking down the potatoes, Grandpa stared at me. He said, "Boy, the lack of roughage in your diet accounts for that big gut of yours.”

I looked up, stared back at Grandpa’s pinched face. I remembered Mr. McCartney calling me a fat ass in gym. My heart sank.My chin quivered."Big gut?" I asked.

"You heard me," he said.

I swallowed hard, thought I might cry, because all these names… But then my Doris philosophy kicked in. I said, “I’m out of here!” I put the rest of the potatoes in my mouth—a giant wad—jumped up from my chair andass-danced out of the dining room.

“Sure love the spuds, don’t ya, ya Chunk,” Grandpa called after me.

“Ha haha!” my dad laughed.

Back downstairs in my room, I stared at the stain again. What the hell is so funny? Am I really just a joke? I pictured Doris’s quivery arms and unsteady gaze and her wrinkled old face.

Then it hit me! Oh man, I thought. Crap! You’re not Doris, you idiot.

Total realization, sir. Doris couldn’t help it that she was so old. What was she going to do? Cry about living so long she no longer had control of her body? Better laugh than cry makes sense for her. I, on the other hand, have a choice. I’m a powerful young buck. Ass dancing isn’t the only option, right?

Don’t get me wrong, sir, I like being funny. But I don’t like…

You asked for it! The whole story! This totally has to do with the pop machine.

See, I was already pretty crabby that last week of school. Because I tried to limit my Code Red intake to three bottles a day, because I didn’t want to be a victim anymore, didn’t want to just laugh it all off. I wanted to do something for myself. I’d become dependent on the sugar and caffeine in the freaking pop, okay?

 Justin and Camille both commented on my bad mood.

“Why so sad?” Justin asked while driving me to school.

“Someone hit you with the sad stick?” Camille asked during chemistry.

“Bah,” I replied to both of them. “Screw everything.”

See? I was already evolving the attitude that caused me to become the criminal I am today.

Then, Wednesday that last week of school we had the first tiny event of what has since come to be known as the Spunk River War.

What a stupid name. Spunk. That’s a bonehead name.

Sure thing, sir. Go ahead and get coffee. I’ll be here when you get back. Not like I can go anywhere.

IN REMEMBRANCE: A LONG WALK TO FREEDOM: Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela: 1918 to 2013

Credit

The 5^th of December 2013 will always be remembered as one of the saddest days in South African history when we lost the father of our nation. When my husband told me early Friday morning, as we were getting ready to go to work, that our beloved Madiba has passed away late Thursday evening, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss. Though I never had the honor of meeting Madiba, his presence has always been as familiar to me as my own shadow.

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. I felt fear myself more times than I can remember, but I hid it behind a mask of boldness. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

About five years ago, I decided to read his book, Long Walk to Freedom. Up until that point, I’ve always seen former-president Mandela on t.v., heard him on the radio, or seen articles about him in newspapers and magazines. I knew about him, but I never truly understood what he did for our country, or the hardships he endured and the sacrifices he made. It took me about two weeks to work my way through his 751-pages autobiography…and I was without a doubt a different person by the time I turned the last page. Only then did I truly understand what self-sacrifice, humility, and forgiveness meant, and what a pivotal role this exceptionally noble man played in the history of our country. For every person who has ever propagated peace and freedom, Madiba was the one who dedicated his life to ensure peace and freedom for the people of our country. Not only did he become the leader of our land and united us a nation, he went beyond that and became an ambassador for reconciliation to build a legacy for future generations.

When I walked out of prison, that was my mission, to liberate the oppressed and the oppressor both.

For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.

Ask yourself this: would you have the courage to stand in front of thousands and thousands of people in London’s Trafalgar Square and say to them: I love each and everyone of you! I don’t think I’d ever be able to muster up enough courage to do such a thing, but Madiba did it without hesitation. Loving people came naturally to him. And with people I mean absolutely everyone. After reading his book he was no longer someone I heard about; he became someone I felt I knew. To me, he became the face of forgiveness. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fathom how great a person has to be to be able to forgive years of atrocities.

