{"product_id":"when-we-were-monsters-isbn-9781524713058","title":"When We Were Monsters","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAll the Bright Places \u003c\/i\u003ecomes “a standout dark academia thriller” (e. lockhart, author of \u003ci\u003eWe Were Liars\u003c\/i\u003e) about the monsters who walk among us—even in the glittering upper echelons of society.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA dead teacher at an elite boarding school. Four students who had every reason to want her gone. Who is the monster?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt an elite New England boarding school, eight students are selected for an exclusive storytelling workshop with the one and only Meredith Graffam—an enigmatic writer, director, and actress. For sixteen days, they will live in the isolated estate of the school’s founder, surrounded by snowy woods and a storm-tossed seas. Only one of the chosen will walk away with a lifechanging opportunity to realize their creative dreams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone, including Graffam, has a compelling reason to be there—Effy, the orphan, Isaac, the legacy, Ness, the wallflower, Ramon, the outsider, and Arlo, whose unexpected arrival leaves Effy spiraling—but only the most ambitious will last the term. Graffam’s unorthodox methods push the students past the breaking point, revealing their darkest secrets, taking unthinkable risks, and slowly starting to turn on one another. But Graffam never expected they would turn on \u003ci\u003eher . . .\u003c\/i\u003e“Niven’s signature ingredients: deep sensitivity, romance, poetry, and misunderstood, passionate characters. Now add a gothic mansion, a dangerous cliffside and a charismatic genius, and she’s serving up \u003cb\u003ea standout dark academia thriller.\u003c\/b\u003e” —E. Lockhart, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWe Were Liars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A poignant story of young love, yearning, and the desire to live. Like the best gothic mysteries, this one is drenched in atmosphere and unease-—\u003cb\u003ea taut, exquisitely executed novel from start to finish\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —Kathleen Glasgow, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Glass Girl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Fans of dark academia will enjoy this atmospheric story of art, lies, and redemption that features a lurking, slowly building sense of dread that grows throughout the novel. \u003cb\u003eLeisurely and spine-tingling\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"[A] \u003cb\u003esatisfying\u003c\/b\u003e psychological thriller.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"This homage to the works of Shirley Jackson and Lois Duncan is \u003cb\u003ea sinister look\u003c\/b\u003e at unchecked ambition and creativity pushed to the brink of madness.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"An \u003cb\u003eupsettingly immersive\u003c\/b\u003e storytelling workshop in this eerie and suspenseful YA psychological thriller.\" —\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003eJENNIFER NIVEN is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAll the Bright Places, Holding Up the Universe\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBreathless\u003c\/i\u003e. Her books have been translated in over 75 languages and have won literary awards around the world. An Emmy-award winning screenwriter, she co-wrote the script for the All the Bright Places movie— currently streaming on Netflix and starring Elle Fanning and Justice Smith. She is also the author of several narrative nonfiction titles and the Velva Jean historical fiction series. Jennifer divides her time between coastal Georgia and Los Angeles with her husband and literary cats.\u003cb\u003eEffy\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWednesday, January 7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glance behind us, through the back window of the van, no longer able to make out the distant gleam of campus. Even with the brights on, Murton Wood is the darkest place on earth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy contrast, the Moss looks warm and welcoming silhouetted against the sky, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. At forty rooms and over fourteen thousand square feet, its aging beauty makes me think of all the best houses in literature. Manderley. Thornfield Hall. Wuthering Heights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe seven of us have spent the van ride huddled over our phone screens, making the most of cell service while we still have it. Dean Booker pulls into the drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels, and silences the engine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a moment, we sit there, phones forgotten, staring up at the house. Like every good Brighton and Hover worth their salt, I’ve heard the stories of Jan Term, that coveted experience enjoyed by only a choice few. Jan Term, which says to us—­and everybody else—­that we are the visionaries of our class, the ones poised to change the world through our art.