Unremembered (Unremembered Trilogy Series #1)

Unremembered (Unremembered Trilogy Series #1)

4.1 46
by Jessica Brody
     
 

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When Freedom Airlines flight 121 went down over the Pacific Ocean, no one ever expected to find survivors. Which is why the sixteen-year-old girl discovered floating among the wreckage—alive—is making headlines across the globe.

Even more strange is that her body is miraculously unharmed and she has no memories of boarding the plane. She has no

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Overview

When Freedom Airlines flight 121 went down over the Pacific Ocean, no one ever expected to find survivors. Which is why the sixteen-year-old girl discovered floating among the wreckage—alive—is making headlines across the globe.

Even more strange is that her body is miraculously unharmed and she has no memories of boarding the plane. She has no memories of her life before the crash. She has no memories period. No one knows how she survived. No one knows why she wasn’t on the passenger manifest. And no one can explain why her DNA and fingerprints can’t be found in a single database in the world.

Crippled by a world she doesn’t know, plagued by abilities she doesn’t understand, and haunted by a looming threat she can’t remember, Seraphina struggles to piece together her forgotten past and discover who she really is. But with every clue only comes more questions. And she’s running out of time to answer them.

Her only hope is a strangely alluring boy who claims to know her from before the crash. Who claims they were in love. But can she really trust him? And will he be able to protect her from the people who have been making her forget?

From popular young adult author Jessica Brody comes a compelling and suspenseful new sci-fi series, set in a world where science knows no boundaries, memories are manipulated, and true love can never be forgotten.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Amnesiac genius “Violet” supposedly absorbs information without effort. Yet after five days in the hospital with nothing to do but watch TV, the 16-year-old emerges with no comprehension of what jeans, cars, malls, and supermarkets are. Violet may be supermodel beautiful, but her interactions are those of like Data from Star Trek. Picked up at the site of a plane crash, she is assumed to be a survivor and put in foster care while the authorities seek her family. Meanwhile, others are after her: a persistent, urgent boy who calls her “Sera” and a red-haired man, both of whom can find her with uncanny speed no matter where she goes. Brody’s (52 Reasons to Hate My Father) book unfolds at a too-leisurely pace in terms of action and emotional development, yet too quickly to make the “science” of Violet’s condition plausible. Her foster brother says, “I feel like I’m in a bad sci-fi movie,” and the lament is unfortunately accurate. There’s no opportunity to forget that Violet is an artificial construct in an artificial setting. Ages 12–up. Agent: Bill Contardi, Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents. (Mar.)
New York Times bestselling author of the Lunar Chr Marissa Meyer

Unremembered is a story brimming with mystery and suspense, star-crossed love and mad scientists. I felt like a detective putting together the pieces of Seraphina's forgotten past right along with her, and the masterful way the puzzle was finally revealed left me speechless.
author of The Jenna Fox Chronicles Mary E. Pearson

Intriguing and fast-paced, Unremembered kept me turning pages with plot twists and a fascinating heroine worth rooting for. Seraphina and her quest to unlock the secrets of her past kept me guessing at every turn. I can't wait for the next book!
New York Times Bestselling author of the House of P.C. Cast

Unremembered is an awesome book! I was pulling for Seraphina from the opening chapters, and couldn't wait to read what happened next--and I LOVED the twist at the end.
From the Publisher
"[Teens] will have a hard time putting this book down." — School Library Journal

 

"Fast-paced and sure to satisfy romance-oriented readers." — Kirkus Reviews

"Undeniable appeal." - BCCB

"The first in Brody’s new science-fiction series should snare enough attention to have folks tapping their feet for the sequel." — Booklist

 

Advance praise for Unremembered:

“Unremembered is a story brimming with mystery and suspense, star-crossed love and mad scientists. I felt like a detective putting together the pieces of Seraphina’s forgotten past right along with her, and the masterful way the puzzle was finally revealed left me speechless.”—Marissa Meyer, New York Times bestselling author of the Lunar Chronicles

