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Sean Beaudoin (Going Nowhere Faster, Fade to Blue) evokes the distinctive voices of legendary crime/noir authors Dashiell Hammett and Jim Thompson with a little bit of Mean Girls and Heathers thrown in for good measure. It'll tease you, please you, and never ever leave you. Actually, that's not true. It's only a book. One that's going to suck you in, spit you out, and make you shake hands with the devil. Probably.
The cliques rule the rackets in Salt River High. The two top outfits, the Balls (football players, "wearers of no-irony crew cuts") and Pinker Casket (thrash rockers, "most appropriate for funerals or virgin sacrifices"), are hurtling towards a turf war, and all the assorted mid-level cliques (and even the crooked Fack Cult T) are constantly looking for an angle to ride to prominence. At the center of the maelstrom is a body, Wesley Payne, a former member of the Euclidians (nerds, "fingertip sniffers"), who was found wrapped in duct tape, hanging upside-down from the goalposts. Teenage private dick Dalton Rev arrives to sort out the murder, locate a missing hundred grand, and if everything rolls his way, ride off into the sunset with the adorable Macy Payne. Beaudoin plays a Chandler hand with a Tarantino smirk in this ultra-clever high-school noir, dropping invented brand labels on everything from energy-drink ingredients (Flavor Flavah) to the Almighty ("Oh my Bob!"). Ever checking his moves against what his crime-novel hero, Lexington Cole, would do, Dalton himself is so straight hard-boiled, it's screwy: "Dalton played it cool. He played it frozen. He was in full Deano at the Copa mode." But in the end, none of the stylistic pastiche and slick patter would matter if they weren't hitched to such a propulsive mystery, with enough doublecrosses and blindsiding reveals to give you vertigo. Moreover, the opening "Clique Chart" might just be the funniest four pages you'll read all year.
In classic noir fashion, hard-case Dalton Rev is enticed by an apparently bereft, beautiful girl to take on a mystery involving the death of her brother, who was found trussed in duct tape and hanging from the goalposts on his high school's football field. Dalton is not as cool and in control as he appears, however; in fact, he takes his entire game plan from a fictional detective, Lexington Cole, whose exploits don't always model well for Dalton's circumstances, leading to some hilarious improvisations. The school in which Dalton is sleuthing is a hotbed of corruption and intrigue, ruled by virulently oppositional cliques, each with lucrative money-making rackets and all held in a tense stasis by the elusive cult of the Lee Harvies, who show up at random on the school roof with assault rifles to ride herd on the masses. The cliques themselves are the main characters here; they are introduced and flowcharted in introductory material, with descriptions reeking of hyperbolic, snort-evoking snark. Beaudoin's razor-sharp rhetorical wit plays smartly with the generic conventions of the hard-boiled detective novel, but the story is shaded throughout with typical adolescent male anxieties, making this parody more engaging and complex than the exemplars it plays off of. Even the sentimental heart of the piece, a talk between Dalton and his mother, who is despairing over the apparent failure of their family, is as emotionally resonant as the earnest attempts at this sort of conversation found in texts that take themselves more seriously. The hipster slickness of the narrative makes the accompanying glossary a welcome aid even though most of the terms are evident in context; like the glossary in Frank Portman's King Dork, it provides as much supplemental comedic value as it does genuine information. The short stories appended to the end are entertaining, and the excerpt from the Lex Cole novel makes one wish it were real. Give this to fans of King Dork and the indie film Brick and then direct them to Dashiell Hammett for a taste of the real thing, knowing that they just might like this better.