I always knew that deep down in every human heart, there was mercy and generosity. No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.

Yesterday, my husband and I went to watch the big-screen adaptation of Long Walk to Freedom. By the time the credits rolled, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, and we, together with our fellow movie-goers of every walk of life, broke out into an impromptu round of applause. If you haven’t read the book, at least go see the movie. I can’t imagine this real-life hero’s story not touching a heart. However, I did feel the movie-version of the book was very much romanticized, whereas the book gives you the cold, hard facts, but with Madiba’s voice of compassion and understanding. Of course, the movie won’t be able to capture that – not even in the running time of two and a half hours – and therefore I’d recommend reading the book instead. But, what I loved about the movie and which I didn’t get from the book, was Winnie’s (Madiba’s second wife) suffering, and how that lead to her becoming a person who is consumed by hatred and resentment, and how that led to the deterioration of her marriage to our icon.

I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I have made missteps along the way. But I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can rest only for a moment, for with freedom come responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not yet ended.

News of Nelson Mandela’s passing broke my heart. Yes, he was ninety-five-years old and yes, it was his time to go. But that doesn’t make it any less heart-breaking. I am consoled by the fact that he will go down in world history as one of the most loved and revered messiah-like legends of all time. He was loved by all, and he will never be forgotten. As the world mourns his passing along with us South Africans, we stand united as a symbol to his vision of freedom and peace. I am proud to say that I’m part of the generation that has lived in the time when this phenomenal man made history with one of the most extraordinary acts of forgiveness. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela will forever live on in our hearts and our memories as the epitome of strength, wisdom, generosity, and resilience; the leader who led by example.

We love you, Madiba!

*Note: Quotes taken from the autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, by Nelson Mandela.

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BOOK BLAST & GIVEAWAY: ROOK by Stella MacDonald

Rook

Could you be the monster to save who you love?

Two women, separated by generations, must leave what they know to start a new life. Seventeen-year-old Kate's senior year is ruined when she's moved from the only home she's ever known. After an isolating month alone in her apartment, school starts, but neither her classmates nor her teacher are who they seem. Kali, a single mother living in the nineteenth century wilds of Montana, is stalked by a malicious past. She fights to keep her daughter safe while her freedom is threatened by her less than benevolent benefactor. Both find love, and with it hope, but that is quickly ripped away as one woman must learn the lessons of the other -- before it's too late to save either.

Praise for Rook:

"This book also drew me in. I couldn't let go of what was happening and when life intervened and forced me to close my computer I kept looking for a few moments to sit down and read some more.” Brookeworm, a Blog 4 Stars

"Rook had me hooked from the first page. It all started so mysteriously that I just had to know what it was all about. “ Jannat Bhat, Obsessive Compulsive Reader 4 Stars

“Rook is an amazing story that had me at the edge of my seat.” Tee Loves Kyle Jacobson Blog, 5 Stars



Excerpt

Is that him? Is he back?

My legs jerked, kicking and twitching me around to face the sound. I managed to roll slightly, knocking against a soft, solid object at my feet. It grunted weakly, and immediately I recoiled as though I had been bitten. Squinting, I stared, willing my eyes to find light in the dark, but there was nothing.

The sound of the runner drew closer, as if they would trample me any moment. A dim, swaying light appeared through the trees, burning away the inky edges of the deep shadows. When light and sound were almost upon me, branches above me snapped, spraying me in a shower of dried pine needles and snow.

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Author Stella MacDonald

Stella is a married graduate student with three boys. Utah is home right now, but the need to wander has extended beyond the fantasy world of writing and into real life. She's lived all around the US and even into the Middle East. The world is really a small place, only made bigger through imagination.

BookBlast Giveaway

$50 Amazon Gift Card or Paypal Cash
Ends 12/30/13

Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader, Not A Writer and sponsored by the author. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.