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re here,” someone says, and I feel the words more than hear them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe van door opens, letting in a rush of cold air. Ness begins to gather her things, which have, in true Ness fashion, exploded across the seat. “This is what I don’t like about winter,” she’s saying. “The in and out. Heat. Cold. Heat. Cold. The swaddling up head to toe like a penguin.” Even when she complains, Ness sounds cheerful. It’s one of the things I love most about her. Her lightness. Her joy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne by one, my classmates spill out. I continue to sit there, suddenly wondering why I came, wishing I was home with Gran, a thousand things running through my head:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis is your last year at Brighton and Hove.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou only have five more months left of school.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat if you and Ness go to separate colleges and don’t stay friends?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhy is life so full of endings?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA rap on the window and I jump. A face presses against it, wild coils of black hair, glasses, breath fogging me in. Ness rubs at the fog. Mists it up again. Rubs at it. Mists it up again. Then writes \u003ci\u003eOpen!\u003c\/i\u003e backward. Everyone else stands in the drive, loosely assembled around Dean Booker, better known as Books, a bear of a guy, affable and folksy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI join them outside in the night, my breath creating clouds. Ness, Isaac Williams, Ramon Santos, Joey Fiske, Peter Tobin, and Leela Kim. Seven, including me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You may not know,” Books is saying, “that the tradition of Jan Term began in 1926. But it wasn’t until after Hove’s death in 1942 that students were invited to stay here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I thought there were eight of us,” I whisper to Ness, but she isn’t listening because a woman, barely older than we are, is making her way toward us from the house. She has a round, pretty face framed by a waterfall of coppery hair and wears overalls speckled with splashes of paint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Drea Garcia,” she says, shaking hands. She speaks with a faint Spanish accent. “I’m Meredith’s assistant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeredith. As in Meredith Graffam. One of the hottest talents in books, theater, and film. And one of the most controversial. I would have traveled to another continent to study with her, but instead she has come to us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe follow Books and Drea along a path between the house and the cliffs. Below us, the ocean pounds against the rocks, and I can almost feel the spray of water on my skin. I make the mistake of looking down. The drop is sheer—­no bottom, just darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hurry after the others, across the brick courtyard, onto a sweeping veranda, and then finally through the wide, arched doors of the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe wind our way to a large room, papered in gold. At the far end is a gilded balcony, a grand piano in the alcove beneath it. The ceilings soar upward like a cathedral. A lone portrait of a man hangs above the fireplace. This would be Moss Hove, the school’s cofounder, who fled California and his conservative oil baron family. Who fell in love with his friend Zachary Brighton. And who—­two decades after they established Brighton and Hove—­accidentally drowned offshore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Housekeeping will come once a week,” Books tells us. “Wesley, our caretaker, will remain on-­site. Ms. Graffam has brought her own chef, who will provide your meals. If you need anything, let Wesley know. He has the master key to the gates that let you in or out of the property.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDrea starts handing out index cards. Our names, numbers, and emails are printed there, as well as room assignments and Wi-­Fi info.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aren’t there supposed to be eight of us?” Ramon asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Our missing student had a flight delay,” Drea says. Then she holds up another card. “Each night, you’ll receive one of these under your door, giving you the schedule for the following morning.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe and Books go over the rules then, including no sharing of beds. No leaving the house after dark. If we’re going outside, be sure to prop the door or unlock it because—­as we will see—­all doors leading out of the house are kept locked at all times, with the keys inside them. No roughhousing, as most of the items in the house were collected by Moss Hove himself. Jan Term is a privilege, blah, blah, blah. If the tradition is to continue, we need to behave, blah, blah.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The house is”—­Books squints into the distance—­“well, it’s a bit of a maze. They call it the house with no hallways. As you’ve already seen, the rooms feed into one another, so that you never have to return to the main entryway. The ceilings vary in height. The floors too—­there’s a lot of stepping up and down, short staircases and long staircases. Treat the Moss as if it’s your own.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe follow him to the front door. Dean Booker twists the key that sits in the lock and steps through into the courtyard. “One more thing,” he says, holding up a finger. “Just like on campus, the forest is off-­limits.