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Bücher Herunterladen The Last to Let Go, by Amber Smith
Bücher Herunterladen The Last to Let Go, by Amber Smith
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The Last to Let Go, by Amber Smith
Bücher Herunterladen The Last to Let Go, by Amber Smith
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Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Amber Smith is the New York Times bestselling author of the young adult novels The Way I Used to Be and The Last to Let Go. An advocate for increased awareness of gendered violence, as well as LGBTQ equality, she writes in the hope that her books can help to foster change and spark dialogue surrounding these issues. She grew up in Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, with her partner and their ever-growing family of rescued dogs and cats. You can find her online at AmberSmithAuthor.com.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
The Last to Let Go SHADOWS IT’S THE END OF JUNE. A Friday. Like any other day, except hotter. I take my usual shortcut home from school through the alley, where the air is dense and unbreathable, saturated with the raw smell of overheated dumpster garbage. I can taste it in the back of my throat like an illness coming on. But this is the last time I’ll ever need to take this route, I remind myself. Almost instantly that invisible yet ever-present straitjacket begins to loosen its grip just enough for me to breathe a little easier. I’ve been counting down the days for years. Not that school itself was ever the problem. It’s all the people in the school who are the problem. Or maybe, as I sometimes think, the problem might have been me all along. Occam’s razor, and everything. Isn’t it simpler that the problem should be one person versus hundreds, rather than the other way around? Logically, maybe. But then, if I’m really going to think about it—which, I’ve decided, I’m not—me being the problem is the opposite of simple. As I step out of the shaded alley and onto the sidewalk, the sun blasts down in a cascade of heat and light. I stop and roll my jeans up to my knees, while my shadow pools at my feet like a small gray puddle. When my brother, Aaron, and I were little, we always kept a vigilant watch over our shadows, convinced that one day they’d splinter off like in Peter Pan and run amok, committing all sorts of treacherous deeds without our consent. But that was a lifetime ago. I doubt he even remembers. As I stand up, my forehead is instantly beaded with sweat, the back of my shirt dampened under the weight of my backpack. Usually I can’t stand the heat, but today it doesn’t bother me. Nothing can right now. Because I just aced my AP Bio final. I’m officially done with Riverside High. And I’ll be starting my junior year, the most important year, at Jefferson—the special charter school that’s had me wait-listed since eighth grade—with all new people. Where no one knows me. Where I can focus, get ahead, and start my life already. I’ve wanted to go there ever since I found out about all the AP classes they offer. I’ve thought about it for roughly a million hours. I worked out a plan and now it’s finally happening: I’ll graduate from Jefferson, get in to an amazing college somewhere far away, and then get out of this hellhole for good. I feel a hitch in my step. I involuntarily skip ahead on my toes. This feels like a moment I should be celebrating with my friends, if I had any. Because I’m free, almost. A siren chirps once. Twice. I look up just as the red and blue lights begin spinning, in time to watch the patrol car go from parked to sixty in a matter of seconds, the noise shifting the heavy air around me. The heat radiates from the pavement through the rubber soles of my flip-flops as I skip over the crumbling blacktop, sidestepping the potholes I’ve practically memorized over the years. The sirens fade into the distance, but within seconds that patrol car is followed by five more, then a fire truck, then an ambulance, leaving the air too still in their wake. I follow the procession of emergency vehicles, systematically reviewing my answers on DNA and RNA and the endocrine system, and cell division: prophase, metaphase, anaphase. For six blocks of brick and cement and glass-window storefronts, the sun beats down on my hair and face, my shadow following along behind me the whole way. I only wish I could’ve known that these were the last relatively carefree moments of my life, because as my heel turns ninety degrees on that last corner to our apartment, nothing will ever be the same again. The six police cars and the fire truck and the ambulance are all jammed into the narrow alley next to our building. Although there are seven other apartments in our building, I can feel it in my bones and skin and blood, this is not about any of the other people behind any of those seven other doors. This is about us. I try to run but it feels like I’m moving through water, my feet sinking into wet sand, my legs getting tangled up in strands of seaweed wanting to pull me under. I don’t care that I’ve lost my flip-flops, or that the sunbaked asphalt is boiling the soles of my feet, or that somehow my backpack has shuffled off me and is now lying in the middle of the road like a dead animal, with all those precious study materials inside. I race through the door and up the stairs, calling her name over and over again. Mom. I make it up only to the first landing before I’m caught by the waist, a voice shouting in my ear to “calm down, calm down.” I try to fight him, but it’s no use. “Brooke,” he says firmly, calling me by my name. “Hold still, all right—wait!” I know exactly who it is without even having to look. Tony. He told me I could call him that when I was in fourth grade and one of our neighbors had called the cops on us. It was the time Dad broke Mom’s collarbone and Mom convinced the police she had fallen down the stairs. That was one of the few times I’d ever seen him cry about what he’d done; he melted into a puddle, and swore—swore to all of us, swore to a god I’m not sure he even believed in—never again. I didn’t know which version of him scared me more, the crazy one or the sorry one. We’ve been through this enough times to know that the cops don’t pull out all the stops like this for a simple noise complaint from a neighbor, especially when that neighbor is a cop himself. Which can mean only one thing: It’s finally happened. Aaron always said it was only a matter of time. Tony opens his mouth, the words to explain escaping him. Mrs. Allister, in 2B, inches her door open, the chain-link lock pulled taut in front of her face. She stares out at me with her wide, red-rimmed eyes, her chin quivering, her mouth turning downward as she whimpers my name. “I didn’t know what to do,” she pleads in her own defense. “I didn’t know what else to do.” Mrs. Allister was always the one to call the cops, until the one time when I was in seventh grade and I barged into her apartment, yelling about how even though she thought she was helping, she was only making things worse. Calling the police never did any good, I tried to make her understand, because he was one of them. Mrs. Allister cried then, too. As far I know, she never called again. Until now. “Ma’am, back inside right now!” Tony demands. And Mrs. Allister retreats like a turtle back into its shell. The door clicks shut, the dead bolt sliding into place. Then suddenly a whole swarm of cops in bulletproof vests barrel down the stairs toward us, shouting, “Outta the way, move, outta the way, get her outta here.” I think they mean me at first, but before I even know what’s happening next, Tony has my back pinned against Mrs. Allister’s door, shielding me as they pass by us like a hurricane of bodies. That’s when I see her, my little sister, like a ghost encircled by these gray uniforms, each one with a hand on her. Her hair swings forward over her shoulders as the cops jerk her body down the stairs. She’s still wearing her baby-blue T-shirt and her favorite cutoff jean shorts, which she isn’t allowed to wear to school, just like she was when I left this morning. I remember because she kicked her feet up and sprawled out on the...
Produktinformation
Taschenbuch: 384 Seiten
Verlag: Margaret K. McElderry; Auflage: Export (6. Februar 2018)
Sprache: Englisch
ISBN-10: 1534426019
ISBN-13: 978-1534426016
Größe und/oder Gewicht:
14 x 2,8 x 21 cm
Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung:
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Amazon Bestseller-Rang:
Nr. 281.664 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
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