{"product_id":"it-wasnt-always-like-this-isbn-9781616957773","title":"It Wasn't Always Like This","description":"In 1916, Emma O’Neill is frozen in time. After sampling an experimental polio vaccine brewed on a remote island off St. Augustine, Florida, she and her family stop aging—as do the Ryans, her family’s business partners. In a way, this suits Emma fine because she’s in love with Charlie Ryan. Being seventeen forever with him is a dream. But soon a group of religious fanatics, the Church of Light, takes note. Drinking the elixir has made the O’Neills and Ryans impervious to aging, but not to murder—Emma and Charlie are the only ones who escape with their lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the run, Emma is tragically separated from Charlie. For the next hundred years, she plays a cat-and-mouse game with the founding members of the Church of Light and their descendants. Over the years, a series of murders—whose victims all bear more than a passing resemblance to her—indicate that her enemies are closing in. Yet as the danger grows, so does Emma’s hope for finding the boy she’s certain is still out there . . .\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eIt Wasn't Always Like This\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Epic and addictive—a story with the soul of a romance and the pacing of a thriller.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kami Garcia, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling coauthor of \u003ci\u003eBeautiful Creatures\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not since Veronica Mars has there been such a wry and captivating teen detective. This wonderful novel is fun, romantic, and impossible to put down. Joy Preble has crafted a mesmerizing story that will thrill you while it melts your heart.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Margo Rabb, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eKissing in America \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eCures for Heartbreak\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A high-speed love story with an electric mystery at its center. Immortality hasn't been this haunting, romantic, and thrilling in a long time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Adam Silvera, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMore Happy Than Not\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Immortality, first love, murder, and mystery come together in \u003ci\u003eIt Wasn't Always Like This\u003c\/i\u003e, an electrifying young adult novel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Bustle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A thrilling tale of a fountain of youth, a murderous Church of Light and Emma O’Neill and Charlie Ryan, in love and eternally 17, forced to separate and stay on the run . . . [A] great summer read.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBuffalo News\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Preble adeptly weaves together snippets of Emma's past and present, gradually outlining her transformation from an optimistic, winsome teen to a hardened, lone-wolf type, albeit one whose heart still flutters for a certain eternal boy . . . [Readers] will be equally charmed by Emma's noir-inflected narrative and her decades-long romance.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A captivating plot with some twists, an aura of time travel, and an array of vivid settings . . . [Readers] who relished the classic \u003ci\u003eTuck Everlasting\u003c\/i\u003e by Natalie Babbitt will revel in this tale.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Captures] the loneliness, isolation, and even regret that accompanies the secrecy required by eternal youth . . . A modern \u003ci\u003eTuck Everlasting\u003c\/i\u003e with a thriller twist.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Part paranormal mystery and romance with a strong female character searching for her long lost love.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Connection\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"While the murder mystery keeps readers hooked, the longing and heartache of Emma’s circumstances makes the fantasy feel very realistic, and together, these elements weave a strikingly gripping and enjoyable tale.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVOYA\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"With its exciting plot and well-wrought characters, this novel emerges as a suspenseful treat with a gooey romantic center. The narrative alternates between scenes of Emma’s distant past with Charlie and her murder-mystery present, building to a final showdown that is both surprising and satisfying.