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BLOG TOUR REVIEW & GIVEAWAY: DEAD JED: ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE SCHOOL ZOMBIE by Scott Craven

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Title: Dead Jed: Adventures of a Middle School Zombie

Author: Scott Craven

Publisher: Month9Books, LLC

Publication Date: December 1, 2013

Genres: MG, Adventure, Humor

Reviewed by: Books4Tomorrow

Source: Received from Tour Host for review

My rating: 5/5

Tour Host: Chapter by Chapter

SUMMARY

Dead Jed is Shaun of the Dead meets Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Jed's not your typical junior high geek. He is, to use the politically-correct term, cardiovascularly-challenged. And while his parents have attempted to shield him from the implications of being 'different' for as long as they could (Jed was 8 and at a friend's sister's birthday party when he blew his lips off onto the cake in front of everyone, finally prompting the “Big Talk” from his parents and an emergency SuperGlue repair by his dad), 7th grade at Pine Hollow Middle School as a target of Robbie the supreme school bully and his pack of moronic toadies is rapidly becoming unbearable.
From being stuffed in a filled trash can as “dead meat” and into a trophy case as the bully's “prize,” to literally having his hand pulled off in the boys' room (Jed's always losing body parts. Luckily, a good stapler and some duct tape and he's back in the action) and a cigarette put in it and try to frame him for the recent reports of smoking in the school, Jed's had enough and is ready to plan his revenge. Besides, it's awesome what you can do when you're already dead!

REVIEW

The minute I saw the cover and read the synopsis for this book, I knew it was going to be awesome! Just saying it was awesome feels like an understatement. It was way better than just awesome. Dead Jed was fun, hilarious, charming, evocative and impossible to put down! I devoured it in less than two days, and now I can’t wait for the sequel. I even went back and reread a couple of chapters and passages to make sure I didn’t miss a thing. But the best part in all this was that my fourteen-year-old son enjoyed this book as much as I did. I read my ARC copy out loud to him and we roared with laughter at the exact same time every time something side-splitting happened in the story. Trust me when I say there are tons of highly amusing moments in this gem of a MG novel. Never before have I read anything like it. After finishing the book, my son told me that Dead Jed ranks right up there with his favorite series, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, of which he has read every book in the series thus far. Oh and, if you’ve watched Shaun of the Dead (and enjoyed it as much as I have) you’ll quickly get the spot-on comparison between this book and that movie.

One of my absolute favorite lines in this book (and which I’m guessing will become a favorite of many readers) was when Jed very calmly replied: “I’m brain dead, not stupid.” You just can’t miss the humor in that...coming from a zombie...or should I say the “cardiovascularly challenged”? And speaking of zombie, I have to say that Jed is a phenomenal character. He’s completely lovable. In my opinion what makes him such a memorable character is his intelligence, his endurance, and his razor-sharp wit. For a dead guy, Jed rocks! I will never look at the living dead the same way again. Jed is the essence of the unlikely hero. He is not the only fully developed character, though. His parents (two of the coolest adults ever!), his best friend, Luke, and his almost-girlfriend, Anna, are all extraordinary characters in their own right, and each one of them adds something heartfelt and sincere to this novel.

Robbie the bully, as unlikeable as he is, balanced Jed out perfectly as Jed’s weaknesses and strengths plays off against Robbie’s merciless taunting and harassment. I appreciated that the author spent as much time developing Robbie’s character as he did the rest of the characters, because Robbie obviously plays a pivotal role in the development of the story. Also, I love when the villain isn’t a caricature of every typical evil mastermind featured in popular movies, books and tv programs. I loved that Robbie’s actions were unpredictable, but yet stayed true to the familiar actions of bullies everywhere. In his own way, Robbie is also a stand-out character, and besides, he isn’t done with “Zomboy” yet.

