{"product_id":"youthjuice-isbn-9781641295925","title":"youthjuice","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eAmerican  Psycho\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eThe Devil Wears Prada\u003c\/i\u003e: outrageous body horror for the goop generation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 29-year-old copywriter realizes that beauty is possible—at a terrible cost—in this surreal, satirical send-up of NYC It-girl culture.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Sophia Bannion’s first day on the Storytelling team at HEBE (\u003ci\u003ehee-bee\u003c\/i\u003e), a luxury skincare\/wellness company based in New York’s trendy SoHo neighborhood and named after the Greek goddess of youth, it’s clear something is deeply amiss. But Sophia, pushing thirty, has plenty of skeletons in her closet next to the designer knockoffs and doesn’t care. Though she leads an outwardly charmed life, she aches for a deeper meaning to her flat existence—and a cure for her brutal nail-biting habit. She finds it all and more at HEBE, and with Tree Whitestone, HEBE’s charismatic founder and CEO.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon, Sophia is addicted to her HEBE lifestyle—especially youthjuice, the fatty, soothing moisturizer Tree has asked Sophia to test. But when cracks in HEBE’s infrastructure start to worsen—and Sophia learns the gruesome secret ingredient at the heart of youthjuice—she has to decide how far she’s willing to go to stay beautiful forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGlittering with ominous flashes of Sophia’s coming-of-rage story, former beauty editor E.K. Sathue’s horror debut is as incisive as it is stomach-churning in its portrayal of all-consuming female friendship and the beauty industry’s short attention span. \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e does to skincare influencers what Bret Easton Ellis did to yuppies. You’ll never moisturize the same way again.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Entertaining and gloomy. The writing is sharp and full of scathing lines that poke fun at the wellness industry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Gabino Iglesias, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It takes a deft hand to write a story that is hilarious and terrifying in equal measure, and it’s to E.K. Sathue’s great credit that she threads that needle. [\u003ci\u003eyouthjuice \u003c\/i\u003eis] a blistering, surreal satire of toxic wellness culture, perfect for fans of dark-edged feminist writers like Mona Awad and Leigh Stein.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePortland Press Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is the \u003ci\u003ebest \u003c\/i\u003eIt Girl satire that you simply have to read if you’re into content creation, the latest skincare craze and the beauty world. Oh, and prepare to squirm.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lena Dunham’s \u003ci\u003eGirls\u003c\/i\u003e meets Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop meets Mona Awad’s \u003ci\u003eBunny\u003c\/i\u003e meets . . . Elizabeth Báthory. \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e is a darkly comedic cautionary tale, oozing with voice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Zoje Stage, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBaby Teeth\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Staggeringly brilliant and bitingly honest, \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e is as beautiful as it is brutal, dancing between razor-sharp commentary on beauty culture and the visceral pain of existing as a girl in this world. The sublime prose will have you gasping in awe while the terrifying twists will keep you squirming and feverishly turning the pages. E.K. Sathue skillfully peels back the pretty pink veneer of youth, friendship, and beauty to insecurity, betrayal, and violence. This novel is a blood-smeared mirror. What truth will it reflect back to you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Rachel Harrison, national bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBlack Sheep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e is a shocking dive into the depths of what we will do to stay young and beautiful. It’s brutal, funny, poignant, and one of the most entertaining books I’ve read in ages. E.K. Sathue’s prose is devastatingly elegant. A must-read, but you may question your beauty habits after!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Amina Akhtar, author of \u003ci\u003eAlmost Surely Dead\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eKismet\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Youth and beauty have never seemed at once so desirable and repulsive. This book sickened me in the very best way. I don’t know if I want to go run to get Botox or swear off beauty products forever, but either way \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e got under my (ever-aging!) skin and might stay there for a very long time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—CJ Leede, author of \u003ci\u003eMaeve Fly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sumptuous and f*cked up, \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e explores our obsession with anti-aging through luxuriously icky body horror.