I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the THE RUMOR GAME by Dhonielle Clayton & Sona Charaipotra Blog Tour
hosted by Rockstar
Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Title: THE RUMOR GAME
Author: Dhonielle Clayton & Sona
Charaipotra
Pub. Date: March 1, 2022
Publisher: Disney-Hyperion
Formats: Hardcover, eBook, audiobook
Pages: 480
Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, Audible, B&N, iBooks(audiobook), Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.org
All it takes
is one spark to start a blaze.
At Foxham Prep, a posh private school for the children of DC’s elite, a single
rumor has the power to ruin a life.
Nobody knows that better than Bryn. She used to have it all—the perfect
boyfriend, a bright future in politics, and even popularity, thanks to her best
friend, cheer captain Cora. Then one mistake sparked a scandal that burned it
all to the ground.
Now it’s the start of a new school year and the spotlight has shifted: It’s
geeky Georgie, newly hot after a summer makeover, whose name is on everyone’s
lips. When a rumor ignites, Georgie rockets up the school’s social hierarchy,
pitting her and Cora against each other. It grants her Foxham stardom . . . but
it also makes her a target.
As the rumors grow and morph, blazing like wildfire through the school’s social
media, all three girls’ lives begin to unravel. But one person close to the
drama has the power to stop the gossip in its tracks. The question is—do they
even want to?
From Dhonielle Clayton and Sona Charaipotra, authors of the Tiny Pretty Things
duology (now a Netflix series), comes the edge-of-your-seat social thriller
everyone will be talking about.
Review:
"A
juicy, elegant, absolutely flawless thriller with a twist. It's the
diverse Gossip Girl we've been waiting for!"―Tiffany
D. Jackson, New York Times best-selling author of Grown and White Smoke
Excerpt:
PART ONE
THE
RUMOR
rumor [
rü-m r]: noun
1) a
story or statement in general circulation without confirmation of
certainty as to facts
2)
gossip; hearsay
3)
archaic. a continuous, confused noise; clamor; din 4) can destroy your life
---Original
Message----
From: Online Petition
To: Bryn Colburn
Sent: October 10, 7:29 AM
Subject: Stand with the Student Body, Move Up
Special Election!
To: Principal Rollins of Foxham
Preparatory Academy REMOVE BRYN COLBURN IMMEDIATELY
By signing
this petition, the students of Foxham Preparatory Academy stand in
solidarity and implore you and the school faculty to remove senior Bryn
Colburn as student body president in order to keep our academic
environment safe. She doesn’t represent good morals and doesn’t have the
wherewithal to handle the pressure, the spotlight or represent our
community. She is unfit to lead us. The special election on November 8 is
too far away, and the students deserve to have an immediate say.
Remove her and appoint Cora Davidson as interim president until the
students cast their ballots.
Click
here to sign our petition
1
BRYN
FRIdAY, OCTObER 11
9:00 P.M.
THE THING
ABOUT THIS YEAR IS THAT I MIGHT DO ANY THING to get my old life
back.
Mom would
use her rehab checklist to flag this new attitude as . . . headed for
trouble. Maybe. Potentially.
But I think
it finally makes me feel like myself again. Determined. Focused.
Razor-sharp.
“You sure we
should be doing this?” Georgie asks, obsessively flip ping down my car’s vanity
mirror. Her thick black hair is everywhere: across the car seat headrest,
on her shoulders, some of it piled in a loose bun. I don’t understand how
she has so much, how it grew out so fast from the kiddie bowl cut she
still had at the end of eighth grade when we stopped carpooling. Mine
barely grows, and my side ponytail sits on my shoulder like the sad, wet
tail of a dog.
When I stop
at a red light, I pet my hair, trying not to think about how the doctor
said stress has thinned it out around my temples, and how at some point
it might actually turn into an accidental mullet. All on its own. Then
everyone will think I’m a trashy white girl from Hicksville, Virginia, while
Georgie’s a reincarnated Indian goddess. I should get hair vitamins or
something.
