Hi all! I'm very excited to be a part of the Afterparty blog tour. You can check out the entire blog tour schedule below:
Blog Tour Schedule
Mon, Oct 6 - Read Now Sleep Later
Tue, Oct 7 - What a Nerd Girl Says
Wed, Oct 8 - Fiktshun
Thu, Oct 9 - Adventures of a Book Junkie
Fri, Oct 10 - Recently Acquired Obsessions
Mon, Oct 13 - Nite Lite Book Reviews
Tue, Oct 14 - The Windy Pages
Wed, Oct 16 - A Bookish Escape
Mon, Oct 20 - She Reads, She Blogs
Tue, Oct 21 - Books Unbound
Wed, Oct 22 - The Consummate Reader
Thu, Oct 23 - Kid Lit Frenzy
Fri, Oct 24 - The O.W.L. for YA
Mon, Oct 27 - The Thousand Lives
Tue, Oct 28 - Books Turn Brains
Wed, Oct 29 - Fangirlfeeels
Thu, Oct 30 - Romance Bookie
Fri, Oct 31 - The Reader’s Antidote
Mon, Nov 3 - Proud Book Nerd
Fri, Nov 7 - Girls with Books
ABOUT THE BOOK
Goodreads rating: 3.39
Hardcover, 416 pages
Published January 7th 2014 by Simon Pulse
Genre: YA contemporary
Emma is tired of being good. Always the dutiful daughter to an overprotective father, she is the antithesis of her mother--whose name her dad won't even say out loud. That's why meeting Siobhan is the best thing that ever happened to her… and the most dangerous. Because Siobhan is fun and alluring and experienced and lives on the edge. In other words, she's everything Emma is not.
And it may be more than Emma can handle.
Because as intoxicating as her secret life may be, when Emma begins to make her own decisions, Siobhan starts to unravel. It's more than just Dylan, the boy who comes between them. Their high-stakes pacts are spinning out of control. Elaborate lies become second nature. Loyalties and boundaries are blurred. And it all comes to a head at the infamous Afterparty, where debauchery rages and an intense, inescapable confrontation ends in a plummet from the rooftop...
This explosive, sexy, and harrowing follow-up to Ann Redisch Stampler's spectacular teen debut, Where It Began, reveals how those who know us best can hurt us most.
I wasn't able to get into this one soon enough to write a full review of it, but so far I love Stampler's writing style (though it did take me a bit to get used to; I'm not sure how to explain why) and how this story is going to unfold. I can really relate to the MC because she's looking forward to settling down in a place during the middle of the school year after moving a lot, which I kind of did. And she also remarks on how hard those first days are, and I could definitely relate to that as well. I can already feel it getting toxic between her and Siobhan. It's obvious by the epilogue that this book isn't going to end well, and I can't wait to see how we get there.
Ann Redisch Stampler is the author of young adult novels Where It Began and Afterparty, as well as several picture books, including The Rooster Prince of Breslov. Her books have been an Aesop Accolade winner, Sydney Taylor notable books and an honor book, a National Jewish Book Awards finalist and winner, and Bank Street Best Books of the Year. Ann has two adult children and lives in Los Angeles, California with her husband. Website: annstampler.com / Twitter: @annstampler / Facebook: https://facebook.com/WhereItBegan / Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/15751652-afterparty
AFTERPARTY DELETED SCENE
There are several deleted scenes in which Emma is stoned. In the final book, and more consistent with her character, she resists until the Afterparty itself, when she more or less loses it on several fronts.
- - - - -
Dylan says, “I think we should get out of here. Let’s walk over to Sunset Plaza.”
“Do you know how far that is?”
“It’s not that far. It’s nice out.”
It’s not that far, but Sunset is impossibly crowded because I must have missed the announcement that it’s L.A. County tiny dress-themed date night, going on between Crescent Heights and where we’re trying to go. Girls wearing almost nothing keep bumping into us, and I don’t think it’s just that I’m slightly careening down the street.
Then it occurs to me that I am wearing almost nothing under Dylan’s large jacket because this is my tiny dress date night, too. I have finally merged with the happy, stoned, minimally attired multitudes. I can check “transformation to worthless, druggy young person with cleavage” off my to-do list. But I am too stoned to devote one single coherent thought to what this means in the grand scheme of things.
“Do you ever worry that your dad is going to drive by and see you walking down the street?” Dylan says, as I turn my head into his shoulder and don’t even look where we’re going and he propels through the much better dressed date night girls outside of Skybar.
It feels as if we’ve hiked all the way to the beach through masses of happy hipsters, and I wonder if we look like two of them, only younger, and in Dylan’s case, a lot more intense. In my case, more out of my mind stoned only without the mellow aspect of it.
Where is the mellow aspect of it?
We walk down into the parking lot behind Chin-Chin, to the lower level where no one is parked, and we sit on the edge, where the pavement ends and it’s all grassy and wild, looking down at the city, down to the city lights and to the ocean where the lights end except for the sparse pools of faint light that must be boats on a calm ocean. The noise from the Strip, even the music, are my white noise, even the cars turning over their engines and peeling out of the upper parking lot. Even the screeching tire sounds are soothing. And I think, Okay, here’s the mellow part, it’s about time.
I rest against Dylan and I think, This is so not an aphrodesiac; this is a sleeping pill that you smoke.
Dylan says, “I don’t know that I’ve every seen anyone so stoned on pot. Except for Walter. Does this usually happen?”
Even unusually, virginally stoned, I have the presence of mind not to put my ridiculous level of stonedness into context: That this is the first time, and how was I supposed to know that you don’t smoke the whole damned thing and then some as if it were a cigarette?
I say, “No,” which is, of course, both true, given that this has never before happened and false because there is no usually to me smoking vast quantities of pot.
I say, “Usually, I’m more of an imbibe in moderation kind of girl.”
Dylan says, “That’s good.”
“What, are you chastising me for consuming the many joints you plied me with? Next am I going to be a loose woman for checking out your condoms?” Loose woman is another one of my father’s charmingly outdated condemnatory phrases. I’m about to correct myself with a more modern slur, but Dylan is looking straight at me and I can tell he gets it.
“Hardly!” he says. “ You’re shockingly pure.”
“Don’t tell,” I say.
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