Apart from phenomenal characters, Dead Jed is a story with depth, and includes many life lessons and truths young and old will be able to identify with. The issue of bullying is definitely the running theme here, but I appreciated that the author didn’t tiptoe around it or glorify it any way. Jed, being a zombie and all, is clearly different in countless ways from every other kid at school which makes him the ultimate target for bullies and those who aren’t classified as bullies, but who are less tolerant of a class mate they judge based on appearance. Simultaneously it showcases that intolerance has no age restriction and how adults are also guilty of this, even if more so between the lines. The most heartfelt moments for me were how his parents dealt with their son being different and how they encouraged him to use his differences to his advantage. As many times as I rolled with laughter throughout this book, there were just as many times I had to wipe away a tear or wanted to hug Jed and praise him for embracing his individuality. The author did an outstanding job with not allowing Jed’s parents to coddle him, but still remain sympathetic to his feelings. I felt that zombie was used as a metaphor for being different whether it is by race, culture, religion, social standing or anything that makes a person stand out from the rest. It subtly, but clearly, highlighted how ignorant, stereotypical and narrow-minded people of all ages can be. I also loved how insightfully each group in the middle school hierarchy was described and where Jed fit into all of that. 

Other elements I enjoyed were the frequent references and comparisons to popular zombie movies, tv shows and paraphernalia; and one of my many favorite scenes included the one at the school dance with Michael Jackson’s song Thriller.

For a MG novel the romance between Jed and Anna is rather noteworthy. Not only is it sweet and makes you go “awwww”, it also has substance to it. I’ve read YA novels where the romance wasn’t nearly as touching as the first-love between these two seventh graders.

The ending also had a nice twist I never saw coming.

So, what more does this book offer? Well, there are the clever puns and the narrative perfectly suited for younger readers, but at the same time it won’t make older readers feel like they’re reading a children’s book. Right after the acknowledgements you’ll find a preview of the first chapter of book two. It also includes a fun zombie quiz titled, You Don’t Know Dead! For awesome zombie games, quizzes, facts, and questions, you can visit the author’s website right here.

I’m entirely convinced this series is going to be as big and popular as the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series, if not more. It might be aimed at middle grade readers, but I will highly and happily recommend it to readers aged 9 to 99! As soon as this book is available in print, I’m getting a copy. This is undoubtedly a book I want displayed on my son’s bookshelf because I haven’t been this excited about a children’s series since Harry Potter - though these two can’t be compared as both are vastly different and in a league of its own. Dead Jed shines in its uniqueness and I, for one, am excitedly looking forward to the rest of this series which can be enjoyed by boys and girls!

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ABOUT the AUTHOR

Proud graduate of Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo, have one son who will turn 18 in March 2013, now a features writer for The Arizona Republic.

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***GIVEAWAY***

Fill out the below rafflecopter form for a chance to WIN a signed copy of Dead Jed (US only) OR one of three e-copies (Int)!!

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FIRST CHAPTER SNEAK PEEK: EMPOWER (Embrace, #5) by Jessica Shirvington

It may be cold outside, but Sourcebooks is making this Holiday season sizzle with a sneak peek at one of next spring’s hot new titles! As a special present to you, Sourcebooks has generously sent the first chapter of Empower, the eagerly anticipated final installment in Jessica Shirvington’s popular series, Embrace, for me to share with my readers!

  

Thank you, Sourcebooks!

You can check out other fantastic titles from Sourcebooks, here.

Title: Empower

Series: Embrace, #5

Author: Jessica Shirvington

Publisher: Sourcebooks Fire

Expected Publication Date: May 6, 2014

Genres: YA, Paranormal Romance

SUMMARY

It has been two years since Violet Eden walked away from the city, her friends, her future and - most importantly - her soulmate, Lincoln. Part angel, part human, Violet is determined to stand by the promises she made to save the one she loves.

Living in the perpetual coldness of a broken soul she survives day to day as a Rogue Grigori in London.

But when an unexpected visitor shows up at her door, the news he bears about someone she swore to protect leaves Violet with no choice.

Even worse, she fears that this might all lead back to the night she tries hardest to forget. And what was taken without her permission.