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for Joy Preble\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Sweet Dead Life\u003c\/i\u003e is mischief and mayhem, zippy one-liners, mystery and a tiny bit of tragedy. A-word: Awesome.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—E. Lockhart, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWe Were Liars\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  “Preble artfully combines contemporary characters with classic figures from Russian mythology.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRomantic Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hallelujah! . . . A novel that breaks the mold.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Light, snarky, and heartfelt.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—School Library Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Bizarre? Yes, very. Fun to read? Yes, very.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—The Examiner\u003c\/b\u003eJoy Preble lives in Houston with her family. She teaches and lectures widely on writing and literacy, and is the author of the \u003ci\u003eSweet Dead Life\u003c\/i\u003e series, the \u003ci\u003eDreaming Anastasia\u003c\/i\u003e series, and Finding Paris. Visit her online at joypreble.com or follow her on Twitter @joypreble.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eAn island off the coast of St. Augustine, Florida\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e1916\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eIt was gone. Dried up. The stream. The plants. All of it.\u003cbr\u003e      “Maybe we’re in the wrong place,” Charlie said, but Emma knew he didn’t mean it.\u003cbr\u003e     “We’re not.” She pushed her way through the tall grass, not caring what she disturbed. Something sharp poked through her skirt and bit into the tender flesh at the back of her knee. She kept moving. The empty jars in her pockets slapped her thighs.\u003cbr\u003e     Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe they were just turned around or confused. This was the first time they’d come here alone. Emma herself had been only once, under the watchful eye of her father. Maybe they were lost.\u003cbr\u003e     But the place was too familiar. She recognized the strange little clearing at the center of the island, only there was no stream. No purple-flowered plants. If the spell or whatever it was—Emma had never settled on the right words for what had happened to them—if “it” faded, she feared there would be no getting it back, not without the plants and the water. \u003cbr\u003e     At least, that’s how she \u003ci\u003ethought\u003c\/i\u003e it worked. But she wasn’t certain, was she? That frightened her, too; Emma liked being certain.\u003cbr\u003e    “It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. He grabbed her shoulder from behind and spun her around, pulling her close, arms encircling her waist. “You were still right. We need to run. Emma . . . we can manage without the plants. I love you.”\u003cbr\u003e    Even in the swampy heat, he looked the way he always did; that was the root of all their troubles. Tall and angular, with broad shoulders and taut arms, jaw neatly defined. Brows thick and cheekbones etched high. A wild thatch of hair that never stayed put. Brown eyes blazing with a stubborn streak, yet with a hint of that sweet silliness he saved for Emma alone, and a sparkle she’d convinced herself nobody else could see.\u003cbr\u003e    He’d wanted to run even before now. In this moment, she could see him glancing skyward unconsciously, consumed with the desire to fly from this place. That desire had brought them here. She’d done this for him.\u003cbr\u003e    On her right side, not ten feet away, the grass waved and shifted. She felt more than saw a small alligator slither by. Caught a glimpse of a coal-black eye between the tall green blades.\u003cbr\u003e    Emma tried not to panic. The gators were the least of her worries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Two days earlier, Emma had rushed to the aviary and wrapped her hands tight around Charlie’s. “Simon,” she gasped. “He . . . he . . .” How even to start?\u003cbr\u003e    Something both horrifying and miraculous had happened to her baby brother. They could no longer hide what they’d become. They had to leave St. Augustine. Now.\u003cbr\u003e    “What is it, Em?” Charlie held her close, his eyes searching hers. On their perches, the hawks quieted, as if overwhelmed with the same concern. “Is something wrong with Simon?”