A reader’s quote

✓ I read it for a very long time. Not because it was bad — quite the opposite. It was very good. I realized that already within the first few pages, and that’s why I drew out the reading.

The main character of the book is Katrina, a twelfth-grader, but in a way, I think her entire class could be considered the main characters. It’s not a clichéd young adult story where a girl falls in love with a boy and they live happily ever after — or at least until the end of the book. Yes, there is love here too, but it’s not the main focus. The book concentrates more on bullying, its causes, and its consequences. The bullying doesn’t take place in the present but in middle school, and although Katrina wasn’t the main victim, she wasn’t left untouched by it. The present isn’t easy for her either, and this becomes especially clear by the end of the book.

It seems that every word has been carefully thought through and placed exactly where it belongs. I enjoyed every single one. The metaphors, descriptions, Katrina’s thoughts — it was all written so beautifully that I can’t help but feel a little envious.

            - Young adult writer Kaia Raudsepp

Sample

It was about twenty-eight degrees in the shade, but the thick stone walls of the old canteen kept the air pleasantly cool. In the cardamom-scented hall stood two or three people when, through the haze of my drowsiness, a familiar smoky voice pierced the air.

The situation was absurdly improbable. It was unthinkable that the owner of that voice could actually be standing behind me—or that anyone else could sound exactly like him.

Katrina, you’re imagining things, I scolded myself. You’re such a dreamer—and worse, you deceive yourself.

Still, the mere possibility of Andre’s presence was enough to short-circuit me.
Dry throat. Damp palms. Shallow breaths. Eyes that forgot to blink.
I didn’t dare turn around. I was nothing but one giant ear.

The shopkeeper bustled about—kind, sun-browned, and solidly down-to-earth.
“For you?” she asked brightly, watching me with a patient smile.

I hadn’t yet managed a single coherent glance toward the counters or the shelves. After too long a pause, I whispered, “One rum cake.”

“You said rum cake?” she asked, frowning slightly toward the refrigerated case. “But we don’t have any.”

“No. Of course not. I meant one butter rose.”

The voice I had taken for Andre’s had fallen silent by then. The shopkeeper’s paper rustled deftly; the till drawer clattered open and shut. My heart was pounding. One part of me hoped he was there—that it really was him—while the other, more merciful part wished he wasn’t.

I had to turn around now, make my legs perform that thing called walking. Right–left, right–left, eyes fixed on my sandals. It was the only option. I couldn’t just stand there by the counter forever.

The door was set at about a forty-five-degree angle to the queue of waiting people. Of course I wanted to know whether it truly was Andre or not. Of course I did. But how often do people even notice who they pass? I told myself they hardly notice anything or anyone. Just like me—scatterbrained, as always, scatterbrained-scatterbrained-scatterbrained.

“Katrina? You?”

The voice sounded just as it would if my presence were a pleasant surprise. Andre gave a small nod, as if to bow—one courteous gesture short of a nineteenth-century gentleman. He was tanned. His shirt was plain, giving away nothing about him. Pale trousers, toes curling slightly inward in his sandals, dark hair on his forearms. And his eyes...

The instant I confirmed his familiar perfection, I felt my own lack of it. My yellow summer dress with white polka dots was too tight across the chest. I cursed my laziness—five days since I’d last washed my hair.

“Oh... hey!” Yes, that was me: blushing, smiling, and impossibly foolish.

“What are you doing here?” Andre asked.

“Ah, my grandmother lives nearby, and I kind of come here sometimes…”

“To buy rum cakes,” he finished, smiling.

I laughed. “And you? What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through.”

He’d stepped out of line. It must have been his parents at the counter, pointing at pastries and conferring quietly.

“How’s your summer?” I asked.

“Ah, nothing much. Just got back to Estonia.”

Oh, of course. Summers anywhere else are practically meaningless. I tried to look more composed than I possibly could. Meanwhile, he said to his father, “I’ll take four butter roses.” Then, turning to me, “Are they any good?”

For some reason, I feigned ignorance. “I actually don’t know.”

“I thought you... Ah, never mind.” He shifted quickly. “I’m seeing Alt tonight. Should probably do something.”

That was my cue. “Tell him I said hi.”

Then I made the sort of irrational move that is entirely typical of me—starting to leave, as if I needed to reach my grandmother’s books, her tube television, her hammock, and her overgrown garden as fast as possible.

“In a hurry, are you?” he said, catching the movement.

Was that a hint of regret in his voice?

“A bit,” I replied, edging backward.

“Well, have a good rest of the summer. See you soon.”

“Yeah.” I tried to look regretful. “Back to school soon.”

“Bye.”

The door thudded shut. I walked as fast as one can without actually running—onto the pedestrian bridge. The adrenaline rush made my breathing light and quick.

It’s impossible to describe what I felt leaning over the water, because it can’t be described. If you know, you know. You understand how the entire world vanishes beside your happiness—there’s only him, and there’s you, with your racing thoughts, your pounding heart, and your sweaty palms.

I remember wanting to cry and laugh at once; to wander barefoot through dewy grass; to think everything through—about two hundred times—and shape it into a sentence, maybe even two. I wanted to rise like a drone above myself, to see what I looked like from above. To watch my reflection in the twilight and wonder how he saw me. To wish that tomorrow were already the first of September. To wish that another miracle would happen—right now.

 

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