They All Fall Down

by Roxanne St. Claire

Genres: YA Social Themes

Synopsis

It’s Pretty Little Liars meets Final Destination as this group of high school elites uncover who's plotting to off each and every one of them.  
 
Every year, the lives of ten junior girls at Vienna High are transformed.

All because of the list. 

Kenzie Summerall can’t imagine how she’s been voted onto a list of the prettiest girls in school, but when she lands at number five, her average life becomes dazzling. Doors open to the best parties, new friends surround her, the cutest jock in school is after her.

This is the power of the list. If you’re on it, your life changes.

If you’re on it this year? Your life ends.
 

Praise for They All Fall Down
 
“A suspenseful mash-up of Indiana Jones and Pretty Little Liars.” —The Bulletin
 
“Part high school drama, part mystery, this fast-paced novel will appeal to a broad range of readers who will have a difficult time putting it down.” —SLJ
 
“St. Claire keeps the tension high as she slowly uncovers the mystery and builds to a thriller-level climax.” —Kirkus Reviews
 
“St. Claire ropes in readers from the opening pages, creating a taut thriller that keeps the audience turning pages and guessing until the end.” —VOYA
 
“Best-selling author St. Claire makes her YA debut with a thriller in the tradition of Lois Duncan and R. L. Stine.” —Booklist

