Fade To Blue
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Synopsis:
Sophie Blue started wearing a black skirt and Midnight Noir lipstick on her last birthday. It was also the day her father disappeared. Or spontaneously combusted. Which is sort of bad timing, since a Popsicle truck with tinted windows has started circling the house.
Kenny Fade is a basketball god. His sneakers cost more than his Jeep. He's the guy all the ladies (and their mommas) want. Bad.
Sophie Blue and Kenny Fade don't have a thing in common. Aside from being reasonably sure they're losing their minds.
Acclaimed author Sean Beaudoin's wildly innovative novel combines uproarious humor with enough plot twists to fill a tube sock. Part thriller, part darkly comic philosophical discussion, and accompanied by a comic book interstitial, Fade to Blue is a whip-smart romp that keeps readers guessing until the last paragraph.
Book Excerpt:
CHAPTER NONE: SOPHIE BLUE
The Town Pool, The Snack Bar, The Deep End, The Birthday Girl
The place was packed. I was in a lounge chair, Herb lay sprawled on the crusty cement, and Lake was wheeled between us, adjusting her tire pressure with little pfft, pfft sounds. In the parking lot, minivans pulled up in rows, disgorging knock-knees and beach towels and sloshy coolers. The lifeguard repeatedly blew his whistle. Candy wrappers fluttered like moths. The water shimmered and the sun beamed and a breeze softly blew.
It was a perfect day.
Except something bad was coming.
I could smell it in the chlorine. I could see it in the piles of abandoned flip-flops and skids of egg salad. It was in every yell and every shove and every stubbed toe. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue, just beneath the surface.
Which makes a ton of sense.
I popped my second can of Diet Crank, (triple the caffeine, four times the aspartame), which tended to give me a definite style: Early Impressionist Panic Attack. My pad was filled with shaky portraits and possible tattoos: Godzilla playing bass, Caligula drinking a latte, Conan the librarian.
"What're you drawing?" Lake asked.
I was sketching her father in big swirly lines. He had a mound of hair in the center of his chest and lines of lesser fluff running from his neck all the way to his toes. It was doubly obvious because he wore a pinstripe Speedo.
"Herb's chest-fro and banana sling."
Lake laughed. "Maybe someone should take a gander at their own ensemble, before they go picking on helpless old men."
"I am old," Herb said. "But not helpless."
I was wearing a black bikini. Black Wayfarers. Black cowboy hat. Black boots, unlaced, no socks, and a black sweatband on my left wrist. My look was sort of Dead Southern Rocker, mixed with a studied nonchalance. A studied maybe Aaron Agar will show up-chalance.
"Aaron Agar is not coming," Lake said, lighting a cigarette. I waved the smoke away with a sketch of an unhappy lung. The lifeguard blew his whistle, Hey you! Put that out!
"So, Herb?"
Herb raised his head, peering at me above the rims of his aviator shades. His nose was covered in zinc, glasses carving a line in the white goop. Behind him was a huge sign that said Thank You, Fade Labs! Pool Construction Complete! It had a picture of smiling guys in lab-coats shaking hands with smiling guys in hardhats, while some lady cut a yellow ribbon with comically huge scissors.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"You're a few days early," I said. "But I love my present."
Herb had baked me a big round birthday cookie and shoved a drippy candle into the center. It sat on a napkin next to my leather jacket.
"You pretty much only turn eighteen once," he said, slapping five with some guy who walked by. He'd recently just lost his job as a security guard. We came to the pool because it was free. "Was I going to spare any expense?"
I gave him a big thumbs-up. He gave me the double thumbs-up back, while Lake leaned over the side of the pool and scooped water onto her shoulders.
"Careful," I said, before I could stop myself.
She rolled her eyes. "Of what?"
Lake refers to her accident as My Leap From The Nest, except she says it like Mah Lee-yape From Thuh Neyast, since she moved from Georgia in fifth grade and a maple-y drawl sometimes wisps out, like when she's trying to be extra convincing: "Juhst go ahead an aysk that boy foh his phone numbah, Sophie, where's the hahm in thay-at?" No harm at all. Except most boys refer to me, when they refer to me at all, as Gothika. Or Columbine-a.
Bryce Ballar ran past us, yelled "Test Tube!" and belly-flopped into the shallow end, splashing annoyed moms and dry ankles and uncovered snacks. The lifeguard blew his whistle. Bryce Ballar gave the lifeguard the finger.
"Do you hear that?" I asked.
Lake sighed. "Don't listen to anything Bryce--"
"No," I said. "That."
There was a faint whispery clanging, like the buzz coming from someone's headphones. Gotothelabgotothelabgotothelab.
I stood up on the deck chair to hear better.
"No standing on the deck chair!" The lifeguard yelled.
I could see my brother on the other side of the pool, near the dumpster. He was reading a comic book, cross-legged on a yellow towel that looked suspiciously like a washcloth. His big shiny head was sunburned, and I felt bad for his inner thighs, which looked raw and cement-pocked.
"Um, Sophie?" Lake said.
I waved, but O.S. paid no attention. I got on my tiptoes and swung my arm. He ignored me, glasses two inches from the page. Behind him, an ice cream truck was coming down the hill. It had bullhorns mounted on the roof. Bells clanged and clown music jangled, the static getting louder and louder.
"That's weird," I said, my elbow suddenly numb.
"Yeah, it is," Lake said. "Sit down."
The truck's windows were tinted black, Snap O' Matic painted across the hood. It didn't slow down as it entered the parking lot, front wheels jumping the curb, dragging shrubbery. It sideswiped a pair of station wagons before slamming into the gate. Gears ground, causing a series of backfires. Ice cream flew everywhere. Popsicles left melty trails of red. No one screamed. No one ran. Kirsty Wells picked at her toes. Kirsty Rogers smoothed her towel. Cans of Sour White flew through the air. Floaty toys popped and burst. I looked at Lake, who didn't move. I looked at Herb, who yawned and rolled onto his belly. My elbow itched. I dug into it as the truck veered left.
Aiming straight for the dumpster.
I jumped off the chair and ran across the wet tiles, slap, slap, slap.
Thirty feet.
I knocked over benches, scrambling between tables.
Ten feet.
I slid sideways, wind-milling for balance, and stood in front of my brother.
Impact.
The frozen metal grill connected with my chest, vertical imprints seared into me like bar code.
I am so Goth, I'm roadkill.
Topics/Categories:
Mystery, Teen Angsty, Thriller
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Original Publish Date:
August 1, 2009
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