Six Feet Over It - Softcover

Longo, Jennifer

 
9780449818749: Six Feet Over It
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0449818748 ISBN 13: 9780449818749
Verlag: Ember, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

This unforgettable new voice in contemporary YA is perfect for fans of John Green, Libba Bray, and Jennifer Niven.
 
“Like nothing you’ve read before.” —Bustle.com
 
No one is more surprised than Leigh when her father buys a graveyard. Less shocking is the fact that he’s too lazy to look farther than the dinner table for employees. Working the literal graveyard shift, she becomes great at predicting headstone choice (mostly granite) and taking notes with one hand while offering Kleenex with the other.
 
Sarcastic and smart, Leigh should be able to quit this stupid after-school job. But her world’s been turned upside down by the sudden loss of her best friend and the appearance of Dario, the slightly-too-old-for-her gravedigger. Can Leigh move on, if moving on means it’s time to get a life?
 
Funny and heart-wrenchingly beautiful, Jennifer Longo’s YA debut about a girl surrounded by death will change the way you look at friendship, love, and life.
 
More Praise for Six Feet Over It:
 
A Washington State Book Award Finalist

A VOYA Perfect Tens 2014 Pick
 
An Indies Introduce New Voices Pick
 
“Equal parts poignant and humorous. . . . Superb.” —Kirkus Reviews, Starred
 
“A vibrant voice. . . . Readers will rejoice.” —The Bulletin, Starred
 
“A unique book for unique teens.” —Booklist

“Darkly funny and deeply moving. An original, memorable voice.” —Jennifer L. Holm, New York Times bestselling author
 
“A wildly funny coming-of-age story about life, love, death, and everything in between.” —Sarah McCarry, author of All Our Pretty Songs
 
“Terrific. Longo had me at ‘graveyard’ and then dug me in deeper with wit, dark humor, and splendid characters.” —Lisa Brown, New York Times bestselling author
 
“A strong heroine, multicultural cast, and eclectic contemporary setting make Longo’s story stand out.” —Publishers Weekly
 
“Stands out for its unusual setting and also the sarcasm and caustic humor of its protagonist.” —The Horn Book Review
 
“Hilarious, clever, and poignant.” —SLJ

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

JENNIFER LONGO holds an MFA in Writing for Theater from Humboldt State University. She credits her lifelong flair for drama to parents who did things like buy the town graveyard and put their kids to work in it—because how hilarious would that be? Turns out, pretty hilarious. Jennifer lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and daughter and writes about writing at jenlongo.com.