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Milo Michaels, University Book Store\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A dark, sardonic look at the beauty industry.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Electric Lit\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Campy yet cunning . . . This book is great for anyone who likes a little gore with their glam.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Read it or Weep\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ferocious . . . Soaked in blood and rage, E.K. Sathue’s debut novel exposes a culture of toxic femininity against a backdrop of grisly body horror.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—FanFiAddict\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Former beauty editor E.K. Sathue has given us a gift: \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice \u003c\/i\u003e. . . It’s a twisted funhouse mirror, not a well-lit vanity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Fandomentals\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eyouthjuice\u003c\/i\u003e is a delicious descent into insanity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Horror Bound\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fast-paced and scathing satire of the beauty industry . . . Fans of intensely unsettling stories about unlikable but captivating women, such as Gillian Flynn’s \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e and CJ Leede’s \u003ci\u003eMaeve Fly\u003c\/i\u003e, will flock to this debut.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If \u003ci\u003eThe Picture of Dorian Gray\u003c\/i\u003e were set at a contemporary Goop-esque ‘wellness and lifestyle’ brand, it might read something like Sathue’s satirical, gory, and delectable debut . . . It’s a certifiable page-turner.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With mesmerizing prose and startlingly precise imagery, \u003ci\u003eyouthjuice \u003c\/i\u003eis far beyond just another beauty industry horror novel. . . Sathue will have readers snort-laughing and cringing simultaneously.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A stomach-turning work of corporate horror with a sharp focus on satirizing the beauty industry and its influencers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eE.K. Sathue\u003c\/b\u003e is a pseudonym for the author Erin Mayer. A native New Yorker, she wrote her first haunted house story in Mr. Palladino’s third-grade class and never looked back. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications including Bustle, \u003ci\u003eTravel + Leisure\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBetter Homes \u0026amp; Gardens\u003c\/i\u003e, Literary Hub, CrimeReads, Business Insider, and Man Repeller. She lives in Maine with her partner, Benjamin Perry, and their beloved haunted doll, Persephone.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We bathed in their blood to stay young. Slick, fatty liquid kept us alight in our wild beauty. Their blood was the fountain of youth, burbling through our very own veins. Platelets are the secret to radiance. The key to a brighter complexion. Blood, with the fortifying run of an egg yolk’s slow drip, is the opposite of tech. It’s messy, never sterile. \u003cbr\u003e      To care for one’s skin is a learned art. Tree famously wore sunscreen every day from age five onward. First applied by her mother before Tree picked up the mantle of self-care when she turned twelve. She was the master and I her apprentice. The world is one assault on the face after another. The bloodbath was all we could do to survive. \u003cbr\u003e An email. Ghostly at the top of my empty inbox. It’s from Marigold Vreeland, Assistant to the Founder and CEO. \u003ci\u003eTree will see you\u003c\/i\u003e in the subject line. The body is blank. \u003cbr\u003e      Tree Whitestone’s office is at the end of a long hall. I shake the wrinkles from my first-day skirt. Japanese designer with a complex system of pleats. Borrowed from Dom. I bury my gloved hands into the pockets, posture lifted, and head for the frosted glass door. Stationed out front at a kidney-shaped obsidian desk is Marigold, her hair a center-parted bob swishing on either side of her freckled face like the panels in a car wash. She works her flat lips into a mirthless grimace. No teeth.\u003cbr\u003e      “Hi, I’m—” \u003cbr\u003e      “The new Creative,” she finishes. “Welcome. I’m Marigold, Tree’s assistant. You’ll work with me to schedule appointments with the founder and CEO.”