Premeditated

by Josin L. McQuein

Genres: YA Family; YA Mysteries & Thrillers

Synopsis

If you enjoyed Jay Asher's Thirteen Reasons Why, you will race through the pages of this YA novel as 17-year old Dinah pieces together the mystery that surrounds the near death of her 14-year old cousin Claire. 

While Claire is holding on her for her life in the hospital, Dinah goes in search of the boy Claire writes about in her journal. The boy who forced her to do something she didn't want to do. The boy who caused her such humiliation that the thought of having to live one more day was just too much. 

Dinah is on a mission for revenge, but as things start to unfold, her plan isn't as simple as it seemed.


"McQuein's talent shines in this compelling character study."--Kirkus


"All in all, a very satisfying read and I would highly recommend it."--Exmainer.com 


"This book will likely appeal to young teen readers who enjoy action-oriented mysteries. . . There is plenty of room for a facilitator-led discussion regarding choices made by the characters throughout the story, as it addresses heavy topics that some readers could use help processing."--VOYA


"McQuein's subplots give the story added substance, and Dinah's broken relationship with her mother underpins much of the novel's psychological dimension and offers moments of powerful storytelling."--Publisher's Weekly 


 

Release date: October 8, 2013

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 336

Sample

1
Killing someone's easier than you think. All it takes is decision, aim, and follow-through. Like basketball, only you shouldn't expect people to leap to their feet and cheer if you hit the free throw.
The whole thing's a done deal in a matter of seconds.
Revenge, on the other hand, and I mean real, calculated, make-him-sorry-he-was-ever-born vengeance, takes time and planning and patience. You have to smile when you want to scream. You have to look your target in the eye when you'd rather claw his eyes out. And you have to ignore the slow-spreading burn in your gut until it turns to ice and sets your resolve so completely you can't turn away without splintering.
Do it right and their blood will be on their own hands. Just another tragic teen suicide on the back of page three in the local newspaper, with a memorial page in the school yearbook. Lots of flowers, and stuffed animals, and card collages stuck to the door. Pretty words and puffy, red-rimmed eyes from people who question why but don't look hard enough to find out.
No matter how messy it gets, or how much blood's involved, suicide's a clean kill.
Though any scenario ending with Brooks Walden in a mangled heap would have worked for me.