Tough, suit-sporting, no-nonsense high-school sleuth Dalton Rev stalks the killer who masterminded the murder of popular in-guy Wesley Payne. Hired by Wesley's über-hot sister Macy, Dalton treads a dangerous path, where high-school cliques war like gangs and corruption is pervasive. Dalton's hilarious, hard-boiled Chandler-esque one-liners cut the intimidating come-ons of thuggish football players, snooty band snobs and jaded cops to the quick, though they also often require flips to the novel's glossary. They add to Beaudoin's ambitious, sharply scoped gumshoe universe, the complexity of which often overwhelms the plot and may leave many readers scratching their heads and leafing back to previous chapters to uncover who-did-what-when—though it's so adeptly constructed one might legitimately wonder if that's the point. Multiple characters simultaneously add intrigue and befuddlement, and the 30-plus pages of climax will have willing readers chuckling in amusement and less patient ones enraged. That said, this dark, cynical romp is full of clever references and red herrings, which will delight the adult noir fan and pique the curiosities of the observant outcast teen who's looking for a way to infiltrate the in-crowd.(Mystery. 12 & up)
Dalton Rev thundered into the parking lot of Salt River High, a squat brick building at the top of a grassless hill that looked more like the last stop of the hopeless than a springboard to the college of your choice. His black scooter wove through groups of students waiting for the first bell, muffler growling like a defective chain saw. In Dalton’s line of work it was vital to make a good first impression, especially if by good you meant utterly intimidating.
He parked away from a pool of mud, chained his helmet to the tire, and unzipped his leather jacket. Underneath was a crisp white dress shirt with a black tie. His work uniform. It tended to keep people guessing. And guessing was good. A few extra seconds could mean the difference between being stomped to jelly or not, some steroid case busy wondering, What kind of loser wears a tie with steel-toe boots?
He was, after all, a professional.
Who’d come to do a job.
That involved a body.
Wrapped in duct tape and hanging from the goalposts at the end of the football field.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #1
People have problems. You can solve them for cash.
Dalton needed to figure out why The Body was at the morgue instead of snoring its way through algebra. Then he’d get paid. But until a big wad of folding green was tucked safely into his boot, he was Salt River’s newest transfer fish.
“Nice tie, asshat!” someone yelled. Kids began to crowd around, hoping for a scene, but Dalton ignored them, turning toward a chrome sandwich truck in the corner of the parking lot. His cropped hair gleamed under the sun, dark eyes hooded with a practiced expression. Long hours of practice. In the mirror. Going for a look that said justifiably ruthless.
Or at least ruthless-ish.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #2
Be enigmatic. Be mysterious. Never explain.
The sandwich truck’s awning sagged. The driver sagged with it. There were rows of chocolate donuts that looked like they’d been soaked in Ebola. There was a pile of cut-rate candy with names like Butterfingerer and Snuckers and Baby Ralph. A big sign on the counter said NO CREDIT—DON’T EVEN ASK!
“Hey,” Dalton asked. “Can I get an apple on credit?”
The driver laughed like it was his first time ever. “WhatcanIgetcha?”
“That’ll be twenty even.”
Dalton considered not paying—ten minutes on the job and already over his expense budget. But people were watching. He grabbed the cup, flash-searing his palm, and took a sip. It tasted like coffee-colored ass. People laughed as he spat it out in a long, brown sneeze.
“It’s a seller’s market,” the driver admitted. “No one eats in the cafeteria no more.”
“Caf’s Chitty Chitty,” answered a kid who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, hair poking from his scalp as if it were trying to escape. He cocked his thumb like a pistol and fired off a few imaginary rounds. “As in Bang Bang?”
The kid selected a donut. “Or, you know, maybe the food just sucks.”
Dalton needed to check out the crime scene. First stop, football field. The kid followed, plump and sweaty, huffing to catch up. He held out his knuckles for a bump. “My name’s Mole.”
Dalton didn’t bump back.
Mole sniffed his fist and then shrugged. “So, you affiliated, new guy?”
“Ha! That’d be a first. You must be with someone, yo. No one transfers to Salt River alone.”
Dalton pushed through dumped girlfriends and dice nerds, hoodie boys and scruffy rockers twirling Paper Mate drumsticks. People mostly made way, except for an expensively dressed girl who towered over her speed-texting posse.
“Lu Lu Footer. Your basic Armani giraffe. Also, she’s head of Yearbook.”
“That a clique?”
“They’re all, Hi, my book bag’s shaped like Hello Kitty! They’re all, Hi, I crap pink and green polka dots!”
Lu Lu Footer glared. Mole ducked as they passed a circle of large girls in black. “Plaths,” he explained. “Total down-in-the-mouthers.” He pointed to a girl in hot pants. “But check her out. Used to be a Plath and now she’s flashing those Nutrisystem legs like no one remembers last semester.”