Violet is going back to New York ... and she knows exactly who is going to be there.

With Phoenix in her dreams and Lincoln in her heart she knows it is only a matter of time before the final choice must be made.

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TITLES in the EMBRACE SERIES

  

- Embrace (Embrace, #1)  

- Entice (Embrace, #2)  

- Emblaze (Embrace, #3)  

- Endless (Embrace, #4)  

ABOUT the AUTHOR

Jessica Shirvington is the author of THE VIOLET EDEN CHAPTERS also known as THE EMBRACE SERIES, and stand alone novel, BETWEEN THE LIVES. An entrepreneur, author, and mother living in Sydney, Australia, Jessica is also a 2011 finalist for Cosmopolitan’s annual Fun, Fearless Female Award. She’s also one of the lucky few who met the love of her life at age seventeen: Matt Shirvington, a former Olympian and current sports broadcaster for FOXTEL and Sky News. Married for twleve years with two beautiful daughters, Sienna and Winter, Jessica knows her early age romance and its longevity has definitely contributed to how she tackles relationships in her YA novels.

AUTHOR LINKS

Blog    *    Website    *    Facebook    *    Twitter    *    Goodreads

CHAPTER ONE

“But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

Robert Frost

My sweater was coated in a layer of mist—-again—-a by--product of life in London. I barely noticed the constant drizzle anymore. It’s not as if the cold bothered me, not when I was the very definition of cold.

What was bothering me was the smell. There is something rank about a meat market at night—-especially when you’re wedged into the eaves wondering what, over the years, has been sprayed about and never cleaned away. I shuddered.

The Smithfield Market was currently in vogue, but a gritty sense of history thickened the air, giving it a density that made me sure this wasn’t the first time the site had been used for wicked intent. And right now, it was hunting hour.

At least I was the hunter.

I watched quietly as the exiles came into the center of the massive terminal--style space, vaguely interested to note that there were six of them, instead of the four I’d expected. No bother, I suppose. I still had the element of surprise on my side.

The past two years had taught me not to let the everyday hiccups get to me. Sure, the additional muscle would hurt, but only in the physical sense, and I could cope with that. Rolling with the punches is necessary when you are a Grigori—-a human--angel hybrid—-a weapon against the ever--increasing numbers of exiled angels on earth. For me even more so, since they gave me such a colorful nickname. I’m the Keshet—-the rainbow. I didn’t ask to be, but I made my choices and I stand by them.

So, there I was. Although I was still trying to figure out exactly what being the rainbow meant, mostly I found that the desire to know conflicted with my continuing need not to think about it at all. One thing I did know was that somehow I could create space with the angels—-an unknown place where we were able to take form and communicate. My angel maker—-whose name I still didn’t know—-said it was a place of new possibilities. For what, I was not sure.

But I know this is what I am. It is what I will be.

The final two exiles sauntered up to the four already waiting. It used to be impossible for me to be this close to exiles without them going into a frenzy, sensing my presence. But I’d learned many lessons over the past year, the most useful of which had been how to keep my guards up and locked so tight that even exiles couldn’t sense me when I was truly concentrating.

Which—-judging by the thin film of sweat on my forehead—-is now.

The exiles dumped the huge calico sack they had been dragging along the floor and pulled it open, revealing three mutilated bodies to join the two maimed ones already on display.

From my position it was difficult to tell how old the corpses were, and if the smell was able to give a clue, I wouldn’t have known, the stink of death and flesh being an overall theme of the place.

It was no wonder the exiles liked it so much.

Normally, exiles wouldn’t bother with the cleanup—-leaving evidence was of no concern. Normally, the exiles enjoyed the mess and despair they left behind. But not these exiles. These dark exiles were working for someone else. They’d been following a plan, using a hit list, and it was all too well constructed for any one of them to mastermind. Our intel told us they’d been hired. Such behavior would usually be considered beneath them, but apparently this group of exiles had decided the job was thrilling enough to suffer the humiliation of working for the highest bidder—-even if that was a human.

