An embroidered sunflower, missing just one petal.
Zoe took the blanket swatch from her pocket and pieced the sunflower together, using the shred of yellow embroidery by the swatch’s torn edge. “Like two pieces of a vintage puzzle,” she said.
“Like Sunflower Street,” Hal reminded us.
“Not to mention a Van Gogh exhibit that Amanda and I once visited,” I told them. “And the sunflower on Rantoul Street.”
“Am I missing something? A what on where?” Hal asked, shaking his head.
“After we attempted to visit the pharmacy,” I explained, “and you guys had already taken off for home, I saw a sunflower spray-painted on the side of the gas station building. You probably saw it”—I looked at Zoe—“you were hot on our trail.”
“Seriously?” Hal asked. Zoe said nothing.
I nodded. “It took up half the side of the building.”
“So what does it all mean?” Callie asked.
“Well, some say that the sunflower is a symbol for power,” I began. “Because the sun is all-powerful, and the sunflower follows it around.”
“My father used to tell us that story. From Greek mythology,” Zoe said, clearly familiar with the legend.
“Exactly,” I said. “Amanda and I used to dissect Greek myths. Basically the sun god Helios was beloved by a girl named Clytie who, as the legend states, died of her love for him. Some believe that she then became a sunflower, so that she could bask in his light.”
“Meaning that we should bask in Amanda’s light?” Zoe made a face.
“I’d go with the first theory,” Hal said. “Maybe this has more to do with power. A power as strong as the sun.”
“A power just like ours—together,” I whispered.
“So, then we should follow it,” Callie chimed in. “Follow her, I mean. Because we are on the right track.”
“Still, I just don’t get it,” Hal said, looking toward the exit doors. “This whole scene . . . what just happened with the bag . . . it all seems a little too convenient for my taste. A little too perfect.”
“You think it was more than coincidence?” Callie asked. “Like maybe we were supposed to see that woman? Maybe someone sent her here?”
“Someone like Amanda,” I said, somewhat under my breath.
Instead of answering, Hal hurried to the exit doors. He tore them open, as if we’d just been duped.
“Where are you going?” Callie called out after him.
Hal took a few steps out into the traffic circle in front of the gym. I moved to the double glass doors to have a look as well, but it appeared as though the woman had already gone. A dark sedan pulled onto the main road and sped away with a screech.
“Who was she?” Hal asked, whipping the door open to join us back inside.
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“Did you see her talking to anyone?”
I shook my head, disappointed we hadn’t asked her more questions.
“I think Hal’s right,” Zoe said, fidgeting with her beaded bracelet. “The timing was just a wee bit too perfect.”
“That woman was probably too young to be a parent,” Callie said, thinking out loud. “And I didn’t notice her cheering anyone on.”
“Plus, I’m not quite sure I buy that, of all the people in the auditorium, she just happened to accidentally bump into Nia,” Hal continued.
“Yes, but don’t you think it’d be a long shot even for Amanda to assume I’d recognize a sunflower clutch?”
“Well, now that you mention it, you have been kind of an accessories maven lately,” Callie said, eyeing my new alligator ring.
“It’s all a long shot.” Hal let out a frustrated sigh.
We remained in the lobby for several more seconds, until something drew us back into the auditorium.
Or, rather, someone.
Someone whose voice was as smooth and melodic as trickling water. And suddenly we were like rats to the Pied Piper’s tune. We headed to the auditorium doorway, eager to find the source.
It was Bea. She was the last act of the night, singing the song she’d chosen—or, more correctly, the song that Amanda had chosen for her.
“‘You’ve Got a Friend,’” Zoe burst out. “James Taylor . . . I love this song.”
And now, listening to Bea, and feeling the warmth of her voice as it washed over my skin, I loved it, too.
People in the audience rocked back and forth. Best friends hugged. Strangers teared up. People cheered. And Hal reached down to take Callie’s hand.
“She’s really talented,” Zoe whispered.
At the close of her song, Bea got a standing ovation. And it came as no surprise to anyone when several minutes later, after counting up all the ballots (we rushed to vote again), Mrs. Bragg, the parent-chairperson of the talent show, got up and reluctantly announced that Bea was the winner.
