{"product_id":"kill-the-lax-bro-isbn-9780593899304","title":"Kill the Lax Bro","description":"\u003cb\u003eFor fans of the sports backdrop and queer cast of \u003ci\u003eHeated Rivalry \u003c\/i\u003ecomes a fresh and darkly funny 90s murder mystery about one high school's net of lies that begin to unravel when a star lacrosse player winds up dead. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe night before graduation, all of Hancock High celebrates at their school’s annual lock-in. But what starts out as a fun night turns horribly wrong when a body is found—and the victim is none other than Troy Richards, the school’s star lacrosse player. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone is acting totally clueless. As for suspects? There’s Jennifer (the dream girl), Naomi (the geek), Sassi (the overachiever), and Tatum (the rebel). At a glance, it seems like they couldn’t be more unalike, except for the fact that they all hated Troy (the lax bro) . . . but who wanted him dead? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom debut author Charlotte Lillie Balogh comes a wickedly sharp take on high school stereotypes, including the boys we love and love to hate: lax bros.“Charlotte Lillie Balogh’s debut is \u003cb\u003eutterly impossible to put down \u003c\/b\u003e(no, really—I tore through it in twenty-four hours). The book’s expertly constructed plot is made even more propulsive by the use of six different narrators, each harboring their own secrets. And I still get goose bumps thinking about how it all ends.” —Jordyn Taylor, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWicked Darlings\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Revenge Game\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Reading this was like inhaling a Pixy Stix only to find out it might be laced with poison. \u003ci\u003eKill the Lax Bro\u003c\/i\u003e is full of girls and boys alike thirsty for the hottest lax bro in school—thirsty for his murder, that is. \u003cb\u003eA compulsive, whip-smart read from a talented new voice in YA. \u003c\/b\u003eThe twists at the end had me in a chokehold.” —Trish Lundy, author of \u003ci\u003eThe One That Got Away with Murder\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eTwisty, hilarious, and lethal\u003c\/b\u003e, Charlotte Lillie Balogh’s young adult debut is a perfect blend of your favorite ’90s teen movie antics and modern-day murder mysteries, leaving you on the edge of your seat—and dying to know who done it in this dark comedy!” —Matthew Hubbard, critically acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eThe Rebel’s Guide to Pride\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nostalgic ’90s vibes mash with a punchy multi-POV narrative to create a thrilling mystery that’s impossible to put down. \u003ci\u003eKill the Lax Bro\u003c\/i\u003e is the ultimate get-back-at-your-ex book—whether the ex is a boyfriend, best friend, or otherwise—and follows an unlikely yet endearing crew bent on serving up karma. Balogh’s debut is \u003cb\u003ea reading rush you won’t want to miss\u003c\/b\u003e.” —Mackenzie Reed, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Rosewood Hunt\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Wilde Trials \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] love letter to the 1990s wrapped in\u003cb\u003e a psychologically twisted whodunit\u003c\/b\u003e....Fans of Karen M. McManus or Diana Urban will devour this book.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Readers who enjoy twisty murder mysteries with ­multiple narrators \u003cb\u003ewill want to scoop this one up\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Blends ’90s nostalgia and high school drama with murder to create a surprising story that bounces between two timelines. With distinct, witty characters and complex motivations, \u003cb\u003efans of ’90s teen movies won’t be able to get enough!\u003c\/b\u003e\" —Megan Davidhizar, author of \u003ci\u003eSilent Sister\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eA standout debut that really scores! \u003c\/b\u003eSteamy romance, high school hijinks, ’90s nostalgia, and a whodunit murder mystery that had me hooked from page one. I never wanted it to end!\" —Sara Phoebe Miller, author of \u003ci\u003eYou Belong Here\u003c\/i\u003eCharlotte Lillie Balogh is an author, a screenwriter, and a comic book writer born and raised outside Boston. She self-published her first book at sixteen years old and later graduated as a Remembrance Scholar from Syracuse University. CLB is a lifelong superhero fanatic, and she launched into the television and film industry by working at DC Entertainment on projects including \u003ci\u003eWonder Woman 1984 \u003c\/i\u003eand the CW’s \u003ci\u003eStargirl\u003c\/i\u003e. When she’s not writing, CLB mentors young women through RowLA and WriteGirl, helping to create the next generation of real-life superheroes.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . baby one more time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJENNIFER LEE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bravest couples slow dance—­but right now, there aren’t many.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot this early in the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cafeteria is dotted with denim jackets, denim overalls, and brightly colored slap bracelets, and parent chaperones stand guard at the exits. I don’t know why they bother. Hancock High held its first lock-­in nearly a decade ago, right after a group of seniors died in a drunk driving accident. Now, in their memory—­and in an effort to protect the current students from their own bad decisions—­the night before graduation all students, teachers, and overly involved parents are—­you guessed it—­\u003ci\u003elocked into\u003c\/i\u003e the school overnight. It’s part dance, part fundraiser, part theater, and every lock-­in begins with the drama club staging a car accident involving real cars and fake blood. Just to really send the message home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat said, with the entire student body packed in like sardines, and someone—­somewhere—­guaranteed to sneak in cheap booze, everyone knows it will be a night to remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike the Stanford prison experiment—­but hornier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho’d be caught dead anywhere else?