Dalton rounded the edge of the building and stood under the goalposts. They were yellow and metal. Tubular in construction. Regulation height. There were scratch marks in the paint that could have come from a coiled rope. Or they could have just been scratches. Dalton wanted to consult the paperback in his back pocket, The Istanbul Tryst and the Infant Wrist. It was a Lexington Cole mystery, #22, the one where Lex solves a murder at a boarding school in the Alps. But he wasn’t about to yank it out with people around.
“You ready to bounce?” Mole asked nervously. “We’re not really allowed to stand here, yo.”
Dalton wondered what he was looking for. A map? A videotaped confession? Lexington Cole would already have intuited something about the grass, like how it was a nonnative strain, or that its crush pattern indicated a wearer of size six pumps.
“Yeah, see, this whole area, it’s sort of off-limits.”
Music blared as football players emerged from the locker room. They slapped hands and joked loudly and ran into one another with helmets clacking. Except for the ones not wearing helmets, who banged skulls anyway. Some of them weren’t wearing shirts at all, just shoulder pads. Their cleats smacked the pavement in crisp formation.
“I take it that’s the welcome committee?”
Mole dropped to one knee, retying his shoes even though they had no laces. “Don’t look directly at them!”
“Who are they?” Dalton asked, looking directly at them.
“The Balls. Between them and Pinker Casket, they pretty much run the show.”
“Football. Your Salt River Mighty Log Splitters? Their random violence level is proportional to the number of points surrendered the previous game. And, guy? We got stomped last week.”
“Your vocabulary has mysteriously improved. What happened to the ‘yo, yo, yo’ routine?”
“Comes and goes,” Mole admitted.
Dalton turned as the Balls busted into a jerky line of calisthenics. “Who’re you with again?”
“The brain contingent?”
Mole gestured toward the picnic tables, where kids sat reading biology texts and grammar worksheets. The girls wore glasses and sensible skirts; the boys, sweater-vests and slacks. “You can’t swing a Siamese around here without smacking a nerd in the teeth, but, yeah, they’re my people.”
“Thanks for not saying my peeps.”
“Looks like your peep could use some help.”
One of the players, built like a neckless bar of soap, yelled “Chuff to Chugg… touchdown!” as he pushed a Euclidian into the mud. The kid struggled to get away, slipped, and then knocked over a shiny black scooter. Other cliques were already jogging over to see the action.
Dalton looked at his watch. “Well, that didn’t take long. Nineteen minutes.”
Mole grabbed Dalton’s arm. “Seriously, guy? You want to leave those Balls alone.”
It was true. Dalton wanted to go home and lie in bed and pull the sheets up to his chin. He wanted to eat pretzels and sweep crumbs with his toes. But then he thought about Lex Cole. And the fearless pair of stones Lex Cole toted around in his impeccably ironed slacks. He also thought about last night, counting up the money he’d managed to save so far. Twice. And how both times it wasn’t nearly enough to save his brother.
Dalton pushed through the crowd, working his way past assorted pleather windbreakers and nymphets in yellow cowl. The football players turned as one, like it was written in the script: Test the New Guy II, starring Dalton Rev. He stood before a glistening wall of beef, a collective four dollars’ worth of crew cuts. The shirtless ones showed off their abs and punched each other’s shoulder pads like extras from a version of Mad Max where no one shaved yet.
Dalton waved. “Hi.”
Just like the Spanish Inquisition, no one ever expected friendliness. The players stared, chewing mouthpieces in unison, as a girl emerged from the crowd and began helping the Euclidian up. She had a blond pixie cut, a tiny waist, and a tinier skirt.
“Leave him alone, Chance!” she told the player doing the pushing. “Please?”
Dalton liked her voice, low and calm. And her eyes, almost purple. Sharp and intense. She stood with her hips forward, like a chorus girl who’d come to the city with a suitcase full of spunk, ready to do whatever it took to save Daddy’s farm. It was one very cute package. Actually, in both Dalton’s professional and decidedly unprofessional opinion, she was beautiful.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #3
Doing free things for beautiful girls is never the smart play. In fact, it’s always a colossal mistake. Avoid doing free things. Avoid beautiful girls. Continue to charge maximum fees and take cold showers.