What did come as a surprise was that Mrs. Bragg was able to stand up there with a completely straight face and announce that Heidi had come in second.
And that wasn’t her only surprising announcement.
“I’m delighted to say that the history club has a few more spots left open for its trip to Washington, D.C., next week,” she said. “It’s very last-minute, so if anyone is interested, please let Mr. Fowler know.”
“We need to go on that,” Callie said, giving Hal’s hand an extra squeeze. She passed me the clutch bag, and then she and Hal moved farther inside the doorway, perhaps to get more information.
I opened the bag and felt the liner inside. At the same moment, an icy sensation bit at my skin, nearly bringing me to my knees.
“What is it?” Zoe asked, grabbing me by the arm, as if I might collapse at any moment.
A poisonous taste filled my mouth and I wanted to be sick. I closed my eyes, trying to will the image away. I shook my head, took several steps back, and even covered my ears.
“What is it?” Zoe demanded again; her voice had an echoing quality that reverberated in my brain.
When I didn’t answer, she led me to a bench outside, sat me down, and patted my back. “You can tell me,” she insisted. “You’ve got a friend, remember?”
I looked down at the blanket liner, still clenched in my hands, wadded up in the sweat of my palms. My head was spinning. And my mouth tasted like it was filled with foam.
“Death,” I managed to whisper. “I can see it everywhere.”
“What do you mean you can see it?” she asked. “Does it have a face? Do you picture something specific? Are you talking about . . . Amanda?” Her voice trembled over that last question.
“I can see it,” I repeated, touching the fabric harder. In doing so, the images in my mind became clearer: blue lights flashing, blood against cobblestone, a casket lowered down into the ground, a sea of black clothing, and a field of red poppies.
“Nia?” Zoe asked. She continued to rub my back.
“It isn’t Amanda.” I shook my head. Tears formed at the rims of my eyes. I released my grip on the fabric, but for some reason it didn’t help. “It’s death from the past,” I told her. “I’m sure of it.”
“How are you sure?”
“I just am,” I said, a constricting sensation inside my throat. “Everything I picture is from the past.”
“Well, then whose death do you see?”
I met her eyes finally. The images still floated across my mind, almost blocking my ability to see her completely. “I’m not sure.” I ventured to look away—at Callie and Hal, lingering in the doorway of the auditorium, com-pletely unaware of what just happened.
Of what I could see.
Of what I was still seeing.
I closed my eyes, hoping that would help—that it would make the images go away.
It didn’t.
A Big Round of Thanks
I could not have recounted my story in such detail without the help of everyone on the site. You are my eyes and ears, and do not think that any
observation, no matter how small, ever went unnoticed.
Herewith, an index of your amazing contributions.
—Nia
MANY THANKS TO:
Punkeddrama (page 17)
OMGitsDalia (page 27)
GreyscaleRain (page 51)
Zephyr (page 56)
M. Katty (page 74)
LittleStar (page 77)
Squanky Donkey (page 84)
Mary_Dee (page 84)
Lemongreen (page 109)
Loicamar (page 114)
BlueRoseGrey (page 114)
Raemcellen (page 119, page 210)
thelittlelion (page 120)
Blackbird (page 141)
Madibee (page 153)
Animangaroo (page 174)
TwilightMist (page 193)
Sabrina10 (page 208)
FASCINATING STORIES AND ARTWORK ABOUT AMANDA CONTINUE TO FLOOD IN FROM ALL OVER. HERE IS ONE OF OUR FAVORITES! PLEASE KEEP THEM COMING, AND CHECK OUT THOUSANDS MORE AT WWW.THEAMANDAPROJECT.COM!
—HAL, CALLIE, AND NIA
How I Met Amanda
Hi everyone—I just wanted to share the story of how I met Amanda:
It was winter. One of those “middle” days of January—the 13th or 14th or 15th—that usually all blur together in a big rainy mess. However, this day was a day I would never forget. I was sitting on the back steps of the art department, listening to the sharp metallic “tap” of the rain on the roof and watching the water pool up on the ground. Pool up and then spill over, leaving little moist streams on the asphalt.
I sighed and lay my head back on the side of the building. My brother was late to pick me up, as usual. He was what my mother liked to call a “free spirit.” I just thought he was a slacker. I had a calculus test the next day, and I was almost too involved in running integrals and derivatives through my head to look up when I heard a voice on the pathway in front of me.