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe music warps to a synthy Ace of Base bop, and the makeshift dance floor swells with bodies. In the daytime, the cafeteria is crowded from wall to wall with circular plastic tables. But in honor of tonight’s festivities, the tables have been folded up against the windows to make space. Careful to dodge elbows, I hustle across the room and shimmy between two halved tables—­where I’m startled to find I’m not the only one looking for a hiding place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oops! Hi, Naomi.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaomi King blinks at me from behind an oversized pair of granny glasses. Silent. Although that’s not unusual for her. Usually, I’ll see Naomi in the hallway between classes, alone and walking alarmingly fast, with her face buried in an Anne Rice novel. Her thick hair is box-­braided into pigtails, and her baby-­pink overalls have a telltale smudge of sugar at the knee, most likely from when she was working the bake sale earlier tonight. I don’t know a ton of freshmen by name, but Naomi’s older sister, Melissa King, was an icon—­homecoming queen, student senate vice president, Most Likely to Change the World, Best Smile—­and Mel is currently on a full ride at Boston University.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Scram, dweeb!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI turn to see the Stern twins standing behind me protectively, each one a carbon copy of the other. The three of us are dressed in matching tube tops—­Chloe in blue, Zoey in pink. I’m in black. Naomi disappears with a literal squeak, and even I’ll admit that I’m grateful for the rescue. The twins beckon for me to follow, and I realize they’ve managed to crack a window without our chaperones noticing. No small feat. They pass a joint from one manicured hand to the next, and we take turns exhaling through the gap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t be such a hog, Chloe!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hog? As if!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI giggle and take a hit when Chloe offers it—­and Zoey gives me her watermelon lip gloss to apply when I’m done. The twins are in the grade above me, but this year I effectively became the leader of our little trio. Although it could just be due to the fact that I’m three inches taller.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look who it is!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe turn in unison, the motion just as synchronized as our outfits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrew Garcia is as classically handsome as a guy can be. Tall and lean, long hair, thick eyebrows—­one with his trademark scar down the center—­and a smile that has curved many a final exam grade. Like the twins, Andrew is a junior. But he’s also one of those old-­soul types who was held back after kindergarten and now gets along with everyone as a result. Like me, Andrew avoids the dance floor—­shy, but on a mission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Andrew! Can’t believe you came.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Me neither.” He smiles that smile. “Although I hear getting out is the hard part.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChloe offers Andrew a hit, but he declines. Despite what you might expect, Andrew’s never been one for the party scene, and I’ve always liked that about him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven after everything that happened this semester.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Relax, stud.” Zoey nudges him with her Keds. “It’s not like you’re on the team anymore. Live a little, yeah?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of responding, Andrew looks away—­but this time I don’t copy him. I don’t need to, to know what he’s looking for: his team.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe team.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere at Hancock, people only go to the football games to watch the cheerleaders drop other cheerleaders. Track and field had a bit of a renaissance, sure, but don’t get me started on soccer. Because for us, it’s always been the boys varsity lacrosse team at the center of our small-­town universe. Each spring, the boys make headlines in the school, town, and state papers, and tonight, like always, they are wearing their electric-­blue practice jerseys—­plus a girl on each arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zoey, be nice,” Chloe chides. She flicks her twin on the boob.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What? He’s not. Troy Richards saw to that—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Zoey!”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrew settles for a shrug. Suddenly, he reaches for the blunt, his hand lingering in mine. “Have you seen Sassi?” he asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I thought I saw her drinking with the seniors,” Chloe offers. “Moose snuck in a keg.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ha! Sassi DeLuca? I seriously doubt that—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why? Is everything okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrew nods and steps closer, his mouth brushing my ear. The music changes again, and I only catch a few words. But it’s enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“. . . somewhere? To talk?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI blush—­and Zoey and Chloe share a look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI let Andrew take my hand, and we slip out of the cafeteria relatively undetected. With my height, I’m usually hunched over when I’m standing around the guys my age—­physically trying to fit into an unseen mold before I realize what I’m doing, or why, or how I’m doing it. But Andrew and I are the exact same height, and with him I stand tall. In seconds, we fall into an easy rhythm, and we walk side by side through the school.