Release date: October 14, 2014

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1
I run away from home in a downpour.
Guilt wends its way through my belly, knotting things up before catapulting into my throat, making it impossible to swallow or breathe. But I have to breathe. I have to exhale the taste of those words my mother and I just slung at each other.
You can’t go, Kenzie. It’s dangerous! You could die.
It’s a freaking bus to Philadelphia, Mom, not a rocket to the moon!
Buses crash! There are no seat belts! What if the driver is drinking?
You’re suffocating me! I hate you! Hate!
My parting word had cracked like a gunshot, punctuated by the slam of the front door behind me. But she’d followed, calling my name in breathless desperation--Mackenzie Grace Summerall! Don’t you dare drive in this weather!
I ignored the order, the rain drowning out her last whimper as I vaulted into the front seat. Even then, I refused to turn to get a glimpse of her.
I don’t really hate my mother. But I loathe that haunted, sad, scared, pained look that turns Libby Summerall’s gray eyes into two burned-out pieces of charcoal. What I hate is her fear. I don’t want to fear life--I want to live it.
The echoes of the fight fill the car and I don’t try to erase them with music, letting the pounding rain on the roof do the job. I never yell back at her--tonight was an exception. Usually I just simmer under the pressure of her protection, understanding it enough to accept the weight of it, only throwing off the heavy blanket whenever I have to escape.
I squeeze the steering wheel and work my way through the darkened streets of my western Pennsylvania neighborhood until I can turn onto Route 1, grateful for the lights of a strip mall and a few traffic signals to guide me through the blinding rain. Not many cars, though. Not on a night like this.
I press the accelerator and barrel into the left lane, that lane of peril my mother wouldn’t let me venture into for the year I had my learner’s permit. But I have a license and freedom now, and a car I bought with tutoring money and some help from Dad. Now I pretty much live in the left lane.
I pick up a little speed despite the rain, the tires sloshing through puddles and potholes, the eleven-year-old Accord feeling all of her 140,000 miles. The light ahead is green, so I give it some gas, hydroplaning for a split second, enough to send a flash of panic through me.
That’s not calming me down. I need happy, soothing thoughts. I need something I understand, something absolute to soothe me.
Between the swipes of my windshield wipers, I go to that more comfortable side of my brain, away from guilt and worry and arguments I can’t win. I decline the Latin word for “strong.”
Fortis, fortis, forti, fortem, forte . . .
The language grounds me, almost instantly. The rules might be complex, but they make sense. I love things that make sense, that are exactly as they should be time after time. No surprises, no random twists, no pieces that don’t fit. Latin makes sense in a way that my world rarely does; it rolls off my tongue so smoothly I sometimes wonder if I didn’t live in ancient Rome in a previous life.
Which is why, if only I could get a damn bus to Philadelphia for the Latin competition, I could be number one in grammar in the entire state. But no . . . that would make too much sense.
The reminder of what started our fight makes me mad at Mom all over again. She wouldn’t even read the parental release, let alone sign it and have it notarized. So I’ll miss state competitions.
Because my leaving home has become Mom’s worst nightmare. Well, one of them. There’s also driving alone, taking a shower in a storm, crossing the street, using a knife, going on a date, or . . . living. Basically, my mother is terrified of life because . . . accidentia eveniunt.
In other words, shit happens, and that could be my mother’s motto. Except she is bound and determined to stop any accidents from happening. Ever again.
A wisp of a memory curls through my chest, a frustrating and elusive clip of Conner’s voice. I can still remember a lot of things about him, but I can’t quite capture his voice. I try for anything--the sound of his laughter, the way he said goodbye when we parted at school.
Go get ’em, Mack.
As if I could get anything the way he could--with ease. He’d been so accomplished. So big in life. And still big in . . .
Mors, mortis, morti, mortem, morte . . .
Declining “death” didn’t help me, either. I blink into the darkness, barely able to make out the next light about a half mile away. It’s green, I think, but it might be yellow by the time I get there. I hate making that decision, never sure if I’ll make it through the intersection in one piece.
Listen to you! You sound just like her.
Lights flash behind me, the high, bright halogens of an expensive SUV. Cursing softly, I swerve into the right lane to let it by, the wipers clearing the glass just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of one of those stupid stick-family decals on the back of the SUV. Why do people insist on advertising how perfect their little family is? Mom, Dad, soccer boy, and ballerina girl. All perfect. All . . . alive.
On the next pass of the blades, I reach the crest of a slight hill and see a pickup truck approaching from the side, probably going to hit the intersection the same time I do. I may have only had my license for a month, but I know the universal rule of trucks: they will cut you off at any opportunity. So I stay in the chickenshit lane and tap the brakes--
And hydroplane wildly. With a gasp, I shimmy the steering wheel to correct myself, splashing rooster tails of rain under my tires and shots of adrenaline in my stomach. In the next puddle, I’m tempted to smash the brake pedal, but I clearly remember the page in the driver’s ed handbook on maneuvering in the rain. On a wet surface, tap brakes repeatedly to avoid . . . something.
Flooding? I don’t know which car part could flood, but I’d rather not risk it. So I touch the pedal again, applying light pressure, once, twice. But nothing happens. In fact, the car is picking up speed on the downhill slope.
“Crap.” The wipers fly by and I see the truck, the traffic light, but rain blurs my view again. “Come on!” I scream, willing the windshield wipers to move faster and clear the glass. They do, and I touch the brakes again.
Nothing.
With a soft inhale of surprise, I fight a wave of panic and press the brakes a little harder.
Nothing. This car isn’t slowing.
And neither is the black truck. The light turns yellow and I slam my foot on the brake so hard the pedal collapses onto the floor. I brace for my back end to fishtail, fighting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, accepting the unacceptable: I have no brakes.
My Accord is flying now, spraying water like wings on either side of the car, barreling toward the yellow light with scant seconds before it turns red. The truck is twenty feet from the intersection and so am I.
“Stop!” I scream at him and my stupid car and everything in the world. But nothing stops. The wipers smack at the rain as the car soars forward and the damn truck isn’t slowing down. I stab at the console for the emergency brake, but there’s no time and I can’t get my shaking fingers around the grip.
Five feet from the corner, the light turns red and I stomp the useless brake pedal over and over and over again. A scream wells up inside me as I steal a glance to my right, blinded by the beams of the truck hauling ass right at me.
“Stop!” I cry again, finally yanking the emergency brake handle with every ounce of strength I have, looking left and right for an escape as I careen right into the intersection.
I can’t hear my own scream, but I feel everything. My muscles tense like steel in anticipation of the crash. Ice-cold terror washes over my body. The car’s moving like a roller coaster down a ramp and all I can hear is the piercing and relentless shriek of a pissed-off truck driver’s high-pitched horn.
Everything whips to the left, then the right, and I close my eyes as the world spins and twists and my chest is squeezed by the seat belt that keeps me squashed to the seat.
My only thought is . . . Conner. Is this how my brother felt when the conveyor belt yanked him down? When his neck snapped? When his world went black and cold and--
A thud stops everything. The car, the spinning, the dark thoughts. There’s just a steady pounding of rain, a mechanical clicking, and a low hum with a soft ding that resonates through the silence.
It takes a full five seconds for me to turn to the side, peer through the rain to see the bright yellow arches, and realize that the McDonald’s sign is right side up. Then I must be, too. And best of all . . . I’m alive.
But I don’t move, doing a silent, swift inventory of my body, waiting for the howl of pain . . . somewhere. But nothing hurts, and the only sound is a repeating hum on the seat next to me.
My phone, my addled brain realizes. A text.
Mom! Joy and horror collide in my chest as the what-ifs play out like a movie. Mom . . . hanging on by a thread as a police officer knocks on our door with the worst news . . .
It would kill her to lose another child. But we averted tragedy this time. Somehow. The only bad news is my car definitely has no brakes and probably will never see a hundred and fifty thousand miles, but who cares? I’m alive. And, oh, God, I’m sorry for saying that I hate my mom.
Desperate to talk to her, I flatten my hand on the passenger seat, rooting around until I find my phone. My hands are trembling so badly I can barely slide the screen lock. I manage to get to the texts, looking for Mom’s picture at the top of the message list, but it’s a phone number I don’t recognize.
I shake my head, not caring about anything but calling my mother, apologizing, getting home, and figuring out a way to downplay this near miss so she doesn’t freak out completely. Like that’s even possible.
The phone dings and vibrates in my hand, another number I don’t recognize, and I see the message attached to it.