“Shouldn’t
your hands be on the wheel?” she says, her nose crinkling up. I notice
she’s gotten freckles on her face. I didn’t know people with brown skin
could get freckles, and I feel stupid at the thought. I’ve known her so
long. Well, not really. She’s been my next-door neighbor,
forced-carpool-person-type thing forever. I don’t actually know her know
her. But since our fathers started working together this summer, it’s
been all “Can you hang out with Georgie and make a good impression?” blah,
blah. If I’m honest with myself—like the Colburn family therapist wants
me to be—then I’d admit I don’t have any real friends left and she’s the
only person I have to hang out with. It’s been five terrible, lonely weeks
since school started.
I wave my
hands higher in the air. “It’s fine.”
The light
turns green. I rev the engine a little just to make her jump. I laugh.
She laughs, too, but it’s forced.
“This is a
bad idea, don’t you think?” she asks.
“I can still
go places,” I remind her, but I catch her eye, her message clear: But
for how much longer? The whole school has turned against me because
of what happened at the end of the summer.
But I have a
plan to turn it all around. I have the whole thing mapped out in my
notebook. My get-my-life-back-on-track plan. “I need to talk to him. If I can
just get him to hear me out . . .” “Him him?”
“Yeah.”
“You could
text him.”
“I’ve been
doing that for weeks. He leaves me on read.” I don’t want to say my
ex-boyfriend’s name out loud yet. “And I’m not a girl who will be
ignored.” I try to summon the old courage I always had to speak my
mind.
She shrugs.
“We just shouldn’t be going.”
“Why not?
Those are just your fears talking. Have faith.” When your dad is a
politician, you get good at convincing people to do things. I turn right, then
left, like my car’s on autopilot. I could drive the whole way to my
ex-friend Cora’s house with my eyes closed. I need to talk to her, too,
but one person at a time. First, Jase. Second, Cora. Third,
Mom.
Georgie
winces. “I can think of a hundred different reasons why. Number one:
we’re not invited.”
I steal
another glimpse of her. She’s so beautiful now. A summer away and she
doesn’t even feel like that nerd anymore. “What?” she asks, catching me
looking at her.
“Nothing,” I
reply.
I wonder if
she pities me because I’ve lost all my friends. Or if her dad also pushed
her to hang out with me. If it’s mutually beneficial at all.
“We’re
almost there, so . . .” I start.
“So we could
still turn back.”
She looks at
me. Her eyes are bigger and brighter now that she’s learned to line them,
now that she’s paying attention to the way she looks, now that she’s
become a new version of herself. She’s lost at least forty pounds.
“How did it
feel . . . to, like, lose all that weight?” It just comes out all hard,
and I wish I’d softened it.
“Fine. The
program was mostly running and gymnastics.” She zips the words up in her
mouth and volleys between watching my speed on the dashboard and texting
on her phone.
I turn onto
Cora’s street. “We’re here.”
Cora’s
circular driveway is packed with luxury cars, even some Secret Service
vehicles, as if it were a black-tie soiree instead of a high school party.
Her house is impressive. Better than the ones in my neighborhood. It’s really
old-school, a miniature—but not by much—of a traditional plantation home,
with pristine white shutter, and a manicured lawn, the tulips color-coded like
a scene out of one of those old racist Southern movies. Except the family
that lives here is Black. Cora’s dad is a Harvard-bred lawyer who works
for the president. Cora’s twin sister, Millie, is a genius, and already
at Harvard, even though she’s only seventeen and should be a senior like
the rest of us.
I screech
the car to a stop.
“Careful,”
Georgie says, and I can feel the anxiety creeping up her spine and
settling onto her shoulders.
“I thought I
saw a cat.”
“Where? I
didn’t see anything.”
“It’s fine,
Georgie. Chill. Still getting used to the brakes on the new car, okay?” I
turn the engine off and glare at the Nigerian flag plastered on the back
window of the SUV in front of us. Abaeze Onyekachi’s car. An angry knot
hardens in me at the sight of it. Wonder if anyone’s slashed his tires
before? Wonder if I should be the first to do it?
“Do I look
all right?” Georgie asks, flipping down the car’s vanity mirror to check
her hair and makeup for the seventh time. She’s wearing an expensive V-neck tee
and strategically ripped-up skinny jeans, and the whole outfit hugs her a
little, but in all the right places. I picked it out for her, modeled how
to wear it correctly. We spent hours in my pool house turned bedroom
going through it all earlier tonight.
“Why are you
stressing?” I ask. “I thought you didn’t want to come?” “This is, like, a big
deal for me,” she whispers. “It’s my first real party.”