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe entire first floor has been decorated with balloons and streamers in the red, white, and bright blue colors of our school, and each classroom we pass has a different activity meant to keep people awake for the duration of the twelve-­hour lock-­in. There’s face painting, balloon darts, an airbrush station and temporary tattoos, caricatures courtesy of someone’s dad’s midlife crisis, a cash grab machine, and even a carnival-­style fishbowl toss—­with real fish as prizes. Last year there was also a dunk tank, but that was quickly discontinued after a certain lax bro peed in it on a dare. Not that I’m naming any names.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI nod when Andrew indicates the south-­side stairwell, and once inside, I push him to the wall—­“talking” pretty passionately. Even by my standards. Andrew’s mouth tastes sweet and sour, like fake cherries and long summers at my parents’ place on Cape Cod. But—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jennifer . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI bring Andrew’s hands to my waist as the fluorescents zip-­zap on above us, and I shiver as his thumb traces the edge of my silk top. For a moment, Andrew forgets whatever he was going to ask. Or two moments—­almost three. When he does pull away, I can’t tell which of us regrets it more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen—­gradually—­it dawns on me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wait. Did you actually want to \u003ci\u003etalk\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah. It’s about Troy—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eYo!\u003c\/i\u003e Get a room, fartknockers!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe look up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTatum Stein is perched in the window above us, a cigarette in her teeth and her Doc Martens on the railing for balance. As far as I know, no one in our school, or in the entire town of Hancock, likes Tatum Stein. Also, no one knows how old she is. Tatum was a senior when I was a freshman, and I honestly think I’ll be graduating before she does. Tatum is single-­handedly responsible for supplying people at our school with their drug of choice—­uppers, downers, pills, and powders. Not to mention booze—­and lots of it. Last fall, Principal Clancy conducted a locker search the day before Halloween, and there’s a rumor that Tatum only avoided expulsion by hiding her stash in her vagina.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What are you doing here, Tatum?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTatum draws a dick on the glass with her pinkie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Troy Richards stood me up. Again,” she mutters, waving a telltale plastic baggy in the air. “I saw your boyfriend earlier for a delivery, and he told me to wait here for my payout.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBoyfriend.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe word lances through me like an electric shock—­just like Tatum knew it would. She snorts at my obvious reaction and flicks her cigarette, letting the ash fall on Andrew. He scowls, shakes out his flow, and gestures upstairs to the next level. Technically, no one is supposed to leave the first floor during the lock-­in, especially not without telling a chaperone first. But that doesn’t stop him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell Troy I say hello!” Tatum calls after us, bitter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe let the door slam shut in answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlone again, Andrew and I stand awkwardly outside the library. Here, the hullabaloo from the cafeteria is muted, and unlike downstairs, all the lights on the third floor are off. I can barely see his face in the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You okay?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrew takes my hand, and—­not for the first time—­I’m surprised by how soft his skin is. Because the way the varsity boys act on the field, I always thought their hands would be Swiss-­cheesed. But he proved me wrong the first time we kissed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTroy Richards, that is, not Andrew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That was awkward,” I murmur.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah. That’s one word for it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy heart is still pounding in both ears from the kiss. At least, I tell myself that’s the reason. Because of that, I don’t auto­matically recognize the sound of footsteps. When I do, I tug Andrew behind a set of bulky trash bins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who is it?” Andrew hisses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shush him quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePeeking around the bins, I see what Andrew can’t—­Sassi DeLuca. Hancock’s perfect little Polly Pocket come to life, with twice the beauty and brains. Regardless of the weather, Sassi always seems to be wearing the same crimson Harvard sweatshirt—­as if she needs to remind the rest of us how big and bright her future is. She glides by in her platform sandals without noticing us, her ponytail obnoxiously high, with zero clue that her timing is the absolute worst. Glad to know some things never change.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut where the heck is she coming from?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s no one,” I lie, glancing at Andrew. “Can we go somewhere? To . . . talk . . . in private?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndrew hesitates, clearly thinking hard about something, then bobs his head up and down in agreement.","brand":"Delacorte Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233297248485,"sku":"NP9780593899304","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593899304.jpg?v=1767730718","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/kill-the-lax-bro-isbn-9780593899304","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}