A frozen waffle has ruined my life.
We lie on our backs on the trampoline, drawn in to the center by each other’s weight.
I wake up every morning with death on my mind.
Now that Plan A has bombed -Dad covered his ears last night when I begged him not to move us to Shoreham- I need a Plan B.
I believe everything happens for a reason and usually that reason sucks.
On the very last day of spy school, my plans for a normal, uneventful summer were completely derailed by the delivery of two letters.
Our Lady of Mercy’s cemetery was the last place most people would want to be after dark, but tonight Harper Raine wove her way through the headstones, seeking out the dead.
Victor readjusted the shovels on his shoulder and stepped gingerly over an old, half-sunken grave.
In the middle of a quiet block on 141st Street, inside a brownstone made of deep red shale, the Vanderbeeker family gathered in the living room for a family meeting.
Ada Goth sat up in her eight-poster bed and peered into the inky darkness.