As for the billionaire businessman, well, that’s not my department, but someone will pay him a visit. Right after all the evidence of his wrongdoing—-minus the exile activity—-is handed over to the authorities and his bank accounts are heavily siphoned to pay for the futures of his victims’ families. And our fee, of course.

Which, thanks to certain people, is exorbitant.

Two of the exiles were dressed impeccably: one in a steel--gray suit and sporting villain--typical slicked--back hair; the other wore a slim--collared black suit that hugged his tall figure and set off his of--the--moment tousled, light brown hair. The remaining four were less striking in casual wear, though nonetheless picture perfect. All six looked over the bodies like fishermen comparing the size and quality of their haul. My hand grazed my dagger, the blade that had been given to me after I first embraced my powers and became a Grigori warrior three years ago. I was never without it. I even had a sheath attached to my bed for a quick draw if needed.

I’d learned the hard way—-through the death and suffering of people I loved and, strangely enough, through my own death and suffering—-exiles stop at nothing. Their insanity and misguided missions know no bounds, and they take pleasure in causing great pain and suffering to humankind.

At least tonight I would only face exiles of dark. A couple of years ago, the two opposing sides, light and dark, had called a truce. Of course, I tried not to think back to that time.

I tried constantly.

The discovery of the scripture that could end all Grigori had found its way into my hands. That in itself was part of the reason the Assembly had rejected me. They blamed me for trading with the dark exile, Phoenix. My decision had allowed him to resurrect Lilith—-his mother, the first dark exile—-from the dead, and she had taken control of the Grigori Scripture. But at the time, my choice had been a simple one. Phoenix had Steph, my best friend, and I wasn’t about to take any chances with her life. I’ve never regretted that choice.

Not like so many others I’ve made.

In the end, that made it easier to walk away from a place in the Academy when Josephine decided to change her mind. Of course, that was after I’d given my life, Lincoln’s soul had shattered, and Phoenix had died—-proving that not only was he the son of Lilith, but he was also the human son of the first man, Adam—-all so that I could kill Lilith. And those reasons weren’t even the ones I tried not to think about.

But I can’t go there right now.

I caught myself. I was working and the last thing I could afford to do was acknowledge that I was thinking about him.

The six exiles started to shift the remains of the bodies toward the incinerator, tossing them with supernatural strength and no care. I half expected them to try and mince the meat and load it onto trays for sale tomorrow. I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“Make sure you take the index fingers,” one of the suited exiles instructed. “Mr. George is expecting me to deliver them to him tonight.”

That’s a shame. Though I’m sure Mr. George will receive a knock at his door nonetheless.

“I still don’t understand why we don’t just kill him too,” another said.

“Are you challenging me?” The exile who had spoken first stepped forward.

His questioner mirrored his actions.

Here we go.

“If I must.”

Exiles never back down. Their pride and egotism combined with their unique brand of insanity is just too much to ignore. Angels were not created to take corporeal forms on earth. Though they have existed for eternity, in human bodies, they manifest emotions in ways their innate nature can never process. It makes them unstable. And almost unstoppable.

I wriggled into a better position and waited patiently, knowing that this would work in my favor.

Sure enough, the exile who had spoken out first also struck out first, engaging with the suited exile. It didn’t last long. The suit, clearly the older of the two and a true fighter—-my guess was he had once been either a Domination or a Power—-overpowered his opponent, snapping his neck and making quick work of removing his heart.

We had our methods of ending their immortal existence; they had theirs.

Happy days. I now have one less exile to take care of.

I checked the time and sighed. If I didn’t get this show on the road, I’d lose my window. And fighting alone was always my preference.

The drop to the ground was at least two stories high, but I landed behind the group of exiles lightly, thanks to my angelic enhancements.

Breathing calmly, I let go of the power I was holding tightly within, just enough to lower my shields.