I guess it
is. I used to see her watching me and my friends from her window as we’d
sneak out or have parties in my pool-house bedroom. Never once did I think to
invite her over. She was that kind of acquaintance you couldn’t take with
you anywhere. Someone might say something. But she was perfectly nice.
And boring.
“You look
great,” I say, and mean it.
“You picked everything
out,” she replies.
“But you’re
wearing it. Take credit.” Always know how to sell yourself. A good politician
gets that, too.
We walk
around to the back, and bodies are everywhere. All the popular people
from Foxham Prep and even some of their personal bodyguards. Our school
is a place where kids with important parents go—diplomats, government
people, celebrities, etc.
Groups
circle a fire pit on an elaborate patio, while others lounge around the
heated pool. Heat lamps reach above the water like red-hot fingers. In
the distance, a huge bonfire rages. Tiny sparks flicker in the air like
fireflies. It’s that weird blend of too warm for October during the day,
but cool during the night. That’s DC for you. Mid-Atlantic weather
chaos.
I tug at the
stringy bottoms of my hair, braiding and unbraiding it, ignoring the
split ends, and thinking about how different fall break was for me at
this time last year. I was with Christine, Bian, Cora, Baez, Rico, and
the rest of the crew in Ocean City. We laughed. We tanned. We fell asleep
outside.
People stop
and look up at Georgie and me. Some giggle. Others whisper to each other.
Boys from the lacrosse team—some friends with Jase—nudge and point.
Heat gathers
in my cheeks. I know I have an ugly batch of hives dot ted all over my
neck.
Calm down, I tell myself, willing my fear
response to chill the hell out.
A few people
call out at us. At me, really. Taunts.
Georgie
bristles and yanks me forward.
There are
three kegs set up in the outdoor kitchen, along with chips, salsa,
guacamole, fruit salad, and platters of finger foods. Uninspired food.
Lackluster. That was my role. Cora hasn’t found anyone else to help menu
plan. Clearly.
I wave at
all my hecklers, bowing.
“Why’d you
do that?” she whispers hard.
“What was I
supposed to do?”
“Ignore
them.”
“I can’t ignore
them,” I say.
If only she
knew how true that was. I keep a file on my computer full of screenshots
of social media comments and articles written about me after the incident
happened. I recorded every word of every comment people made about me. I
tracked all the lies, all the rumors. I watched it spiral. I had to know.
I had to be prepared.
“Yes, you
can. Pretend they aren’t talking to you.”
“Uh, thanks
for the brilliant advice,” I snap, then feel a pinch of regret when I see
surprise flicker across her face.
“I know
plenty about ignoring people, and about being ignored,” she says. “Or did
you forget?” Her eyes burn into mine.
“I know.” I
touch her arm. I can’t do this alone. “I’m sorry. I just . . . Let’s get
beers. I need a little liquid courage.” I walk out of view of Jase’s
idiot friends.
“Too many
calories. I’m going to go mix something”—she points over past the
pool—“at that bar thing over there. Maybe seltzer or a diet soda. Be
right back.”
“Okay.” I
push away a twinge of fear as she walks away. I used to be afraid of
nothing. I’d march into a party like this one and announce I had arrived,
that the most stimulating conversation of the night could begin. But now
my nerves feel like I’ve swallowed an earthquake.
I stare into
the house through the windows. Couples find dark corners to curl up in. A
group sits around a table, playing cards. People zip through the back
door, wrapped in towels and headed for the pool. Last year, I was the
first one over at Cora’s house to set up, and the last one to leave the
next day. I used to be somebody: someone you wanted to sit with at lunch
or hang with in my pool-house bedroom, someone you hoped followed you
back on social media.
Now no one
talks to me. It’s weird how one bad decision can change your entire high
school status, your entire family, your entire life. And I need it to go
away.
Focus on
your list, I tell
myself. Jase first.
I guzzle the
beer in my cup and fill it up again. I’m driving, so I know this will be
the last one. But right now I need to soften the edges a
little.
“Did you
forget that no one likes you anymore?” Chance Olivieri points his camera
at me, zooming in and out. It’s old, clunky, vintage. “Have anything to
say about it? Give me an exclusive and I might let you be part of
my documentary.”
My rival
since the third grade. His greasy too-long hair flops over the camera,
and his pale cheeks are permanently flushed. Everyone used to call him a
clown and make fun of the rosacea.
