From School Library Journal
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Gr 9 Up—Jule West Williams is at a fancy resort in Mexico.
Someone is looking for her, but she can do a pretty stellar job
of taking care of herself, paying a bartender to smuggle her out
in his car, then fighting back when he tries to extort more
money. That's where Lockhart's latest novel begins. Jule was
recently in London. Her best friend, Imogen Sokoloff, is dead.
There's a guy Jule likes but can't have. Jule steals wallets in
Las Ve, NV. The teen likes how strong she feels when she
defends herself. Jule was in San Francisco. She has had just
about enough of Immie's friends from Vassar. Jule was in Puerto
Rico. The protagonist has a prodigious talent for memorization.
Jule was staying at Immie's house in Martha's Vineyard. She was
in New York. Jule is, above all else, a survivor. The narrative
moves backward in time, constantly forcing readers to adjust
their opinions of the characters and events and realign them in
light of new information. While those familiar with The Talented
Mr. Ripley may have a good idea of Lockhart's ultimate
destination, they'll still enjoy the trip. The book rewards
rereading, as initially inconsequential details shine brightly
when you can see the whole picture. VERDICT An excellent choice
recommended for teens and adults who love twisty mysteries,
stories about class conflict, and tough-as-nails teen
girls.—Stephanie Klose, School Library Journal
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Review
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More Praise for E. Lockhart’s Genuine Fraud:
5 STARRED REVIEWS!
"A brilliant, twisty thriller--I loved it!" --Karen M. McManus,
bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying
"Fans of E. Lockhart's We Were Liars will love this . . . and
definitely won't see the ending coming." --HelloGiggles.com
"Tangled secrets, diabolical lies and, ultimately, a mind-blowing
outcome are crafted with the plotted precision we expect (and
love!) from E. Lockhart." --Justine Magazine
"The coming-of-age plot and complicated friendship between its
two main characters make Genuine Fraud seem like it could be
Girls for a younger set." --Vanity Fair
"A sophisticated, emotionally literate whodunit." --The Guardian
"As with E. Lockhart's previous novel, the bestselling We Were
Liars, [readers] will likely finish the last page and flip right
back to the beginning to search for clues they missed." --Chicago
Tribune
"If there are two things you can count on E. Lockhart for it's
badass ladies and killer atmosphere--Genuine Fraud has both in
droves." --Bustle
“A bracing pace, a slew of far-flung locations, and a storyline
that runs mostly in reverse will keep readers on their toes,
never entirely sure of what these girls are responsible for or
capable of.” —PW, Starred Review
“Captivating . . . bew.” —Booklist, Starred Review
“An excellent choice recommended for teens and adults who love
twisty mysteries, stories about class conflict, and
tough-as-nails teen girls.” —SLJ, Starred Review
“This thriller from the author of We Were Liars will challenge
preconceptions about identity and keep readers guessing.” —Kirkus
Reviews, Starred Review
"Intoxicating." —The Horn Book, Starred Review
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About the Author
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E. Lockhart wrote the New York Times bestseller We Were
Liars, which is also available in a deluxe edition. Her other
books include Fly on the Wall, Dramarama, The Disreputable
History of Frankie Landau-Banks, and the Ruby Oliver Quartet,
which includes The Boyfriend List, The Boy Book, The Treasure
of Boys, and Real Live Boyfriends. Visit her online at
emilylockhart.com, and follow @elockhart on Twitter.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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Begin here:
Third week in June, 2017
Cabo San Lucas, Mexico
It was a bloody great hotel.
The minibar in Jule’s room stocked potato chips and four
different chocolate bars. The bathtub had bubble jets. There was
an endless supply of towels and liquid gardenia soap. In the
lobby, an elderly gentleman played Gershwin on a grand piano at
four each afternoon. You could get hot clay skin s, if
you didn’t mind strangers touching you. Jule’s skin smelled like
chlorine all day.
The Playa Grande Resort in Baja had white curtains, white tile,
white carpets, and explosions of lush white flowers. The staff
members were nurselike in their white cotton garments. Jule had
been alone at the hotel for nearly four weeks now. She was
eighteen years old.
This morning, she was running in the Playa Grande gym. She wore
custom sea-green shoes with navy laces. She ran without music.
She had been doing intervals for nearly an hour when a woman
stepped onto the treadmill next to her.