The exiles, who had been preoccupied with their boasting, stiffened instantly and spun around to face the new threat. It was almost comical, the look of surprise on their faces. I guess a Grigori had never snuck up on them before.

Responding quickly, the suited exile stepped forward, shoving two of them to the side, the five of them quickly forming a semicircle around me.

So nice of them to stand in single file.

But the way he studied me—-with trademark exile insanity and undisguised raw desire—-made me think that this one recognized me. It happened from time to time.

I wanted to sit around and chew the fat. Really. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do with my time than hear about how they intended to rip me limb from limb and how that would make them as great as gods and me the most pathetic of humans. But when you’ve heard it all before and always walked away—-or, at the very least, been carried—-while they were returned for their ultimate judgment, it gets old. So, I cut to the chase.

“You have a choice. Make it or I will make it for you,” I said, knowing that of all Grigori, I alone had the right to put it like that. “Consider wisely,” I reinforced. After all, I could return them like any other Grigori with one of our blades, but if I willed it, I could also strip them of their angelic strengths and leave them human—-a fate exiles considered worse than an eternity in the pits of Hell. As far as I was aware, I was the only Grigori who could do this without requiring the exile in question to first choose such a fate. Which, of course, never happened.

“You brought Lilith to her end,” the suit said, his head tilted to the side, as if confused.

Yeah, that’s right, little ol’ me.

And it only cost me everything that mattered.

I raised my eyebrows. “Time’s almost up,” I said, refraining from closing my eyes briefly as I felt a surge of power within, something that had been happening increasingly. I was getting stronger, and exactly what that meant and how to harness it wasn’t the kind of knowledge I was excited to discover.

I could strip them all, make their choice for them, and be done with it, but I’d only done it twice. Onyx had been my first, and I’d seen the pain it caused him. I didn’t like knowing I was the one who took away his choice. Who was I to do such a thing? The second had been a demonstration, and had resulted in the exile in question meeting a quick death. I can’t say I regretted it—-he’d been one of the exiles so happy to see me strapped to a crucifix and tortured for hours—-but still…

Anyway, tonight was more like training, and I’d been taught to be thorough. So, when the suit threw the first exile at me—-knowing he’d be nothing more than a momentary distraction while I took him down and he lined up the next one—-I got to work.

I braced, grabbing my dagger and moving into position. By the time the exile came within range, my dagger had sliced through his heart and he was no longer there. Simply gone. Where did their physical forms go? Beats me.

I was already spinning by the time the second one was sent flying through the air toward me. My foot stopped his momentum and threw him back. I was on him in an instant, my dagger going straight to his heart. It didn’t need to be the heart to return them, just a killing blow inflicted by a Grigori weapon. You could slice into exiles all day long with your garden--variety knife or shoot them with a gun, but neither option worked. I’d never seen a Grigori manage to rip out an exile’s heart barehanded, and even though the trick worked for exiles taking out other exiles, something told me that it did not alter our rules. Permanent results for Grigori over exiles only came via the blades of angels.

Or my blood.

The third exile went much the same way, and soon enough I was left being circled by the two suits. To my surprise, they actually worked together—-exiles aren’t good at that—-boxing me into a corner. The brown--haired exile in the black suit moved in on me when the other one feigned a move to my right. I took a closed fist across the face and a foot to the stomach.

I heard a crack—-broken rib—-but I didn’t register the pain. That kind of pain was barely a tickle compared to the agony I carried inside, every moment of every day.

My pause gave the other exile the chance to take a swing. His foot collided with my hand so hard that my dagger went flying across the room. I kept my eyes on my attackers but my ear on my weapon, listening to the reverberations as it slid along the concrete floor and eventually hit the far wall with a clang.

The exiles smiled.

I sighed.

Then I leapt into the air, gaining enough height to grip the brown--haired exile’s throat between my knees. Twisting my body as I fell through the air, I dragged the exile down with me, his neck breaking with a loud crunch.

It wouldn’t keep him down for good, but a broken neck buys time.