“This is none of your business, Macy,” the largest Ball said, getting up from a lawn chair. Dalton had thought he was already standing; the guy looked like a giant walking Krispy Kreme, one big twist of muscle. His head was shaved. A simian hairline hovered just above his eyes, radiating a hunger for raw veal. He was clearly the one person, out of Salt River’s entire student body, to be avoided at all costs.
Dalton walked over and helped Macy help the Euclidian up.
The kid spat mud, then ran toward the school doors, trying not to cry. Macy mouthed a silent thanks and followed him on adorably sensible heels.
“You’re standing on my field,” the Krispy Kreme growled.
Dalton turned. “That make you the groundskeeper?”
The crowd drew a collective breath. A few of the more brazen laughed aloud. The Krispy Kreme flexed, dipping to show the name sewn across the back of his jersey: JEFF CHUFF, QB.
“You got a problem, new fish?”
“Your Ball is mistreating my ride.”
The Crowdarounds turned, looking at Dalton’s scooter lying in the mud.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #4
Never let anyone mess with your ride. Conversely, feel free to mess with theirs, especially if there’s a chance they’ll be chasing you on it later.
Chuff laughed. “So? Have your mommy buy another one.”
Dalton lifted his crisp white button-up. Underneath was a T-shirt that said THE CLASH IS THE ONLY BAND THAT MATTERS. When he lifted that as well, everyone could see the worn grip of his silver-plated automatic. The hilt was wrapped with rubber bands to keep it from slipping down his pants, a little trick he’d learned from chapter 6 of The Cairo Score. Just like the scooter, the gun was shiny and mean-looking.
“You’re strapped?” Chuff wheezed, stepping back. “That’s bloshite. Ever since The Body, we got an agreement.”
“Like one of those abstinence ring things?”
“A pact. All the cliques. Us and Foxxes and Yearbook. Even Pinker Casket. No guns.”
“Huh,” Dalton said, fingering his gun. “Or what?”
Chuff’s eyes scanned the rooftop. “When Lee Harvies find out you got a pistol on campus, they’ll let you know or what. You’re lucky, only your leg’ll get ventilated.”
“It’s true,” Mole said, appearing out of nowhere. “Lee Harvies aim to keep the peace.”
Dalton shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You got a clique that keeps other cliques from carrying guns by shooting at them?”
“Used to be cops in the lot four days a week,” Chuff explained. “Hassle this, hassle that, badges and cuffs. Calls to parents. We all realized it was bad for business.”
“So you have an agreement,” Dalton said. “What I have is a scooter in the mud.”
“And it needs to not be there anymore.”
Birds tweeted. Bees buzzed. Grass grew.
“People lose teeth talking like that.”
“People get shot talking about other people’s teeth.”
Chuff looked around. The rest of the Balls shrugged. Dalton flicked the safety.
“I got a full clip. You factor in a miss rate of twenty percent and I am still about to seriously reduce your available starters for next practice.”
Chuff rubbed his oven-roaster neck, then grudgingly lifted the scooter with one hand, setting it upright.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #5
The thing about tough guys is they tend to be as tough as you let them be.
“Now wipe it off.”
Chuff didn’t move. His jaw worked like he was gnawing shale.
“It’s a bluff!” Chance Chugg yelled.
Dalton whipped out the automatic. The Crowdarounds panicked, pushing backward as a big-haired girl stood on the fringes with a cigarette in her mouth fumbling for a light. He stuck the gun in her face and pulled the trigger. A wail went up, followed by a raft of curses and screams.
But there was no bang.
Instead, a small butane flame licked out of the end of the barrel. Dalton held it steady, lighting the girl’s cigarette. The crowd roared with relief and giddy laughter.
“It’s a toy?” Chuff yelled, already running forward.
Dalton began a mental inventory of the Lex Cole library. At this point, the bad guy usually made a series of threats, gave a face-saving speech, and then walked away. Except Chuff wasn’t walking away. He was picking up speed.
Pang pang pang!