\u003cbr\u003e    “I was supposed to be—to be watching him,” she stammered. “But you know how he gets.” She didn’t have to elaborate. Simon was a two-year-old toddler, had been for over three years now. He would be a two-year-old toddler forever. Perpetually curious and naughty and needy, all of which Charlie knew full well. “He got into the benzene while I wasn’t looking. I guess it was the sweet smell, like soda pop. Daddy must have left it out on the kitchen counter after stripping the paint on the wall that—”\u003cbr\u003e    “Slow down, Em,” Charlie soothed. “Just tell me what happened.”\u003cbr\u003e    \u003ci\u003e“Nothing.”\u003c\/i\u003e Her voice trembled. “That’s the trouble. My brother drank \u003ci\u003ehalf the bottle\u003c\/i\u003e. Should have burned his insides. He should have blisters or be vomiting. Something. That stuff is poison, Charlie. But \u003ci\u003enothing happened\u003c\/i\u003e. I watched him. Maybe he looked a little green for about a minute . . . that was all.”\u003cbr\u003e    Tears stung her eyes, but she trained her gaze on Charlie to calm herself. His stillness was a gift, never more so than at this moment.\u003cbr\u003e    “He’s fine,” Charlie said soothingly. “That’s all that matters.” But they both knew things \u003ci\u003eweren’t fine\u003c\/i\u003e. Simon’s throat hadn’t burned, but the world felt like it was burning, consuming her with it.\u003cbr\u003e    So she’d done what a girl had to do under such circumstances. When life itself stopped making sense, she’d come up with a plan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e First they'd steal a skiff from the harbor. Row to the island. That part of the plan had worked.\u003cbr\u003e    But the second part, the part that mattered, had gone up in smoke. They’d brought jars to dip in the stream, but the clear water had vanished without a trace. They’d brew more tea from the plants, but the plants had vanished as well, leaving only nettles and swamp grass in their absence.\u003cbr\u003e    As for the last part of the plan—running—that they could still do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Emma had thought the escape would be joyous. Liberating. Their parents, both hers and Charlie’s, were drowning in paranoia, unable to think or act sensibly anymore. But who knew what or how grown-ups thought, anyway? They were all crazy, the good ones, the bad ones, the dangerous ones. She and Charlie would finally be free of the worry, free of all the hateful whispers. They would be \u003ci\u003etogether\u003c\/i\u003e. That was all that mattered.\u003cbr\u003e    Except the stream and its plants and the world itself had chosen not to cooperate. She felt as if the island were playing a cruel practical joke, or worse, punishing her for the sin of wanting to run off with the boy she loved. Three years they had been together. But it wasn’t three years at all; it was nothing. Time was meaningless once you discovered you’d drunk from a Fountain of Youth. How stupid Emma had been, thinking that if they could just get away from their families, they could stop treading water and hide for an eternity.\u003cbr\u003e    Now Charlie pulled her to him again, kissing her over and over until she was dizzy from it. “It’s okay,” he insisted. “We’ll figure something out—” All at once he stiffened. His hands fell from her body. He sniffed the air. “Smoke. It’s . . .”\u003cbr\u003e    “The Church of Light,” she finished with him.\u003cbr\u003e    Under different circumstances, this would have struck her as impossibly romantic: their habit of sharing the same thoughts, of ending each other’s sentences. And now the sudden, wary anger in Charlie’s eyes echoed the thought that squirmed in her brain: if something was burning, Glen Walters and his followers had lit the fire.\u003cbr\u003e    They were running again even before Charlie’s fingers\u003cbr\u003e threaded through hers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eChapter Two\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eDallas, Texas\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePresent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eEmma pried open one eye. Her head was splitting, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She felt like she had licked the bottom of a dirty shoe—after the shoe had been dragged through a puddle of bourbon. She eased up on an elbow. The room tilted, her stomach giving a sickly lurch.\u003cbr\u003e    She wasn’t alone in bed. There was a guy next to her. Snoring.\u003cbr\u003e    Vaguely she remembered having bought street tacos outside the bar from a girl with an Igloo cooler. At the time, it seemed like a solid idea. Emma had many solid ideas when she was drunk. The tacos, involving a meat substance of unknown origin, did not seem so solid at the moment. \u003cbr\u003e    Her reason for being at that particular downtown Dallas bar wasn’t scoring high points, either. Another dead end, it turned out. But Emma kept at things, because you just never knew. Cold trails turned warmer. Hopes bloomed, well, hopefully. Things happened. People came and went.