\u003cbr\u003e      She extends an arm. I shove my right hand, sheathed in flimsy lace frayed at the seams, into hers and we shake. Marigold pumps with a propeller’s force. “You may go in.”\u003cbr\u003e      A Lucite desk, the transparent mirror of Marigold’s, is the centerpiece of the room. Through it I see Tree’s cigarette trousers tapered to crossed ankles, the impressive bend of her knees, which are pressed together, calves set neatly to the side like a ballet dancer in repose. Her eyes are closed, the wall behind her splashed with old campaign imagery. Light spills through the tall windows. A quiet bell chimes. \u003cbr\u003e      I take a tentative step and clear my throat. \u003cbr\u003e      Tree’s eyelids unfurl like electronic window shades. She stares and stares and then—she smiles. She says, “Soph.” As if she has been waiting decades to hold my name in her mouth. “Please. Sit down.” \u003cbr\u003e      Tree gestures to a pink velvet settee and moves over to a beverage dispenser on a rattan table in the corner. I sit on the couch, taking in the room: the collaged photos of dew-soaked women behind the desk, the faux-bohemian accents, the product prototypes with naked, malformed packaging spread on a teak and gold tray. I must be one of the first in the world to see them. \u003cbr\u003e      Beside the desk is a library cart with two rows of books, the spines battered. Some are old. Binding peeling away from the pages. I can’t read the titles from this distance. \u003cbr\u003e      Tree’s narrow torso blocks my view as she hands me a glass of lemon water and rests on the opposite domed cushion. “Soph,” she says again. No one has ever felt the need to shorten \u003ci\u003eSophia\u003c\/i\u003e before. “Welcome.” \u003cbr\u003e      I balance the glass on my knee. The gloves affect my grip so that I’m often on the verge of dropping something. Richard, my boyfriend, calls me \u003ci\u003ebutterfingers\u003c\/i\u003e. Inside my left pocket, my index nail worries a dent in the thumb’s knuckle. The urge to bite is strong. I rub the uneven ridge through the glove’s lace weave. \u003cbr\u003e      “I’m so happy to be here,” I say. “This is my dream job.”\u003cbr\u003e      “You’re already a vital member of our team,” Tree replies. “You’ve been given a computer? And the products? Everything you need?”\u003cbr\u003e      “Yes, thank you.” \u003cbr\u003e      Tree waves. “No need to thank me, I have moisturizer coming out of my ears. And everywhere else.” She winks.\u003cbr\u003e      I blush and force an echoey laugh. She is, indeed, incredibly moisturized. Her forehead flashes, a boom light. Her shoulders glimmer in her sleeveless top. I feel it coming off of her in waves, a hissing mist. Tree laughs heartily, from the gut. She laughs and laughs. Slaps a knee. \u003cbr\u003e      I sit there, smile frozen, an ache burning my cheeks, clutching the glass.\u003cbr\u003e      Her white-blond hair, parted down the middle, grazes her shoulders as she shakes her head. “Loosen up. Beauty is fun. That’s one of HEBE’s guiding principles.”\u003cbr\u003e      Hebe. The Greek goddess of youth. Serving ambrosia to the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. \u003cbr\u003e      I laugh, softening into it, and settle farther into the couch’s embrace. I’m suddenly tired; I could nap. I touch the water glass to my inner wrist, hoping for a jolt, but it’s lukewarm. \u003cbr\u003e      “Let’s talk business for a sec. Your first major project will be next Wednesday; Gem will fill you in on the details, but we have a shoot for a new launch. And please, come out for drinks with us tonight! My treat.”\u003cbr\u003e      Gem is Gemma. HEBE’s Lead Storyteller, my boss. \u003ci\u003eShe hates the word boss\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eTree said in our final interview. \u003ci\u003eI do too. It’s so masculine. Call me your True North. \u003c\/i\u003eShe plucked the final word from the air with a finger curl.\u003cbr\u003e      “I would love to, but—” \u003cbr\u003e      She cuts me off. “Ah, time for my next appointment. Take your time settling in. The real work starts soon!” \u003cbr\u003e      I’m nodding, hard. Picturing my head rolling off my neck. I see it plunging onto the creamy rug, dripping the wrong pink for the color scheme. There’s a light knock and we both turn toward Marigold’s spooky face pressed to the door, summoning me.\u003cbr\u003e      It isn’t until I’m back at my desk that I realize I’m still holding the glass of water, tight enough that I’m surprised it doesn’t break.","brand":"Hell's Hundred","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300519497957,"sku":"NP9781641295925","price":25.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641295925.jpg?v=1757964869","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/youthjuice-isbn-9781641295925","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}