Shots spattered through the dirt. Chuff veered wildly left, crashing into bags of equipment. From the roof came the reflection of a scope blinking in the hazy morning light.
“LEE HARVIES!” someone yelled, and there was chaos, more shots picking up the dirt in pairs, friends and enemies scattering. Plaths formed a black beret phalanx. Sis Boom Bahs circled like tight-sweatered chickens. The Balls dragged a groggy Chuff into the locker room as everyone shielded their heads, ducking into the relative safety of the school.
Dalton didn’t run. He knelt among the churning legs and slid his finger over a bullet hole in the grass. There was a streak of sticky red. It could have been blood. It smelled a whole lot like vinegar. He stood and scanned the rooftop, catching a glimpse of a bright white face. It wasn’t a face, it was a hockey mask. A Jason mask. The mask looked down at him, just a plastic mouth and nose, black eyes surrounded by silver anarchy symbols.
It was totally, utterly, piss-leg scary.
The rifle rose again. This time Dalton covered his head and ran inside like everyone else. Even in One Bullet, One Kill Lexington Cole hadn’t thought it smart to go mano a mano with a sniper.
Excerpted from You Killed Wesley Payne by Beaudoin, Sean Copyright © 2011 by Beaudoin, Sean. Excerpted by permission.
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.
Posted January 4, 2013
Posted January 7, 2014
SPOILER ALERT SPOILER ALERT This book has the worst twist ending ever! Just out of curiosity why would the sister want to hire a detective, if she was the murderer herself! I was already ruled a suicide by police, so why hire a detective. You are basically hiring someone to catch you! Just doesn'
t make any sense. That made me really dislike the book. Also, personally it was way to unrealistic, and I understand that that was the way it was written. However, at some point it just doesn't appeal to the reader.
Posted July 15, 2013
I love a good mystery and this book did not disappoint. The characters are something else and I love them because they have flaws and Dalton isn't the perfect guy, he's a believable character. I couldn't put it down when I started reading it because I could never tell what would happen next and I had to know. I will admit that the cliques confused me a bit, but after rereading about them I finally figured it out. The ending blew my mind, I hadn't expected anything that had happened and I loved it. The creavity is awesome and the twists kept me interested.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 18, 2013
This book is awesome I read it in book form and was amazed at how it took twists and turn it had me guessing at every turn where it was going to take me next and the ending blew my mind I hope the writer makes a sequel to this bookWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted August 17, 2012
Posted April 15, 2012
I loved this book it males you experience the clue finding and problem solving along with dalton as he serches for the person who killed wesley payne. I got this book from the library and loved it. Great for anty age over 12 but i am 14 and greatly enjoyed the book.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 8, 2011
I will have to say that my first initial reaction to this book would be...umm wow that was different. This is my first novel by Sean Beaudoin, so I don't know if all his books are this strange. I have it a 2.5 because part of me liked the concept of the story though the other part couldn't wait for it to be over.
I will be completely honest, I don't think I have ever read a crime noir novel. I have read mystery's, thrillers, suspense, all involving crimes, etc, but nothing like this.
Dalton is a teenager who has become the man of the house so to speak. His older brother left to be in the military, his father has lost his job and sort of his mind. So its up to him to take care of his mom and younger brother. He becomes a private detective and transfers around to different school solving problems. He gets a case that brings him to Salt River High School. Its a school with so many Cliques it is hard to keep track of even with a chart.
He is there to solve the mystery of who killed Wesley Payne a populah (its a clique) What he finds is a school full of corruption. The Balls and Pinker Caskets are sort of the top Cliques and they are both wanting to take over the school and will do just about anything to see the other one go down. The principal is as bad as everyone else and nobody seems to see anything going on.
Dalton really can't trust anyone if he wants to keep himself alive and well lets face it he really isn't all that great of a detective.
The story was unique to anything I have ever read before, but I thought the characters were a bit lacking. I never really cared much for Dalton or any of the people in the story. They were just there to bring the story along. I think there was just to many cliques and things going on to really have a fully developed good story.
The story was full of off the wall name and way to many slang words. When a book has to come with a dictionary something is horrible wrong. I guess the book sort of reminded me of one of those stupid comedy movies and I really am not into those and I am a bit leery of trying another book by this author but I might.
