Exclusive preview: This sizzling debut unfolds a murder-mystery at a Long Island prep school
A killer might be on the loose in They Wish They Were Us, one of this summer’s buzziest YA reads coming courtesy of debut author Jessica Goodman.
Described by publisher Razorbill as “Gossip Girl meets One of Us Is Lying with a dash of The Secret History,” the thriller from Goodman, an Entertainment Weekly alum and the current op-ed editor for Cosmopolitan, has been the talk of the town for months; its acquisition came about in a heated, competitive auction, and high early praise has come in from the likes of Jessica Knoll and Megan Miranda. Now, EW can debut a first look.
The novel follows Jill Newman during her senior year of high school at Gold Coast Prep. Three years ago, her best friend Shaila Arnold was killed by her boyfriend, Graham, three years ago; Graham confessed, the case was closed, and Jill and her friends tried to move on. But now, she’s getting texts indicating Graham may be innocent. Suddenly, flashes of the fateful night of Shaila’s death start coming back to her, along with memories she’s tried to suppress. More than anything, Jill wants to uncover the truth about what happened to Shaila, but she soon realizes that doing so means putting her friendships, and her future, in jeopardy.
Intrigued? We’ve got more for you. Below, EW can exclusively reveal an excerpt from They Wish They Were Us, and be sure to see the chilling cover at the top of this post. Then novel publishes Aug. 4 and is available for pre-order.
Excerpt from They Wish They Were Us, by Jessica Goodman
PROLOGUE
It’s a miracle anyone gets out of high school alive. Everything is a risk or a well-placed trap. If you’re not done in by your own heart, so trampled and swollen, you might fall victim to a totally clichéd but equally tragic demise—a drunk-driving accident, a red light missed while texting, too many of the wrong kinds of pills. But that’s not how Shaila Arnold went.
Of course, technically, her cause of death was blunt force trauma at the hands of her boyfriend, Graham Calloway. With trace evidence of sea water in her lungs, drowning may have been the easiest assumption, but upon closer inspection, the bump on her head and the puddle of thick, sticky blood that matted her long honey-blonde hair was unmissable.
Blunt force trauma. That’s what her death certificate says. That’s what went down in the record books. But that’s not really how she died. It can’t be. I think she died from anger, from betrayal. From wanting too much all at once. From never feeling full. Her rage was all-consuming. I know this because mine is, too. Why did we have to suffer? Why were we chosen? How had we lost control?
It’s hard to remember what we were like before, when anger was just temporary. A passing feeling caused by a fight with Mom, or my little brother Jared’s insistence on eating the last piece of apple pie at Thanksgiving. Anger was easy then because it was fleeting. A rolling wave that crashed ashore before it settled down. Things always settled down.
Now it’s as if a monster lives inside me. She’ll be there forever, just waiting to crack open my chest and step forward into the light. I wonder if this is how Shaila felt in her last moments alive.
They say only the good die young, but that’s just a line in a stupid song we used to sing. It isn’t real. It isn’t true. I know that because Shaila Arnold was so many things—brilliant and funny, confident and wild. But honestly? She wasn’t all that good.
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