2
The morning I started Lowry, I should have been wandering the halls of my generic public high school with my hair dyed that particular shade of black that screamed "back off" to anyone not invited into my space. Maybe the metal on my boots would clink because the floor wasn't as smooth as it should have been. but instead, the only metal I wore was the seat belt buckle latched tight against my left hip. Knees that hadn't seen daylight outside of PE poked out from under the hem of a blue and burgundy plaid skirt.
If I'd been at the place that passed for home, no one would have recognized me.
"You don't have to do this, you know," my dad said from the driver's seat.
He'd been working up his nerve for nearly ten minutes, gripping the steering wheel harder the closer we got to the school, and by the time he actually said it, his voice came out loud and hard, which made him stop talking to rein it in. He adjusted his Braves cap, pulling it lower in the front, then tugging it back again (most likely the habit that cost him his hair on top). The only times he ever removed his cap were for church at Christmas and Easter, or family dinners when Nonie used to come over. Serious stuff. He took it off there in the truck and Frisbeed it onto the dashboard above the steering wheel.
"I can enroll you back at Ninth Street and it'll be like you never left. You can sleep in the back of economics with Tabs, and start food fights with inedible spring rolls. Help Brucey flood a toilet or two."
"He hasn't done that since middle school, and it was an accident," I said.
"You don't have to be here, Dinah."
"It's fine, Dad, really. I want to be here."
He didn't believe me, and I didn't expect him to.
"Here" was the Eleanor Lowry School--the sort of place people call "storied" or "venerable," where one day's biology partner became the next day's business contact. The names on the rosters hardly ever changed, with the exception of a few scholarship cases, because the surest way to get in was as a legacy.
I was not a legacy, nor did I rate a scholarship, but I had Uncle Paul. And Uncle Paul had enough money to make both of those non-issues.
The school loomed ahead, appearing suddenly from behind the trees, despite the fact that the top spire should have been visible for miles. An old building, built with older money. Ivy covered most of the facade, letting glimpses of white stone peek through. The grounds were pristine and protected behind high gates Dad had to enter a code to get past.
Definitely not my old school, with its genuine cinder block walls and the latex paint in bright orange and gray, guaranteed to burn faster than paper and choke us all if the place ever caught fire.
Dad kept staring at me. He hadn't quite figured out why I'd done everything but get on my knees and beg to go to prep school, but he knew something was up, and he knew that it had to do with Claire. I think he was expecting a breakdown. I certainly felt like I'd have one at any moment.
Everything about Lowry screamed privilege and perfection, while everything inside me screamed terror and fury. I was fostering the latter to deal with the former, hoping they'd cancel each other out, and I flipped the visor mirror down to make sure neither showed. I couldn't help Claire if I got caught because I wore my emotions on my face.
I was ice--a plastic, perfect doll. I was a mole. I was nothing but the new girl, and the only expression I would allow myself was the kind that came with intestinal butterfly infestation.
The smell of rotten meat.
A curdled milk shake.
Whatever collected at the far end of the gutter that squished through my fingers when I cleaned it out.
Focusing on disgusting things gave me a semi-sick glaze that went well with the pallor left behind after I'd gotten rid of my usual makeup. One stubborn pinpoint on my nose still showed through where I'd taken out my nose ring; no matter how much I smudged around it, it wouldn't blend.
My head still burned from bleaching out the dye, and I couldn't stop picking at my scalp to soothe the sting. I reached up and adjusted the hateful blue band I was required to wear, letting a few more bangs fall forward until I looked more like I was planning to hide in the bathroom than plot the surgical deconstruction of the local Golden Boy.
Biting my cheek helped.
"Your hair's fine, D, but I wish you'd've let Helen help you. I keep expecting it to fall off your scalp from the roots."
Typical Dad attempt at small talk. He was usually better than that, but considering the week we'd had, it was no surprise that he was off his game.
"I read the directions."
"Your aunt and uncle really appreciate your staying," he said, rather than argue the point.
He let the thought drop, the way everyone did when they started to mention Claire. They all choked on her name, like she was a ghost who hadn't quite caught on yet.
"Don't think you have to shoulder this, kid."
"I want to stay close in case something changes, and I don't want to go back to Ninth Street if I'm only going to be here a few weeks." That was the conservative estimate. Claire would either wake up, or they'd stop expecting her to. "I'd just have to say good-bye to everyone again when Mom makes me come home. This way, I'll only be leaving strangers, and Aunt Helen and Uncle Paul didn't waste the tuition money."
It was a lame excuse, but also the only one I could think of to counter my mother's objections. Compassion wasn't enough of a hook; money was the only thing she'd listen to.
"In a few weeks, they won't be strangers anymore," Dad said.
Our truck melded into the flow of sedans and SUVs circling a paved drive with an ornate fountain in the middle. Stone deer and bear cubs played in marble flowers while fairies poured water into a stream that emptied into the main bowl.
My old school had a flagpole and a dirt ring that, according to legend, had held daisies at some point.
"People from a place like this will always be strange to me."
"I'm proud of you, D," he said.
D, which is short for Dinah, which is short for my great-grandmother, is my given name, and the first recorded instance of my dad protecting me from my mother. She intended to name me Diamond Rain or Rayne or Rhane--the spelling changes with each lament when she retells the story. Kind of like plain old Stacy became Stacia for the acting career that never was. Dinah and all associated nicknames were rejected as too plain for her taste; they set off her allergy to the mundane. But Dad still had a spine in those days, and filled in my birth certificate before her meds wore off.
Unfortunately, my first initial and middle name still spell "drain"--a far-too-accurate assessment of my life.
Dad's hands tightened on the wheel again as he coasted into the "arriving" area, where other kids were climbing out of other cars. They gawked like they'd never seen a no-longer-quite-cherry-red truck outside its natural habitat of the mechanic's shop before.
"Batter up, baby doll."
Sports analogies are my dad's mother tongue.
"You haven't called me that since I was--"
"A real blond?" he teased.
"Young enough to count my age on my fingers," I said.
"Same thing."
"Bye, Dad."
"It's nice to see the real Dinah again."
"The real Dinah," also known as the Dinah no one had seen since sixth grade, was how he referred to my choice of clothing before I actually had a choice. When my mother used me as her personal paper doll and paraded me down every pageant runway within a hundred-mile radius.
"Don't miss your flight." I shut the passenger-side door as he shouted a last request for photographic evidence that I'd returned from the dark side to give Mom when he got home.
Over my dead body,
Lightning was welcome to strike me down--so long as Brooks went first.

