"Book Beginnings" on Friday is hosted by Rose City Reader, the meme encourages to share the first sentence (or so) of the book you are reading, along with your initial thoughts about the sentence, impressions of the book.
"The Friday 56" is also a weekly event, hosted by Freda's Voice, where you find any sentence, (or few, just don’t spoil it) that grab you from page 56 or 56% in your book/eReader (If you have to improvise, that's ok.)
Getting this up a little late. Friday feels like Saturday this week and has me all discombobulated. Nonetheless, TGIF!
From the author of THE SUMMER PRINCE, a novel that's John Grisham's THE PELICAN BRIEF meets Michael Crichton's THE ANDROMEDA STRAIN set at an elite Washington D.C. prep school.
Emily Bird was raised not to ask questions. She has perfect hair, the perfect boyfriend, and a perfect Ivy-League future. But a chance meeting with Roosevelt David, a homeland security agent, at a party for Washington DC's elite leads to Bird waking up in a hospital, days later, with no memory of the end of the night.
Meanwhile, the world has fallen apart: A deadly flu virus is sweeping the nation, forcing quarantines, curfews, even martial law. And Roosevelt is certain that Bird knows something. Something about the virus--something about her parents' top secret scientific work--something she shouldn't know.
The only one Bird can trust is Coffee, a quiet, outsider genius who deals drugs to their classmates and is a firm believer in conspiracy theories. And he believes in Bird. But as Bird and Coffee dig deeper into what really happened that night, Bird finds that she might know more than she remembers. And what she knows could unleash the biggest government scandal in US history.
"Bird wakes up. The walls aren't white, but close, the color of a cracked egg."
It isn't much but just the image of the wall color is enough to give me a good picture. Plus, I want to know if Bird is a girl or guy.
"Maybe because they're not so bad?" "Oh no, you listen to me, now. Is that any way to talk to your own mother?" "Sorry, Mom." "My father used to say, 'Carol, I brought you into this world and I can take you out.' You should be grateful I go so easy on you. If your grandfather heard this mouth of yours, he'd make you cut the switch yourself." "You made me do that too." Carol Bird clucks her tongue. "I never used it. Honestly, you kids have no idea how good you have it."
Charlie Hanson has a clear vision of his future. A senior at Brighton School of Mathematics and Science, he knows he’ll graduate, go to MIT, and inevitably discover solutions to the universe’s greatest unanswered questions. He’s that smart. But Charlie’s future blurs the moment he reaches out to touch the tattoo on a beautiful girl’s neck.
The future has never seemed very kind to Charlotte Finch, so she’s counting on the present. She’s not impressed by the strange boy at the donut shop—until she learns he’s a student at Brighton where her sister has just taken a job as the English teacher. With her encouragement, Charlie orchestrates the most effective prank campaign in Brighton history. But, in doing so, he puts his own future in jeopardy.
By the time he learns she's ill—and that the pranks were a way to distract Ms. Finch from Charlotte’s illness—Charlotte’s gravitational pull is too great to overcome. Soon he must choose between the familiar formulas he’s always relied on or the girl he’s falling for (at far more than 32 feet per second squared).
"Beginnings are tricky things. I've been staring at this blank page for forty-seven minutes. It is infinite with possibilities. Once I begin, they diminish."
How true this is for all new beginnings, but especially the beginning of a story not yet written. Those first few words are possibly the hardest to get down.
"When I arrive at Dimwit's house, she's rocking on her porch while a tall glass of iced tea perspires on the table beside her, and starring out at the garbage heap of her garden. The garden used to be a kidney-shaped island of color in the midst of her immaculately trimmed lawn. The rose bushes varied from miniature versions to tall, climbing vines, and everything in-between. Now the tall vines hang limply from a smashed trellis and the miniature red rose bushes look like roadkill.
I stop at the bottom step and shift my weight from foot to foot. Sweat runs down my spine, pooling at my waistband. I clear my throat.
"I know you're there. I see you."
"Oh. Well... what should I do?"
Mrs. Dimwitty fixes me with what can only be described as an evil-ass stare. "Fix the mess you've made.""