The S-Word by Chelsea Pitcher
Publisher: Gallery Books
Publication Date: May 7, 2013
Summary (from Goodreads):
First it was SLUT scribbled all over Lizzie Hart’s locker.
But one week after Lizzie kills herself, SUICIDE SLUT replaces it—in Lizzie's looping scrawl.
Lizzie’s reputation is destroyed when she's caught in bed with her best friend’s boyfriend on prom night. With the whole school turned against her, and Angie not speaking to her, Lizzie takes her own life. But someone isn’t letting her go quietly. As graffiti and photocopies of Lizzie’s diary plaster the school, Angie begins a relentless investigation into who, exactly, made Lizzie feel she didn’t deserve to keep living. And while she claims she simply wants to punish Lizzie’s tormentors, Angie's own anguish over abandoning her best friend will drive her deep into the dark, twisted side of Verity High—and she might not be able to pull herself back out.
Debut author Chelsea Pitcher daringly depicts the harsh reality of modern high schools, where one bad decision can ruin a reputation, and one cruel word can ruin a life. Angie’s quest for the truth behind Lizzie’s suicide is addictive and thrilling, and her razor-sharp wit and fierce sleuthing skills makes her impossible not to root for—even when it becomes clear that both avenging Lizzie and avoiding self-destruction might not be possible.
About the Author:
Chelsea Pitcher is a native of Portland, OR where she received her BA in English Literature. Fascinated by all things literary, she began gobbling up stories as soon as she could read, and especially enjoys delving into the darker places to see if she can draw out some light.
I know, I know. Sneaking into the boys' bathroom is not every girl's fantasy. But it's not like I can trust a guy to do it for me. So that's how I find myself leaning against the door to the boys' bathroom, fingers pinching my nose, using my elbow to ease open the door, when Jesse passes by.
"Hey." I try to keep my voice causal.
Jesse stops , slowly, and pivots to face me. I can't help but notice his outfit, which is funny because I could barely tell you what I'm wearing without looking down to remind myself. My fashionista days have fallen by the wayside.
Not so for Jesse. Today his clothes could have come from the girls' or guys's department. He's got on pinstriped pants and a crisp white shirt, not unlike the one Kennedy was wearing. Add to that suspenders and a pin-striped back fedora, and he's ready to take on Hollywood in the Golden Age. Naturally, the hat's pulled down.
All hail the king of covert existence. Everyone can see the falshy clothes. No one can see his eyes.
He makes an exception for me. "Oh, you remember me?" his voice is not helpful. It's full of disdain.
"I need your help," I say conspiratorially.
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