By Frank Portman
From Frank Portman, writer of the cult vintage King Dork that John eco-friendly says "will rock your world", comes a singular approximately Andromeda Klein, who has a couple of difficulties of her own.
Her hair is more or less horrible.
Her partner-in-occultism, Daisy, is dead.
Her mystery, estranged, a lot older and forbidden boyfriend-in-theory, has long past AWOL.
And her mom has discovered tips on how to text.
in brief, issues could not get a lot worse. till they do. Daisy appears trying to make touch from past, books are commencing to disappear from the library, after which, unusually and all of sudden, Andromeda's tarot readings are commencing to expect occasions with bizarrely literal accuracy.
Omens are all over the place. goals; swords; fires; hidden playing cards; misplaced, damaged, and useless cellphones . . . and what's Daisy attempting to inform her?
within the resulting fight of impartial as opposed to evil, it is Andromeda Klein opposed to the area, smooth society, demonic forces, and the "friends" of the library.
From the Hardcover edition.
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Additional info for Andromeda Klein
Seven messages had been left since the morning switch-off. The mom had advice on everything: how to pour coffee, how not to drink water, how to pet the cat, how to read the newspaper, how not to shut the front door, the right way to stand or sit, the way you should and should not breathe, on and on. Complaints were generally texted in truncated form during the day and later elaborated into a full lecture. The day a person’s mother discovers text messaging is a dark day indeed. Delete All. “I am at work,” she texted back, and switched the red phone off and returned it to its usual place in her makeup bag.
The wind was certainly a relief after the oppressive Clearview High School heat. Those in charge at the school always cranked the heat as high as it would go at the first hint of cloud cover. But the wind made it hard to keep the hood in place while riding. Andromeda Krystal Klein was not a fan of her own hair, which she felt tended to look better hooded; that is, veiled. Thousands of wet eucalyptus leaves rattled against each other in the wind; no matter how many times she heard the sound, she was always taken aback by how loud it was, even through her defective ears.
She stared at it, dwelling on the pain. Or maybe, to be honest, the name for this version of the “hi there” distress wasn’t really hurt, since at this late stage it was different from the frantic, desperate madness it had once evoked. A cold, mature despair, it might be called—a growing thing, becoming ever more complex as it aged. Bitter wine. Despite her best efforts to remain distant and neutral, thinking of Daisy and the “hi there” had its usual effect: Andromeda felt hot tears blown across her cheeks by the wind, sliding back into her ears, and prickling a little as they dried.
Andromeda Klein by Frank Portman