 

“Intriguing and fast-paced, Unremembered kept me turning pages with plot twists and a fascinating heroine worth rooting for. Seraphina and her quest to unlock the secrets of her past kept me guessing at every turn. I can’t wait for the next book!”—Mary E. Pearson, author of The Jenna Fox Chronicles

 

“Unremembered is an awesome book! I was pulling for Seraphina from the opening chapters, and couldn’t wait to read what happened next—and I LOVED the twist at the end.” —P.C. Cast, New York Times Bestselling author of the House of Night series

Children's Literature - Greta Holt
A plane crashes, leaving one survivor: a girl who is found uninjured. She cannot remember anything, including who she is and what happened in her past. She is told that she is quite beautiful and that her eyes are a strange shade of purple. Bad dreams populate her sleep. Because the publicity is overwhelming, she is sent to a quiet home with a foster family. But people keep showing up: a young man who claims he is her lover, an older man who tries to help her, and mean men who attempt to capture her. Who is she, and from where has she come? A locket holds some of the answers. A tattoo on her wrist the others. First in a series, Unremembered focuses on the love story between Seraphina and Zen, but leads readers into a world of science fiction, with good and evil scientists who must deal with the consequences of their actions for present and future worlds. A few issues may exist for some readers. First, Sera cannot remember anything: the voids have left her with nothing. Yet, when she is handed a mirror, she describes herself in detail: "...long and sleek honey-brown hair...heart-shaped mouth..." Amnesia can take many forms, but Sera's thoughts might not jar if she were allowed surprise that she can describe so well. Readers learn, although, much later, that Sera can do many things. Action is interrupted at times by passages of explanation about the science fiction aspects of the story. Zen, Maxxer, and Alixter are given pages of explanation that might have been distributed more efficiently through multiple points of view or narrative voice. Science fiction readers will enjoy the surprises in the plot, and readers who enjoy a ?love conquers all' theme will read on. Reviewer: Greta Holt
Kirkus Reviews
What should a 16-year-old girl with no memories trust: her own instincts or the cryptic words of a boy who insists she knows him? Our heroine washes ashore when the book opens, apparently the sole survivor of a plane crash. Dubbed Violet by a nurse after her (yes, violet) eye color, she becomes a national news story and is quietly sent to a foster family in northern California when no one steps forward to identify her. The only person she meets who claims to know her is a boy who appears mysteriously when she's alone and warns her that she's in danger. Short, dramatic, present-tense sentences move the action forward, and the book's central questions (who is Violet? who is following her? when will she start believing the boy who is clearly the romantic lead?) provide plenty of suspense. Although the mysterious boy is more of an archetype than a character in his own right, Violet's 13-year-old foster brother Cody is pleasingly funny, suspicious and competent. There are intriguing sci-fi elements at play, but analytical readers will notice holes in the workings of genetics and the logistics of time travel. Fast-paced and sure to satisfy romance-oriented readers, if not skeptics. (Science fiction. 12-18)
BCCB

Undeniable appeal.
Booklist

The first in Brody's new science-fiction series should snare enough attention to have folks tapping their feet for the sequel.
New York Times–bestselling author of the Lun Marissa Meyer

Unremembered is a story brimming with mystery and suspense, star-crossed love and mad scientists. I felt like a detective putting together the pieces of Seraphina's forgotten past right along with her, and the masterful way the puzzle was finally revealed left me speechless.
author of the Jenna Fox Chronicles Mary E. Pearson

Intriguing and fast-paced, Unremembered kept me turning pages with plot twists and a fascinating heroine worth rooting for. Seraphina and her quest to unlock the secrets of her past kept me guessing at every turn. I can't wait for the next book!
New York Times–bestselling author of the Hou P. C. Cast