If you like crime noir novels or wacky off the wall books with a tone of funky dialogue and slang then you might really like this book. Not really making a recommendation but if you like anything from what I said about this book then by all means give it a try yourself.
Posted March 12, 2011
I never recommend reading the last page first, but for this book, that is a must! The last few pages of the book condense all of the characters into an easy to follow form. There are so many cliques and factions to follow that it makes the reading so much more pleasurable when you know exactly who is doing what to whom.
This is a crime caper that takes place in an alternative universe where bribes with school officials are common place and crime is the name of the game in high school. I think this will appeal to boys who are difficult to please. It is told with such snark and sarcasm that I was in heaven. The characters are something out of cartoon and this would probably make an excellent movie.
Posted February 20, 2011
I am always desperate to find books that both my kids and I will like. YOU KILLED WESLEY PAYNE satisfies all our needs. It is funny, fast, original, and well-written. The characters are wacky in the best ways, yet totally believable. You won't want to stop reading and might even start all over again once you get to the end!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 28, 2011
It has been many years since I visited the waters of Young Adult fiction. On the recommendation of a friend, I dipped my toe back in with Sean Beaudoin's "You Killed Wesley Payne," and Good Lord, am I glad I did.
YKWP walks the fine line of being smart without a tedious disaffected and jaded overtone. It is funny in a realistic and intelligent way, and the plot moves both quickly and unpredictably, which makes it a bullet train of a read. The characters fall into over-the-top exaggerations of high school stereotypes, but each one has depth and sincerity that make them both fun and believable. Dalton Rev, the detective protagonist, is sharp-witted and well-schooled in the areas of literature and music, yet Beaudoin encases him in all the awkward insecurities that plague the average high schooler, making him intensely likable. His boyish fascination with fictional detective Lex Cole is a hilarious theme running throughout the story (and the titles of the Lex Cole book series are comic triumphs in and of themselves).
Picture a high school that is the intersection of the movies "Heathers" and "Escape from New York." The students run the school with a mixture of violence, unwritten rules and little governance from adults or the faculty. Everyone is running some kind of racket- even some bandages from the school nurse will require the greasing of the RN's palm. Guns, while temporarily banned, raise no eyebrows, and a team of masked snipers ("the Lee Harvies"), keep the peace from the school roof. Jocks ("Balls") align against Rockers, as a bloodthirsty battle for school supremacy unfolds with a host of sub-cliques pushing the action forward in a blur of sharp dialogue and hairpin plot twists.
As the title implies, the death of Wesley Payne, a popular student, is the underlying mystery, inviting the arrival of Dalton Rev, who is far closer to Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character from the movie "Brick," than he is to Encyclopedia Brown. Navigating through the tight-knit cliques, would be girlfriends, law enforcement, and a decidedly unprincipled Principal, Rev runs into beatings, dead ends, deceptions and mysterious clues from anonymous helpers.
The ending is fantastic- well told, believable, and full of a few twists that I did not see coming. Brilliantly, Beaudoin continues to reveal some additional mysteries with a one-two punch that will leave the reader smiling, satisfied, and eagerly awaiting Rev's next case.
I could not put this down.
Posted October 26, 2010
This isn't just a great YA book, this is a GREAT book, period. For one thing, it is the rare novel that is consistently hilarious throughout. I laughed on the first page and pretty much never stopped. It's a murder mystery, with a ton of really cool, original characters, especially Dalton Rev, who has to solve the crime. Who did kill Wesley Payne? I didn't know right until the end, and it yanked the whole floor out of everything, but in a good way. Hey, the real reason this book is better than any book I've read this year, is how original it is! That counts a lot with me. Some book sells a lot of copies and then there's fifty new ones that are just like it. YKWP is not like anything else. It's the like writer created his own language, except that it all makes sense (with the help of the rude glossary at the end). Tons of slang and insults. A body. A very very hip detective. The extremely hot Cassiopeia Jones, who is the head of FOXXES, a clique of hottie girls. God, I love this book so much. You're crazy not to read it!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 27, 2011
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Posted June 5, 2011
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Posted March 21, 2011
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Posted February 7, 2011
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