Caveat viator, Quinte.
I’m a little off my translation game, but I squint at the screen as my brain registers the Latin words. Let the traveler beware, Fifth.
What the hell? I look up and try to see through the rain-washed windows. Did someone see me? Is that a warning? A fifth warning? A joke from someone in my Latin class? Someone who just saw . . .
Very slowly, lights come into focus, moving up the opposite side of Route 1. High, bright beams on a . . . big black pickup truck.
I don’t know why, but instinct makes me duck. No, not instinct. Common sense. That jerk tried to mow me down.
I lie on the console, my heart hammering into the emergency brake handle that just saved my life, when my phone vibrates and dings again. I refuse to look at the text, squeezing my eyes closed and praying for someone to help me. Someone . . . not in that truck.
My phone vibrates again and I let out a soft whimper. Another text. And another. And another. What is going on?
Finally, I have the courage to look at the texts, letting out a soft cry of relief when I read Molly Russell at the top. My best friend would come to my aid. Then I scan the rest of the texts. More from Molly. But there are at least twenty new texts from kids in school, names I recognize, some I barely know, and a couple of unknown numbers.
Why was I text-bombed? I thumb Molly’s text first.
OMG, Kenzie! Answer me! Did you see?
You’re FIFTH on the list!
The list. The list? Not the . . . No, that wasn’t possible. I could never make that list. I touch more texts, barely processing a single message, because all I can do is stare at one word that pops up over and over and over.
Fifth.

Chapter 2
This morning, the aftermath of my accident has almost died down, but Mom is still wrung out from the long night. After I called her from the car, she got Dad to pick me up and file the accident report. In spite of their separation, which has had him living in a town house a few miles away for the past year, he performed his dad duty and took care of everything, including the tow to a garage.
As always, he was the calm during our family storm, exactly what my mother needed to get through the ordeal. And as always, I had to wonder why those two can’t rise above the statistics that say parents who’ve lost a child inevitably divorce. They’re on their way to the inevitable, it seems, but haven’t yet signed the papers. So I remain hopeful, although my car accident last night did nothing but rip scabs off barely healed wounds.
I leave Mom to nurse those wounds and wait outside for Molly to pick me up for school. She arrives at eight in her VW Bug, and I jump in to escape the late-October chill.
“You don’t look any different,” she says when I slam the door shut.
“I didn’t get hurt,” I reply. “I told you last night, it was just a spinout.”
“I mean, you know, the list.”
Oh, God, the freaking Hottie List. “There was so much going on, I forgot about it.”
“You forgot?” Molly flips a honey-blond strand, making me notice that she’s not wearing her usual ponytail today, and . . .
“Do you have makeup on?” I ask her, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
She shrugs. “I figure we’ll get a lot more attention today than usual.”
I almost snort over that. “Because of that list?”
“Kenzie, don’t you get it? That list makes royalty out of ten junior girls every year and you are on it.” She can’t keep the awe out of her voice and I can’t say I blame her, but not because I am suddenly “royalty.” I’d known the list was coming out this week--every kid in Vienna High knew that. But I never, ever dreamed I’d be on it.