"Unremembered is an awesome book! I was pulling for Seraphina from the opening chapters, and couldn't wait to read what happened next--and I LOVED the twist at the end."
School Library Journal
Gr 7–10—In this science-fiction mystery, Violet, 16, is found floating amid the wreckage of a plane crash with no memory of her life before the accident. A foster family has agreed to take her in until she regains her memories. Violet finds even everyday expressions and concepts to be maddeningly unfamiliar. The only clue to her identity is a locket with a cryptic equation inscribed on it. Soon a stranger named Lyzender arrives on the scene, claiming to know her. Violet feels drawn to him, but she is hesitant to trust the impossible story that he tells her. As she slowly discovers superhuman skills and knowledge that she cannot explain, however, the teen realizes that her real name is Seraphina and that she has no choice but to consider that what Lyzender is telling her is true. If it is, then she is in danger. Seraphina's strong voice, feeling of isolation, and desperate need to understand the world around her will ring true with teens. They will have a hard time putting this book down as they struggle to solve Seraphina's mystery alongside her. While other figures, such as Lyzender, are not well developed, the nonstop suspense and well-paced plot more than make up for what the story lacks in characterization. Hand this one to fans of romantic science fiction such as Jessica Khoury's Origin (Penguin), Lissa Price's Starters (Delacorte), or Rachel Cohn's Beta (Hyperion), all 2012).—Liz Overberg, Darlington Middle School, Rome, GA

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780374379919
Publisher:
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date:
03/05/2013
Series:
Unremembered Trilogy Series, #1
Pages:
320
Sales rank:
263,859
Product dimensions:
5.90(w) x 8.28(h) x 1.10(d)
Lexile:
HL610L (what's this?)
Age Range:
12 - 17 Years

Meet the Author

Jessica Brody is the author of 52 Reasons to Hate My Father, My Life Undecided, and The Karma Club, as well as two adult novels: The Fidelity Files and Love Under Cover. Sometimes she wishes her memories could be erased so she could reread all her favorite books for the first time. She splits her time between California and Colorado. Visit her online at jessicabrody.com.

Read an Excerpt

Unremembered


By Jessica Brody

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Copyright © 2013 Jessica Brody Entertainment, LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-374-37992-6



CHAPTER 1

ANEW


Today is the only day I remember. Waking up in that ocean is all I have. The rest is empty space. Although I don't know how far back that space goes—how many years it spans. That's the thing about voids: they can be as short as the blink of an eye, or they can be infinite. Consuming your entire existence in a flash of meaningless white. Leaving you with nothing.

No memories.

No names.

No faces.

Every second that ticks by is new. Every feeling that pulses through me is foreign. Every thought in my brain is like nothing I've ever thought before. And all I can hope for is one moment that mirrors an absent one. One fleeting glimpse of familiarity.

Something that makes me ... me.

Otherwise, I could be anyone.

Forgetting who you are is so much more complicated than simply forgetting your name. It's also forgetting your dreams. Your aspirations. What makes you happy. What you pray you'll never have to live without. It's meeting yourself for the first time, and not being sure of your first impression.

After the rescue boat docked, I was brought here. To this room. Men and women in white coats flutter in and out. They stick sharp things in my arm. They study charts and scratch their heads. They poke and prod and watch me for a reaction. They want something to be wrong with me. But I assure them that I'm fine. That I feel no pain.

The fog around me has finally lifted. Objects are crisp and detailed. My head no longer feels as though it weighs a hundred pounds. In fact, I feel strong. Capable. Anxious to get out of this bed. Out of this room with its unfamiliar chemical smells. But they won't let me. They insist I need more time.

From the confusion I see etched into their faces, I'm pretty sure it's they who need the time.

They won't allow me to eat any real food. Instead they deliver nutrients through a tube in my arm. It's inserted directly into my vein. Inches above a thick white plastic bracelet with the words Jane Doe printed on it in crisp black letters.

I ask them why I need to be here when I'm clearly not injured. I have no visible wounds. No broken bones. I wave my arms and turn my wrists and ankles in wide circles to prove my claim. But they don't respond. And this infuriates me.