3
I counted the stone steps as I climbed toward the school's entrance, tucked into the surge behind the twin blazers in front of me. One blond head and one brunette, both with the same blue band pushing back stick-straight hair--just like mine.
"Welcome to Stepford," I mumbled under my breath.
Inside the Stepford Academy (Lowry definitely had an "academy" vibe) everyone looked alike, everyone moved alike, and everyone sounded alike. Apparently when perfect little rich girls grew up, their acceptable color choice darkened from pink to burgundy--the faceless drones and I were covered in it, thanks to a crested blazer with a diamond logo. Boys were stuck with blue, though it had transitioned from the baby palette of robin's-egg to navy. Everyone was clearly labeled, so there was no way for one of us to forget our place, and no chance for an outsider to sneak in.
I was having a panic attack over the idea of home ec in a place like this. There would be chocolate chip cookies and pearl necklaces and frilly lace aprons involved, I was sure. If we were lucky, maybe they'd hand out gray face paint so we could go completely fifties-mom monochrome, like those old TV shows that rerun in the middle of the night. Then I could get Brooks for a partner and give him food poisoning; my lousy cooking skills would make everything the school's fault, not mine.
Lowry was a fortress, with stones in the front wall as long as my arm. The crowd carried me along, passing through a set of double doors with lead knockers that looked like they were built to withstand a major siege. It should have been a safe place--Claire should have been protected there.
Maybe she would have been if she'd ever made it inside.
I shoved the thought out of my head and wiped the stinging tears away. Weepy eyes and blotchy skin weren't going to help me; they'd just get in the way.
"Could you tell me where to find the principal?" I asked a random girl in the hall while my fingers twirled the tiny golden bird on my necklace.
"The headmistress's office is at the end of the hall on the right: Ms. Kuykendall." The girl flashed a flawless smile that made her look like a flight attendant; all she needed was the drink cart.
"Thanks."
The direction she pointed led past a row of arched windows where any other school would have had lockers. There was no chipped paint or trash on the floor. I missed the weight of my earrings and the click of the barbell that usually speared through my tongue. Knocking it against my teeth had become a nervous habit, and losing the sound made me sure someone would hear how loud my heart was beating or how fast my breathing had become.
The office took up the whole end of the hall and was made of glass walls so visitors could see inside. A secretary in a dark green business suit sat at the desk while a student filed papers away in a cabinet taller than she was.
"Good morning," the secretary said when I opened the door.
"Good morning," I said back, because I wasn't sure what else I was supposed to say. Something about the place made me want to be polite, almost like I was afraid they'd snap if they figured out I wasn't one of them. "I'm supposed to check in with Ms. Kuykendall, I think."
The secretary blinked at me behind her glasses.
"My uncle was supposed to call. Paul Reed." I tugged on my necklace again.
"Oh! You're Diana, of course! Come right in, dear."
No, I was Dinah, but Nameless didn't give me a chance to correct her. She waved me around the counter, leading me down another hall within the office itself.
"We were so sorry to hear about Claire. Such a horrible thing, especially for someone so young. And then to find out we'd be getting another young lady in her place . . . well, we've all been just rushing to adjust the papers and even out the classes. Not that it's your fault, dear. Of course not, I don't mean that at all. But now we've got one too few freshmen and one too many juniors, and--oh, I'm sure it'll all get sorted."
Claire had become paperwork. She was a chore.
The fist at my side got tighter, until it began to shake. I had to peel my fingers loose one at a time, and wondered that they didn't crack out loud from the pressure.
We stopped outside a wooden door with the school crest set above the nameplate. "Kuykendall" didn't look the way I expected. It sounded like there was an "r" in it, not a "y." I was betting nothing here was as it seemed.
Nameless opened the door while I waited to be summoned, tamping down memories of the time I ducked into a restaurant to use the bathroom and the manager evicted me before I even got close. I kept expecting someone to see through the pastel eye shadow and pink lip gloss I'd nabbed from Claire's room and tell me to get lost, I didn't belong there.