It was a girl, singing. She had a beautiful voice. It didn’t seem like she was singing one song in particular, but rather bits and pieces of things that I knew I had heard before but couldn’t quite place. She came towards me, walking in a graceful way that almost seemed more like dancing. She was staring up at the sky, smiling at the raindrops that were plummeting down to earth. Unlike all of the other frantic students who had rushed by, holding up umbrellas to “protect” themselves from the rain and loudly complaining about their wet hair, this girl seemed unperturbed and in no hurry whatsoever.
In fact, she seemed so peaceful and introspective that I almost thought she would walk right past me without a word. However, as she got closer, she started talking. I was confused at first, as she still wasn’t looking at me.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Amanda.”
“Hi,” I said warily, staring somewhat rudely at her brown hair, which that week she had embellished with pink streaks.
“I know you,” she said. “You’re Stefanie.” She suddenly plopped onto the stoop next to me, smoothing out her polka-dot skirt once she was settled.
“Yep,” I said tersely. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I was already upset with my brother and honestly, she did look a little strange.
“It’s okay,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “I won’t bother you for long. I just wanted to say hello.”
Suddenly, I felt guilty. Even though she didn’t seem upset, I still felt like I should compensate for my behavior in some way.
“That’s okay,” I said, turning towards her and smiling. “I don’t have anything important to be doing anyways.”
“Everything’s important,” she said, suddenly becoming serious. “Always remember that. Value your own time, value everything you do. One day, everything could just disappear.”
We both stared at the rain for a minute. I was absorbing what she had just said, and she was smiling up at the rain.
“Anyways,” she said, standing up. “It was delightful to meet you, Stefanie. I hope to see you again.”
I hoped so, too.
—Stef Stone
About the Author: Olivia Moore is a high school senior in Oregon, and hopes to be a writer one day. In her free time she enjoys playing tennis, writing for her school newspaper, and spending time with her labradoodle, Micalene. She loves reading, and the Amanda Project is one of her favorite book series.
Member Since: April 13, 2009
She knows why Amanda came here, and thinks the best breakfast is a sesame bagel toasted with no cream cheese.
The Amanda Project Concludes with
Unraveled . . .
I may not have much in common with Nia, Callie, and Hal, but there is one thing we share, aside from the fact that we are in danger. What links us is that we all divide our existence at Endeavor High into two parts: Before Amanda. And After.
When Amanda came to our school, she made me feel like I could tell her anything, that she saw the good, the bad, and the ugly inside me. Sure, Amanda called me on the lies I tell myself, but she also made me feel honest and strong.
Amanda did all of this for me. The first time was when we were eight and her parents and my parents were friends.
The second time was last fall.
Both times, just as I was getting used to having her around, she disappeared.
Friends, It’s Zoe. I know you don’t know me, especially the way you know Hal, Callie, and Nia. But I’ve been watching, since the beginning. I’m writing the final chapter in Amanda’s story, and I promise you, everything is coming to light.
This is it. The end of it all. Or maybe, as Amanda would say, the beginning.
You’ll have to read Unraveled to find out. . . .
Until then, see you on the site.
—Zoe
About the Author
Laurie Faria Stolarz is the author of several popular young adult novels, including Deadly Little Secret, Deadly Little Lies, Deadly Little Games, Project 17, Bleed, and the bestselling Blue Is for Nightmares series. Stolarz’s titles have been part of the Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers list, the Top Ten Teen Pick list, and YALSA’s Popular Paperback list, all through the American Library Association. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston. For more information, visit Laurie’s website at www.lauriestolarz.com.
This is the story of Amanda Valentino. She makes things happen for her own reasons.
For exclusive information on your favorite authors and artists, visit www.AuthorTracker.com
Credits
Cover art by Ali Smith
Cover design by Monica
Gurevich /Julie Metz Ltd
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Shattered
Text copyright © 2012 by Fourth Story Media
Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Fourth Story Media
Fourth Story Media, 115 South Street, 4F, New York, NY 10038
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN 978-0-06-174217-0
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EPub Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780062099112
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FIRST EDITION
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