After a few hours, they determine that I'm sixteen years old. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to react to this information. I don't feel sixteen. But then again, how do I know what sixteen feels like? How do I know what any age feels like?

And how can I be sure that they're right? For all I know, they could have just made up that number. But they assure me that they have qualified tests. Specialists. Experts. And they all say the same thing.

That I'm sixteen.

The tests can't tell me my name, though. They can't tell me where I'm from. Where I live. Who my family is. Or even my favorite color.

And no matter how many "experts" they shuttle in and out of this room, no one can seem to explain why I'm the only survivor of the kind of plane crash no one survives.

They talk about something called a passenger manifest. I've deduced that it's a kind of master list. A register of everyone who boarded the plane.

I've also deduced that I'm not on it.

And that doesn't seem to be going over very well with anyone.

A man in a gray suit, who identifies himself as Mr. Rayunas from Social Services, says he's trying to locate my next of kin. He carries around a strange-looking metal device that he calls a cell phone. He holds it up to his ear and talks. He also likes to stare at it and stab at tiny buttons on its surface. I don't know what my "next of kin" is, but by the look on his face, he's having trouble locating it.

He whispers things to the others. Things I'm assuming he doesn't want me to hear. But I hear them anyway. Foreign, unfamiliar words like "foster care" and "the press" and "minor." Every so often they all pause and glance over at me. They shake their heads. Then they continue whispering.

There's a woman named Kiyana who comes in every hour. She has dark skin and speaks with an accent that makes it sound like she's singing. She wears pink. She smiles and fluffs my pillow. Presses two fingers against my wrist. Writes stuff down on a clipboard. I've come to look forward to her visits. She's kinder than the others. She takes the time to talk to me. Ask me questions. Real ones. Even though she knows I don't have any of the answers.

"You're jus' so beautiful," she says to me, tapping her finger tenderly against my cheek. "Like one of those pictures they airbrush for the fashion magazines, you know?"

I don't know. But I offer her a weak smile regardless. For some reason, it feels like an appropriate response.

"Not a blemish," she goes on. "Not one flaw. When you get your memory back, you're gonna have to tell me your secret, love." Then she winks at me.

I like that she says when and not if.

Even though I don't remember learning those words, I understand the difference.

"And those eyes," she croons, moving in closer. "I've never seen such a color. Lavender, almos'." She pauses, thinking, and leans closer still. "No. Violet." She smiles like she's stumbled upon a long-lost secret. "I bet that's your name. Violet. Ring any bells?"

I shake my head. Of course it doesn't.

"Well," she says, straightening the sheets around my bed, "I'm gonna call you that anyway. Jus' until you remember the real one. Much nicer soundin' than Jane Doe."

She takes a step back, tilts her head to the side. "Sucha pretty girl. Do you even remember whatcha look like, love?"

I shake my head again.

She smiles softly. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Hang on then. I'll show you."

She leaves the room. Returns a moment later with an oval-shaped mirror. Light bounces off it as she walks to my bedside. She holds it up.

A face appears in the light pink frame.

One with long and sleek honey-brown hair. Smooth golden skin. A small, straight nose. Heart-shaped mouth. High cheekbones. Large, almond-shaped purple eyes.

They blink.

"Yes, that's you," she says. And then, "You musta been a model. Such perfection."

But I don't see what she sees. I only see a stranger. A person I don't recognize. A face I don't know. And behind those eyes are sixteen years of experiences I fear I'll never be able to remember. A life held prisoner behind a locked door. And the only key has been lost at sea.

I watch purple tears form in the reflecting glass.

CHAPTER 2

COVERAGE


"Mystery continues to cloud the tragic crash of Freedom Airlines flight 121, which went down over the Pacific Ocean yesterday evening after taking off from Los Angeles International Airport on a nonstop journey to Tokyo, Japan. Experts are working around the clock to determine the identity of the flight's only known survivor, a sixteen-year-old girl who was found floating among the wreckage, relatively unharmed. Doctors at UCLA Medical Center, where she's being treated, confirm that the young woman has suffered severe amnesia and does not remember anything prior to the crash. There was no identification found on the girl and the Los Angeles Police have been unable to match her fingerprints or DNA to any government databases. According to a statement announced by the FAA earlier this morning, she was not believed to be traveling with family and no missing-persons reports matching her description have been filed.