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven though Lara Leonard was murdered decades ago, it’s a sensitive topic for the school. We murmur our understanding. Then Books is off, with a wave and a wink, swallowed by the darkness outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy room is the Belfry, a turret with windows looking out over the sea. I drop onto the bed and pull the envelope out from my coat pocket, smoothing the edges. I have carried it with me ever since it arrived. It looks thumbed and worn, as if it was mailed a decade ago. The handwriting is innocuous. Short, fat letters all in caps. The envelope addressed to OPHELIA GREEN. If I had known who it was from, I wouldn’t have opened it. But he must have realized that because the return address is simply BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open the letter and read in the soft glow of the uranium glass that edges the windowpanes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDear Effy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou might have been too young to remember this, but the summer you were six we took you to New York City. Everyone said to leave you at home, and maybe we should have because you hated it on sight. Hated the noise and the traffic and the crowds. But it was where your mom and I met, and she wanted you to see it, to be part of the us back then the way you were part of the us that summer. The funny thing is, disaster that it was, I came away from it with only happy memories. Your mom’s smile. Your hand in mine. The way we would swing you between us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour head heavy on my shoulder, sleeping as I carried you back to the hotel. I’ve thought a lot about that trip over the past 4,017 days. I guess I’m hoping that no matter how much you hate me, one or two happy memories might have survived . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEleven years ago, my father was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. After his conviction, he told me goodbye, and just like that, all contact stopped. He decided he wasn’t fit to be a dad, so I not only lost my mom, I lost him too. This past September—­on the 29th, to be exact—­he was released early for “good behavior.” Three weeks later, I received the letter. The first I’ve heard from him since I was six.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the past eleven years, while he was in prison, I was able to tell myself that he died too. I didn’t have to think about him because he was locked away like a memory. But I don’t know what the fuck to do with this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slide the letter under my pillow. The day after it arrived, Gran received one of her own. I watched as she fed it, unread, to the shredder, as the ribbons of paper dropped into the trash, which she bagged and immediately took to the curb. She wanted to shred mine too, but I lied and told her I’d destroyed it already.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Wi-­Fi doesn’t connect right away, but once it does, I text Gran to let her know I won’t have reliable service while I’m here, and I give her the number for the landline.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then I pull out the books I brought with me to read over the next three weeks. A dog-­eared copy of \u003ci\u003eFrankenstein\u003c\/i\u003e that once belonged to my mother, her notes and highlights filling the margins. \u003ci\u003eThe Hunt\u003c\/i\u003e, Meredith Graffam’s first book. And \u003ci\u003eThe Lie\u003c\/i\u003e, her second.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Hunt\u003c\/i\u003e was an overnight literary sensation, hailed as one of the most bloodcurdling true crime books since Truman Capote’s \u003ci\u003eIn Cold Blood\u003c\/i\u003e. Graffam was lauded with awards and accolades around the world for her account of her best friend’s murder and her personal crusade to put the killer behind bars. The acclaim turned to blame when, six years after publication, new evidence exonerated the man Graffam helped convict for the murder of Lara Leonard. By then he’d already served eight years for a crime he didn’t commit. The public went after her with their proverbial torches as if she had personally betrayed them. She issued an apology to the man and then disappeared from the public eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTen years later, she reemerged with another memoir—­this one titled \u003ci\u003eThe Lie\u003c\/i\u003e, in which she came clean about her past. Not only documenting every lie she’d ever told, but the shame of putting an innocent man in prison. \u003ci\u003eThe Lie\u003c\/i\u003e was turned into an off-­off-­Broadway show, which became an off-­Broadway show, which became a film, which led to other films and other books, and by the time she was forty-­five, Meredith Graffam’s career was bigger than ever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs much as she fascinates me though, Graffam is not the only reason I’m here. I’m here because I have a story to tell. A story of lives changing in a single moment. The way mine did when my father drove his truck into a tree and killed his only passenger—­my mom.","brand":"Knopf Books for Young Readers","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48532226212069,"sku":"NP9781524713058","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524713058.jpg?v=1773183118","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/when-we-were-monsters-isbn-9781524713058","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}