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One
I was born dead. Or died shortly after--Meredith’s story changes depending on her audience and her mood. “The first thing Leigh did after she was born was die!” she loves bragging to people, working her well-worn “tragedy + more tragedy = comedy” routine. And yes, I was born nearly three months early--a two-and-a-half-pound “micro preemie”--but I have since learned from watching medical dramas that premature babies flatline all the time, and these days reviving them is really no big whoop. Wade says it’s just bravado masking Meredith’s injured maternal pride over how I subsequently lived--thrived--without the protection of her womb, but most parents wouldn’t drag that chestnut out for laughs. Makes me cringe.
“Oh, Leigh,” she and Wade constantly moan. “Don’t be so dramatic, my God!”
If my eyes so much as mist up, get a little dewy over anything--epic Wade and Meredith eye rolling. Sighs are heaved. A person lucky enough to be brought back from a birth/death and go on to enjoy freakishly perfect health has nothing to cry about.
They buy graveyards on the sly and perform stand‑up comedy routines about their kid’s near death and I’m dramatic?
I don’t remember when I started calling them Wade and Meredith.
So here we are. I am. Non-selling days I walk home as fast as I can from school, step on every crack I see. No, living here is not technically Meredith’s fault; Wade bought the graveyard without even telling her, saw a classified ad--Graveyard for Sale--and signed mortgage papers she never even saw. But still--come on.
I keep my eyes down all the way to Sierrawood, through our out-of-control Gothic black wrought-iron entrance gates, yet another genius Wade idea. They’re just stupid. Every single time I look at them, I think, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .” and I’m in a Daphne du Maurier novel, alone behind the gates of a creepy estate coincidentally also presided over by a ridiculous man. Huh.
Just inside the Manderley gates, ducks paddle in a pond, beside which is a wooden sign, small and low to the ground, that reads: THIS IS A NON-ENDOWMENT CARE FACILITY. Non-endowment, according to Wade, means the families don’t pay extra into funds to maintain the graves; therefore everyone should be grateful he even gases up the mower and runs it at all. A little farther past the pond, another very small, carefully hand-printed sign reads: ALL FLOWERS, ARTIFICIAL AND REAL, WILL BE REMOVED ON TUESDAYS TO FACILITATE MOWING. Which everyone knows is a big joke--people are figuring out pretty quickly that most of the signage around Sierrawood, like Wade himself, is all talk, no action. GATES CLOSED AT DUSK? If we remember. NO MUSIC ALLOWED? Tell that to Mrs. Irvin, who hauls a boom box over to J 72 in Peaceful Glen so she can blast the sound track of the Broadway show Carousel for her sister week after week. Even with Wade’s mower running and my headphones on, every Wednesday I can hear Shirley Jones hollering about having “a real nice clambake.”
With all my attention concentrated on the gravel road beneath my feet, I pretend the graves away. Most of the headstones are flat, so if I squint it’s just a house, just a nice house near a nice park, just a park. But on digging days the pretense dissolves as I run to the house, my heavy backpack beating me senseless, away from the backhoe and the pile of soil beside it, Jimmy the contracted grave digger leaning casually on his shovel.
Today is an office day, Wednesday, so I do not run. I trudge from school, moving especially slowly so that I miss Real Nice Clambake. She honks and waves on her way out as we pass through the Manderleys. In the office, I toss my backpack beneath the desk and shove the dusty stack of back issues of Mortuary Monthly magazine to the floor. (Why do we continue to get this thing? We’re not a mortuary! I’ve called them twice to cancel already.) This stupid brown cave. Tiny building beside the pond, the hills of graves rising all around it. There are windows on every wall, large and well positioned for crow’s-nest-type spying, but the dark wood paneling, matted brown shag rug, and black vinyl wingback chairs seem to suck the light right out. Like the clientele aren’t depressed enough. The shag and walls are gummy with residual pipe smoke from the previous owner, who sat in here puffing for fifty-three years before selling Sierrawood to Wade and packing his pipe off to Maui. Who in the world who isn’t a British detective smokes a pipe? People who own graveyards, apparently. I bet he wore a monocle, too. The smell makes my head hurt.
I prop the door open and heave the ginormous English lit book we’ve been assigned onto the funeral-scheduling desk calendar.
The heartsick Ceres seeks her daughter / She searches every land, all waves and waters.
Okay. Here’s the thing about Ovid, about Metamorphoses: I do get it--Troy falls, Rome rises. The universal principle, nothing is permanent, everything changes, anything, anyone you may have to hold on to, take comfort or care from, will leave. Die. Which is awesome. But then really, Ovid? You need fifteen books of narrative poetry to present this worn-out thesis? That I don’t get. Beauty for beauty’s sake, Mrs. McKinstry says, and we’re not reading all fifteen books, just the greatest hits, so count your blessings. Keep reading. She keeps quizzing.
Through the open windows I hear the sound of tires on the drive. My hands go damp--Not today, just let me sit here with Ovid, please oh please--and thank God it’s not a customer, just the flower van. Rivendell Nursery. They seem to be Sierrawood’s number one provider of beauty-queen-contestant-sashed wreaths. Mother. In Memoriam. Miss Sierrawood Hills. A lady brings them, and she also does weekly and monthly bouquets for out-of-town relatives and infirm or lazy local family members. Birthdays, holidays. Paying a stranger to visit your dearly departed seems sort of beside the point, but whatever.
The van passes the pond, and halfway up Poppy Hill the lady hops out wearing denim overalls; her hair is tied in a knot on top of her head and she lugs heavy baskets of uninspired calla lilies across the grass. But then someone else climbs out the back of the van.
Emily.
My only friend, left behind at the ocean. Months since I’ve seen her and I thought she was gone forever, but now here she is.
Emily?
No. My brain loves to turn every small, dark-haired girl I see into Emily, but no. This girl is maybe a little taller, and she’s out there wearing a dress--a dress, for crying out loud--and tall black boots. She runs to help with the lilies. She heaves armloads of arrangements and potted plants, refers to a list, searches for headstones, places blossoms and baskets. That dress is going to get filthy.
Just some girl.
Not Emily.
I salt the wound, pick up the phone receiver. Dial Emily’s Mendocino house.
The number you have reached . . .
Same as the last hundred times I tried. Why do I do it to myself?
Back to Ovid.
Chill October air moves through the window and around the open door, swings the dust and stale pipe residue around my head full of Ceres searching for her daughter and a sound track of ducks quacking beneath the willows.
“Hello?”
I slam my hand into hardback Ovid, startled. In the doorway, Dress and Boots Girl winces.
“Oh God, sorry! Sorry!”
I rub my red knuckles and she steps in.
“Are you okay? Can I . . .”
“No, it’s fine, it’s . . . okay.” I squeeze my pink fingers, push Ovid aside.
Not Emily....

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Verlag
Ember
Erscheinungsdatum
2016
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0449818748
ISBN 13 
9780449818749
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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