"The hospital released this first photo of the girl just today, in the hope that someone with information will step forward. Authorities are optimistic that ..."

I stare at my face on the screen of the thin black box that hangs above my bed. Kiyana says it's called a television. The fact that I didn't know this disturbs me. Especially when she tells me that there's one in almost every household in the country.

The doctors say I should remember things like that. Although my personal memories seem to be "temporarily" lost, I should be familiar with everyday objects and brands and the names of celebrities. But I'm not.

I know words and cities and numbers. I like numbers. They feel real to me when everything around me is not. They are concrete. I can cling to them. I can't remember my own face but I know that the digits between one and ten are the same now as they were before I lost everything. I know I must have learned them at some point in my eclipsed life. And that's as close to a sense of familiarity as I've gotten.

I count to keep myself occupied. To keep my mind filled with something other than abandoned space. In counting I'm able to create facts. Items I can add to the paltry list of things that I know.

I know that someone named Dr. Schatzel visits my room every fifty-two minutes and carries a cup of coffee with him on every third visit. I know that the nurses' station is twenty to twenty-four footsteps away from my room, depending on the height of the person on duty. I know that the female newscaster standing on the curb at Los Angeles International Airport blinks fifteen times per minute. Except when she's responding to a question from the male newscaster back in the studio. Then her blinks increase by 133 percent.

I know that Tokyo, Japan, is a long way for a sixteen-year-old girl to be traveling by herself.

Kiyana enters my room and frowns at the screen. "Violet, baby," she says, pressing a button on the bottom that causes my face to dissolve to black, "watchin' that twenty-four-hour news coverage is not gonna do you any good. It'll only upset you more. Besides, it's gettin' late. And you've been up for hours now. Why doncha try to get some sleep?"

Defiantly I press the button on the small device next to my bed and the image of my face reappears.

Kiyana lets out a buoyant singsongy laugh. "Whoever you are, Miss Violet, I have a feelin' you were the feisty type."

I watch the television in silence as live footage from the crash site is played. A large rounded piece—with tiny oval-shaped windows running across it—fills the screen. The Freedom Airlines logo painted onto the side slowly passes by. I lean forward and study it, scrutinizing the curved red-and-blue font. I try to convince myself that it means something. That somewhere in my blank slate of a brain, those letters hold some kind of significance. But I fail to come up with anything.

Like the slivers of my fragmented memory, the debris is just another shattered piece that once belonged to something whole. Something that had meaning. Purpose. Function.

Now it's just a splinter of a larger picture that I can't fit together.

I collapse back against my pillow with a sigh.

"What if no one comes?" I ask quietly, still cringing at the unfamiliar sound of my own voice. It's like someone else in the room is speaking and I'm just mouthing the words.

Kiyana turns and looks at me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Whatcha talkin' about, love?"

"What if ..." The words feel crooked as they tumble out. "What if no one comes to get me? What if I don't have anyone?"

Kiyana lets out a laugh through her nose. "Now that's jus' foolishness. And I don't wanna hear it."

I open my mouth to protest but Kiyana closes it with the tips of her fingers. "Now, listen here, Violet," she says in a serious tone. "You're the mos' beautiful girl I've ever seen in all my life. And I've seen a lotta girls. You are special. And no one that special ever goes forgotten. It's been less than a day. Someone's gonna come for you. It's jus' a matter of time."

With a satisfied nod of her head and a squeeze of her fingers, she releases my lips and goes back to her routine.

"But what if I don't remember them when they do?"

Kiyana seems less concerned with this question than the last one. She smooths the sheets around my feet. "You will."

I don't know how she can be so confident when I couldn't even remember what a television was. "How?" I insist. "You heard the doctors. All of my personal memories are completely gone. My mind is one big empty void."