This woman was younger than thirty. Her black hair was in a
tight ponytail, slicked with hair spray. She had big arms and a
solid torso, light brown skin, and a dusting of powdery blush on
her cheeks. Her shoes were down at the heels and spattered with
old mud.
No one else was in the gym.
Jule slowed to a walk, figuring to leave in a minute. She liked
privacy, and she was pretty much done, anyway.
“You training?” the woman asked. She gestured at Jule’s digital
readout. “Like, for a marathon or something?” The accent was
Mexican American. She was probably a New Yorker raised in a
Spanish-speaking neighborhood.
“I ran track in secondary school. That’s all.” Jule’s own speech
was clipped, what the British call BBC English.
The woman gave her a penetrating look. “I like your accent,” she
said. “Where you from?”
“London. St. John’s Wood.”
“New York.” The woman pointed to herself.
Jule stepped off the treadmill to stretch her quads.
“I’m here alone,” the woman confided after a moment. “Got in
last night. I booked this hotel at the last minute. You been here
long?”
“It’s never long enough,” said Jule, “at a place like this.”
“So what do you recommend? At the Playa Grande?”
Jule didn’t often talk to other hotel guests, but she saw no
harm in answering. “Go on the snorkel tour,” she said. “I saw a
bloody huge moray eel.”
“No kidding. An eel?”
“The guide tempted it with fish guts he had in a plastic milk
jug. The eel swam out from the rocks. It must have been eight
feet long. Bright green.”
The woman shivered. “I don’t like eels.”
“You could skip it. If you e easy.”
The woman laughed. “How’s the food? I didn’t eat yet.”
“Get the chocolate cake.”
“For breakfast?”
“Oh, yeah. They’ll bring it to you special, if you ask.”
“Good to know. You traveling alone?”
“Listen, I’m gonna jet,” said Jule, feeling the conversation had
turned personal. “Cheerio.” She headed for the door.
“My dad’s crazy ,” the woman said, talking to Jule’s back.
“I’ve been looking after him for a long time.”
A stab of sympathy. Jule stopped and turned.
“Every morning and every night after work, I’m with him,” the
woman went on. “Now he’s finally stable, and I wanted to get away
so badly I didn’t think about the price tag. I’m blowing a lot of
cash here I shouldn’t blow.”
“What’s your her got?”
“MS,” said the woman. “Multiple sclerosis? And dementia. He used
to be the head of our family. Very macho. Strong in all his
opinions. Now he’s a twisted body in a bed. He doesn’t even know
where he is half the time. He’s, like, asking me if I’m the
waitress.”
“Damn.”
“I’m ed I’m gonna lose him and I hate being with him, both
at the same time. And when he’s dead and I’m an orphan, I know
I’m going to be sorry I took this trip away from him, d’you
know?” The woman stopped running and put her feet on either side
of the treadmill. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Sorry. Too much information.”
“S’okay.”
“You go on. Go shower or whatever. Maybe I’ll see you around
later.”
The woman pushed up the arms of her long-sleeved shirt and
turned to the digital readout of her treadmill. A wound down
her right forearm, jagged, like from a , not clean like from
an operation. There was a story there.
“Listen, do you like to play trivia?” Jule asked, against her
better judgment.
A smile. White but crooked teeth. “I’m excellent at trivia,
actually.”
“They run it every other night in the lounge downstairs,” said
Jule. “It’s pretty much rubbish. You wanna go?”
“What kind of rubbish?”
“Good rubbish. Silly and loud.”
“Okay. Yeah, all right.”
“Good,” said Jule. “We’ll kill it. You’ll be glad you took a
vacation. I’m strong on superheroes, movies, YouTubers,
fitness, money, makeup, and Victorian writers. What about you?”
“Victorian writers? Like Dickens?”
“Yeah, whatever.” Jule felt her face flush. It suddenly seemed
an odd set of things to be interested in.
“I love Dickens.”
“Get out.”
“I do.” The woman smiled again. “I’m good on Dickens, cooking,
current events, politics . . . let’s see, oh, and cats.”
“All right, then,” said Jule. “It starts at eight o’clock in
that lounge off the main lobby. The bar with sofas.”
“Eight o’clock. You’re on.” The woman walked over and extended
her hand. “What’s your name again? I’m Noa.”
Jule shook it. “I didn’t tell you my name,” she said. “But it’s
Imogen.”
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