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Someone To Love
Литагент HarperCollins
A powerful issue-driven YA novel tackling eating disorders and the pressures social media puts on contemporary teens from the bestselling author of the Blue Bloods and Disney Descendant’s series.I hate mirrors. Glass is dangerous. Anything that reflects me back at myself is a threat.Liv Blakely knows how important it is to look good. Her father is launching a political career and Liv will be making public appearances. She has an image to uphold–to her maybe-boyfriend, to her new friends, and to the public who love to find fault on social media.No matter who she has to give up to get there.No matter what she has to lose to do it.But as the high price of perfection takes a toll. Can Liv find something else to live for before she goes too far?
EVERYONE IS LOOKING
Olivia “Liv” Blakely knows how important it is to look good. Her father is running for governor, and Liv will be making public appearances with her family. Liv has an image to uphold—to her maybe boyfriend, to the new friends who suddenly welcome her into their circle and to the public, who love to find fault on social media.
Liv’s sunny, charming facade hides a dark inner voice that will settle for nothing less than perfection. No matter who she has to give up to get there. No matter what she has to lose to do it. Liv is working for the day when what she sees in the mirror is worthy…worthy of confidence. Worthy of success. Worthy of love. But as the high price of perfection takes a toll, placing her body and soul at risk, Liv herself has to realize what she has to live for.
MELISSA DE LA CRUZ’s powerful new novel depicts one teen’s battle with self-doubt and an eating disorder, and shows that the struggle to find someone to love starts with oneself.
Also available from
Melissa de la Cruz and HQ YA
Something in Between
Copyright (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Melissa de la Cruz 2018
Melissa de la Cruz asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9781474060646
Version: 2018-01-05
Contents
Cover (#uf46ca8cc-7a71-5a2c-8197-38ecc2a3705f)
Back Cover Text (#u920ec194-fbbc-5fd1-ac7f-ed0a61bc2a90)
About the Author (#u51971f06-078b-50c7-a392-4bc48e10a868)
Booklist (#u415a57f9-2190-5b56-b373-d0c24a3140df)
Title Page (#u8ab2461b-becd-5d15-89fd-3b04c54eb951)
Copyright (#ub5d2ca3e-0ab3-55d7-9743-22cfa848ce0b)
part one (#u1ee614ca-a594-5234-bb48-5e484c7a8f97)
one (#ub50b80b6-1d62-5fce-b89a-374e38e0bc94)
two (#u15aca6bb-8953-527e-bfdf-a9982e969851)
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part three (#litres_trial_promo)
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author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
p a r t o n e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)
I never paint dreams or nightmares.
I paint my own reality.
—Frida Kahlo
o n e (#u1995046c-ced6-510f-bc7e-f1466276fb70)
“It’s not that I’m rebelling. It’s that I’m just
trying to find another way.”
—Edie Sedgwick
The stall door won’t shut all the way.
What the hell kind of bathroom doors does our school have?
The kind with crooked doors that don’t always latch. The kind you don’t want to get caught in. Not with your head above the toilet. Not when you’re kneeling on the floor, puking your guts out. Not with a fifth of vodka—which I desperately need right now.
Shouldn’t the stalls all lock?
Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m done.
I wipe my mouth and take a stick of gum from my purse and unwrap the shiny paper. It makes me think of Andy Warhol’s famous art factory, all wrapped in silvery aluminum foil and pulsing with artists and conversation. I can see Edie Sedgwick’s haunting face. Her platinum pixie. Smoky circles around her eyes. Dangling earrings. That megawatt smile. She may have been one of Andy Warhol’s superstars—those grimy, glamorous muses—but Edie was his angel too. An angel wearing a leotard and fur coat, hiding in the backs of limousines and dingy clubs. Skinny as hell.
I’d rather be in New York. Studying art. Living in my own art factory. Get out of this sunshiny, swimming pool state. I crumple the paper into a ball, toss it into the wastebasket near the door and head for the sinks. I turn on the faucet. Pump soap onto my hands. Scrub. Scrub. Stare at the water slipping down the drain. Don’t look up.
I hate mirrors. Glass is dangerous. Water is dangerous. Windows are dangerous. Anything that reflects myself back at me is a threat. A punishment.
Welcome to my Monday morning. It’s Eastlake Prep’s yearbook photo day. Yeah. That Eastlake Prep—the one with the five-figure tuition and super-fancy alumni. Famous people have gone here, and famous people send their kids here.
It’s the end of September—we’re already a month into school—but I can’t seem to get into the swing of school. And I also can’t show up at photo day with frizzy hair and a pimple on my chin. As much as I hate taking them, I know the power of a class photo. Thirty years from now, when everyone has moved away and no one is following each other on social media anymore, people are going to pull out their yearbook and look at you. That’s what you’ll be to them forever.
Do you want to be the girl with the greasy forehead? Or the bad bangs?
No. I didn’t think so.