She makes a strange clucking sound with her tongue as she pats the bed. "That doesn't make any difference. Everybody knows the memories that really matter don't live in the mind."

I find her attempt at encouragement extremely unhelpful. It must show on my face because Kiyana pushes a button to recline my bed and says, "Don't be gettin' yourself all worked up, now. Why doncha rest up? It's been a long day."

"I'm not tired."

I watch her stick a long needle into the tube that's connected to my arm. "Here, love," she says tenderly. "This'll help."

I feel the drugs enter my bloodstream. Like heavy chunks of ice navigating a river.

Through the mist that's slowly cloaking my vision, I watch Kiyana exit the room. My eyelids are heavy. They droop. I fight the rising fatigue. I hate that they can control me so easily. It makes me feel helpless. Weak. Like I'm back in the middle of the ocean, floating aimlessly.

The room becomes fuzzy.

I see someone in the doorway. A silhouette. It moves toward me. Fast. Urgently. Then a voice. Deep and beautiful. But the sound is slightly distorted by whatever substance is pumping through my blood.

"Can you hear me? Please open your eyes."

Something warm touches my hand. Heat instantly floods my body. Like a fire spreading. A good kind of fire. A burn that seeks to heal me.

I fight to stay awake, wrestling against the haze. It's a losing battle.

"Please wake up." The voice is far away now. Fading fast.

I can barely see the face of a young man. A boy. Hovering inches above me. He blurs in and out of focus. I make out dark hair. Damp against his forehead. Warm maple eyes. A crooked smile.

And without thinking, without intention, I feel myself smiling back.

I open my mouth to speak but the words come out garbled. Half formed. Half conscious. "Do I know you?"

He squeezes my hand. "Yes. It's me. Do you remember?"

The answer comes before I can even attempt to respond. It echoes in some back corner of my mind. A faraway flicker of a flame that is no longer lit. A voice that is not my own.

Yes.

Always yes.

"This wasn't supposed to happen." He speaks softly, almost to himself. "You're not supposed to be here."

I struggle to make sense of what is happening. To cling on to the unexpected surge of hope that has surfaced. But it's gone just as quickly as it came. Extinguished in the dark void of my depleted memory.

A low groan escapes my lips.

I feel him moving around me. Fast, fluid motions. The tube that was in my nose is removed. The IV is gently pulled from my vein. There's a faint tug on the cord attached to the suction cup under my gown and then a shrill beeping sound fills the room.

I hear frantic footsteps down the hall, coming from the nurses' station. Someone will be here in less than fifteen steps.

"Don't worry," he continues in a whisper, lacing his warm fingers through mine and squeezing. "I'm going to get you out of here."

I suddenly shiver. A chill has rolled over me. Slowly replacing every spark of heat that was lingering just under my skin.

And that's when I realize that the touch of his hand has vanished. With all my strength, I reach out, searching for it. Grasping at cold, empty air. I fight to open my eyes one last time before the darkness comes.

He is gone.

CHAPTER 3

ACCESSORIES


I wake up the next morning feeling drowsy. The drugs linger in my system. My arms and legs are heavy. My throat is dry. My vision is blurred. It takes a few moments for it to clear.

Kiyana enters. She smiles upon seeing me. "Well, look who's awake."

I push the button on the small box next to me. The back of the bed rises until I'm sitting upright.

Kiyana retreats to the hallway and returns a few seconds later with a tray. "I brought you some breakfast. Do you wanna try eatin' some real food?"

I look at the items on her tray. I can't identify a single one. "No."

She laughs. "Can't say I blame you. That's hospital food for you."

She takes the tray back out to the hallway and returns, writing things down on her clipboard. "Vitals are good," she says with a wink. "Like always." Her fingertip does a tap tap tap on the screen of the heart monitor next to my bed. "A good strong heart you've got there."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Unremembered by Jessica Brody. Copyright © 2013 Jessica Brody Entertainment, LLC. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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