The exile in the gray suit grabbed me roughly from behind and threw me into the wall.

I groaned as I slid down the metal piping my back had hit. It was the opposite wall to my dagger.

Damn it.

It wasn’t an ideal situation. And I wasn’t fool enough to delude myself into thinking I could make it to my dagger. I was regretting my decision not to wear any other weapons tonight, but my dagger was the only weapon that, when sheathed, was invisible to human eyes.

Think, Vi.

I’d come down behind a wall of old crates. I was considering how I could use them to my advantage when I spotted a piece of the slim metal piping I’d broken in my fall. It lay by my foot.

I could hear the exiles moving toward me. They were cackling.

“We should take her body with us to the tournament tonight,” one said.

The other one laughed. “That would definitely put dark in the lead.”

“And everyone would know that we were the ones who killed her.”

Can anyone say “premature victory”?

Without stopping to think, I pulled off the bracelet from my left wrist, using the specially designed clasp to cut open the flesh around my silver marking, currently swirling in the presence of exiles, and let it spill onto the end of the metal bar.

It took just a few seconds, and as soon as I palmed the pipe, the exiles started to throw the crates aside then came into view, their smiles wide with anticipation.

I stood. I didn’t return their smiles. I didn’t bother to do anything other than what needed to be done.

I lunged, raising my elbow into the face of the black--haired exile as I spun, the metal pipe striking his companion through the heart. He was gone. I turned back to the first exile and, hoping that there was still enough of my blood on the pipe to do the trick and using my supernatural speed for all it was worth, I jammed the pipe straight into his neck.

His face wore an expression of pure surprise.

I’d seen that look before.

I sighed and my shoulders slumped forward, unfulfilled. This was my job, one that I would do for as long as I existed, which could be a significantly long time. But two years ago, I’d accepted that there was no longer any satisfaction to be had in my world.

No fairytales.

Only the cold.

Turning toward where I thought my dagger had landed, my surroundings suddenly changed.

I was no longer seeing the warehouse. There were flashes of white, moving fast, pounding hooves. Horses. Silver streaked through the air like a dance. Swords. Slashes of red painted the sky. Something sharp and deadly ripping through flesh—-wet and gruesome. Claws. Thousands and thousands of beings as far as I could see fought ruthlessly, with no sign of tiring. In the center, two warriors battled beneath a blinding light. I could not make out their faces.

I blinked hard.

The image was gone, and in its place Gray stood against the wall of Lincoln’s warehouse, casually flipping my dagger in the air. “Would you like me to applaud?” he asked.

Leaning against a metal support pole, he had that midtwenties look I’d come to associate with the older Grigori—-though I had no idea how old he really was—-and was dressed in his usual black jeans, black T--shirt, and black leather jacket. Black really was the only color worth investing in—-blood stains everything else. He sported about a week’s worth of growth on his face, though his head was shaved, the scars that ran over the top of his skull telling of a history both terrible and secret. Grigori did not generally scar, so I knew that whatever had caused these had occurred before Gray had turned seventeen.

I swallowed over the lump in my throat and glanced around as I composed myself. The whole…hallucination…had lasted only a couple of seconds. I clenched my jaw.

Christ. It was nothing. I’m just imagining things.

I snapped my bracelet back in place over my marking and shot him a dry look. “Should I be charging a spectator fee?”

My voice sounded normal but my ears felt like they were still ringing with the echoes of battle.

“Not if the show is going to be over so fast, princess.”

I glared at him for persisting with the stupid nickname. “You know, you could’ve stepped in and given me a hand.”

“Sure,” he said with a solemn nod. “And you could’ve waited until the meet time we’d all agreed on too.”

I looked away briefly. “So, why are you here early?” I asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

Gray tilted his head. “Because I know you.”

I shrugged off the veiled accusation, even though it was true. To a degree.

“It was easier this way.”

He threw my dagger into the air, and I caught it by the hilt and slipped it back into its sheath.

“Well you can explain that to the others, since they just arrived.”