Today I am part of a blog tour, and I got a lovely excerpt for you all to read! Of course I also have some information on the book, the author. The book really sounds fun, an exchange program to France, boy I wish we had that kind of stuff when I was still in school. I also got a giveaway. 🙂 It is for US/CAN only (at least that is what the mail said), so sorry to everyone in the other parts of the world. Normally I wouldn’t add it because I like to keep my blog international, but the price is quite awesome, so I am adding it for my US/CAN readers. Good luck!
Lets get started!
Publisher: Amberjack Publishing
Publication: December 6th 2016
Ages: Young Adult
Category: Contemporary, Young Adult
Rosemary is fifteen and gloriously free, on her own for the very first time. Part of an exchange program for aspiring artists, she arrives in sunny southern France with a single goal: she doesn’t plan to leave, ever. She wants a new life, a new family, and a new identity. But her situation, crafted from lies big and small, is precarious.
Desperate to escape haunting images from her past and a stage one helicopter parent, Rosemary struggles to hide her lack of artistic talent and a communication disorder that has tormented her all her life. She believes her dream of a new start will come true, until she unwittingly finds herself enveloped in a decades-old mystery that threatens to ruin her only chance for success. Determined to stay, Rosemary must choose whether or not she’ll tell the biggest lie of all, even if it means destroying the life of someone she cares about.
Dramatic, heartwarming, and full of teenage angst, The French Impressionist perfectly captures the struggle of those who feel they have no voice, and also shows the courage it takes to speak up and show the world who we really are.
Buy the book here: Amazon|||B&N ||| Kobo
Rebecca Bischoff currently resides in Idaho with her family and works as a speech-language pathologist. She loves helping others, especially kids and teenagers, discover their own unique voices and learn to share who they are with the world. When she isn’t writing, she loves to read, spend time with her kids, and make awkward attempts to learn foreign languages. She is drawn to all things both French and Italian, used bookstores, and anything made out of chocolate.
Find her at these places: Site | Twitter | Facebook
And now drum roll the excerpt for this book!
The fixture that lights the upper hallway goes on automatically when I reach the top step.
There’s a door to my left marked with the number 64, and a plastic potted palm at my right, so close I brush against its dusty fronds. There’s one more door at the end of the long, narrow hall, but it’s not marked. More voices from the hall below chase me farther away so I head to the unmarked door.
I keep telling myself I’m not running away from anything. I’m just sparing the feelings of others.
Rusted metal forms a tiny balcony that doesn’t look very sturdy, and narrow spiral stairs wind upward along the outer wall of the building. My mother would have a heart attack at the thought of me climbing this rickety monstrosity.
The thought spurs me onward. At the top, the stairs open up onto a flat roof that’s been turned into a garden. Trees in huge pots line one side of the rooftop. Their leaves shiver in the soft blowing air. The space before me is covered with low wooden boxes that hold rose bushes, tons of flowers, or the spiky leaves of onions and feathery tops of carrots. One box holds wiry tendrils that spill out all over the place. I smell the perfume of the blossoms and the clean, earthy scent of wet soil. I sit and look up at the rain-washed sky that glows as the sun sinks low.
Then I lie down on the flat roof, actually lie down right on top of dirt and leaves and cigarette butts. And I smile like an idiot up at the blushing sky. This is what it’s like to truly be alone.
Everything inside me feels new.
I can almost forget my latest humiliation. And in the space of one tiny heartbeat, I know that I can’t. Not really.
I sit up and pick leaves from my hair. It’s always going to be like this. How can I forget? It’s like there’s this room full of people, all talking and laughing and having a great time and I’m watching through a wall of glass, wanting to join them. The sun goes down as I explore every inch, pick a hard green apricot, smell the roses, drop petals from the roof, and finally decide that I’ve wasted enough time.
Downstairs, I listen at Sylvie’s door to make sure the Americans are gone. They are. I pause with my hand on the knob and try to gather some courage. I hear my therapist’s voice in my mind. “Find your feet, Rosemary. Breathe.” It sounds so stupid, but sometimes it works. Thinking about my feet is supposed to make me forget whatever’s bothering me. It’s also a symbol for stepping forward and moving on from the crap that happened. Then I just breathe. Out with the bad air. In with the good air. I find my feet. I breathe.
And I talk in my head. Goodbye, Gavin. Y’all don’t come back now, y’hear? Sylvie meets me inside and enfolds me in a warm embrace. I hug her back, gratified and kind of shocked that she’s showing such affection to a stranger. To an awkward girl who behaved like a toddler. My hopes heave themselves back off of the floor inside me. When Sylvie releases me, she says nothing. Émile asks me if I’m still hungry, offers dessert, and that’s all. For a second, he looks at me like there’s something he wants to say, but he doesn’t. So I sit and eat chocolate cake with fresh raspberries, and I feel dumb.
Lame for running off the way I did. I make myself a promise. This is the last time I run away from anything.
New home. New family. New Rosemary.
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