\u003cbr\u003e    Girls disappeared on their way home and later turned up dead.\u003cbr\u003e    There had been a rash of kidnappings and murders, or at least \u003ci\u003eEmma\u003c\/i\u003e saw it as a rash, given her, well, uniquely expansive view of time. It was a decades-long rash, a near century-long rash. Crimes spread apart by a dozen years and thousands of miles, not close enough together in any reasonable sense for the cops to see a pattern—and who could blame them?\u003cbr\u003e    But recently, there had been a subtle uptick. That first girl, Allie Golden, in Rio Rancho, north of Albuquerque, four years ago. Then six months back, one outside of Fort Worth. Karissa Isaacs, twenty years old. Both living near Emma, their deaths following her as she moved east. Both kidnapped and poisoned and dumped.\u003cbr\u003e    And now the third in four years, right here in Dallas. Elodie Callahan, just sixteen.\u003cbr\u003e    There might have been more. Emma guessed there \u003ci\u003ewere \u003c\/i\u003emore. She would like to think she was certain about that; she still prized certainty. But she’d learned many lifetimes ago that certainty was a luxury. You could shrug off the pattern, chalk the atrocities up to coincidence. A long time ago, Emma had tried that very thing.\u003cbr\u003e    Or you could leap into the fray and see where it led you. Move to Dallas. Poke and prod. Hone your investigative skills. See if the pattern was indeed what you feared. \u003cbr\u003e    Now, in the much-too-bright light of yet another day, on the cusp of yet another new year, Emma pressed her knuckles to her aching eyes. The tacos were about to make a messy reversal unless she got herself under control. Her commitment to staying off the grid? Blown to hell and back. Emma O’Neill had let herself surface once again and now she was paying the price.\u003cbr\u003e    So were the dead girls. \u003cbr\u003e    And the guy, snoring—Mason, maybe? Mike?—legs tangled in her comforter, mouth hanging open—well, he had to go.\u003cbr\u003e    “Shit.” She elbowed him, hard, in the ribs. “Wake up. Get out.”\u003cbr\u003e    She smoothed her hands over her rumpled red minidress. Right now it felt like one of those old burlap sacks her father had used to store feed in St. Augustine. Between the tacos and the bourbon, it didn’t smell much better.\u003cbr\u003e    At least the dress was still on her.\u003cbr\u003e    Mason\/Mike was shirtless, but he was still wearing his pants.\u003cbr\u003e    If they’d done anything, they could have only done so much. She hoped.\u003cbr\u003e    “Mmphff,” he mumbled. Then belched.\u003cbr\u003e    \u003ci\u003eJesus.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Out,” Emma said, rising, pulling herself together. “You. Rise and shine. Go away.” She wasn’t always this inhospitable. But Mason\/Mike was an error in judgment, not company. Emma didn’t mind company. She did attempt to avoid errors in judgment, but over time, over history, they were inevitable. The trick was to act fast and stay pleasant about it.\u003cbr\u003e    He opened his eyes—blue, bloodshot—and grinned at her. “How the hell do you still look so good?” he drawled.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e   Matt.\u003c\/i\u003e His name was Matt.\u003cbr\u003e    “Habit,” she told him, pushing harder now until he rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a thump. She didn’t need a glimpse in the mirror to know they were both right. Emma O’Neill might be a tad rumpled and head-throbby right this second, but that would fade soon enough. A hangover would never make a dent in the overall picture. Toxins of any kind didn’t have any real effect beyond an initial jolt or a groggy wake-up. Even toxins less pleasant than questionable street tacos. Hadn’t in longer than she preferred to remember. \u003cbr\u003e    Matt sat up, rubbing his backside. “Now why’d you go and do that?” He scratched the side of his face. His gaze was bleary. He was cute—thick blond hair and a stubbly chin—but pasty under his tan.\u003cbr\u003e    He’d looked better last night. They all had.\u003cbr\u003e    Emma thought of her friends, Coral and Hugo. Well, mostly Coral. Coral Ballard. The girl who looked like the other girls. The girl who looked like Emma.","brand":"Soho Teen","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302754865381,"sku":"NP9781616957773","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616957773.jpg?v=1767730246","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/it-wasnt-always-like-this-isbn-9781616957773","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}