“You wish. I
won’t be part of your trash, and I won’t let you take student body
president from me. You’ll lose that special election.” “I won’t . . . and we
both know it. Nobody likes the scorned ex who bullies and almost
kills the other woman. Not a good look. Never gets sympathy.
Prepare yourself, sweetie.” Chance pushes his camera closer to my face.
“Plus, this documentary is going to win a prize one day. I’ll be famous.
It’ll expose the bullshit social hierarchy of high school.” Yes, he’s for
real.
Chance
Olivieri was the one who had the most to say after everything happened, like he
reveled in sharing every newspaper headline and TV clip. Even made daily
video recaps of what I did and all the bad press and comments swarming me
and my family. My dad says he’ll end up as a sleazy tabloid reporter or
something one day. Doesn’t have the vision to be a real journalist or
filmmaker.
I put my
hand up to block him. “You’ve been doing this stupid crap since ninth
grade, and you’ve still got nothing. Maybe it’s time to give it up
and get a life,” I spit back. “Or a girlfriend.”
“Maybe you
should get a boyfriend. Oh, wait, you almost killed the last
one.”
He blows a
kiss at me.
I sneer and
turn to walk away. I go past the pool. Everyone stares. Someone splashes
at me. The back of my jeans get soaked. I bite my bottom lip. I refuse to
cry. There have been too many tears. Never cry when the cameras are
on.
I spot Jase
and some friends in the gazebo. The boys all dangle out of it, laughing
and roughhousing.
My heart
drops into my stomach. I need him to forgive me. I need him to tell
people to stop attacking me online over what happened. I need to get all
my friends back. He’s the one who can make it all go away. I clench my fists
and take a deep breath, then walk up.
The guys
stop laughing and stare. Jase looks up, surprised. His cold blue gaze
still sends a tingle through me. He has blond stubble, an almost beard
now, and looks like the South Carolina beach boy he was meant to be. God,
he’s hot. No wonder I was so into him. Too into him. “Can I talk
to you for a second?”
They ooh and
aah.
I keep my
eyes squarely on him, not breaking contact, bracing for him to say
no.
“Sure.” He
flashes a perfect smile, and his friends slap his arm and back.
But I don’t
care. That tiny word is an unexpected firework. One step forward.
He gets up
and walks toward me. But not far enough away from the gazebo. Everyone
snickers and listens, eager for a show. My heart beats so hard, I feel
like I’m going to vomit it up.
“What’s up?”
His Southern accent slips between slurred words. “I just . . . just wanted to
talk to you about what happened. I didn’t get a chance to explain.”
He flashes a
big, strange smile. “Sure.”
That word again.
For some reason, it unsettles me. I’d been expecting a no, expecting to
convince him. It knocks me off what I’d practiced when I imagined this
moment. “It’s . . . it was . . . my parents. That night. I’d found out
something big . . . really bad. I wasn’t thinking. I was super upset. It
all got into my head, so when you didn’t answer . . . I thought—I
thought—”
Jase put his
hand in the air. “It’s okay.”
My mouth
drops open. “Really?” A weight starts to lift from my shoulders, and I’m
not sure if it’s the beer.
“I know
where you’re going with all this, and I get it,” he replies. “You do?” My
heart lifts for the first time in weeks.
“Of course I
do.” He takes my hand. The heat of it sends a familiar surge through me.
I want his touch back so much. “I know how crazy you are. Like your mom.
Isn’t she still in rehab? Shouldn’t you be, too?” His charming
smile darkens. “Like mother, like daughter. You’re both nuts.”
I stiffen
and yank my hand back. Since the end of August, I’ve been called crazy
3,797 times and nuts 1,890 on all social media platforms. And who knows
how many more times in group chats and private DMs—the ones I’ve been
kicked out of.
Crazy is a terrible word.
Jase laughs,
and it creates a ripple. The smirks, the chuckles, the pity, the hate.
The guys break into raucous laughter.
“You don’t
know the whole story,” I say. “If you would just let me—” My pulse races, its
beat flooding my ears. The pitch and crescendo of the laughter stretch
and warp as if I’m trapped in a messed-up fun house where everything
bounces back at me. The bodies blur. Party sounds become a nauseous hum.
Like everything is underwater. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he yells.
“Don’t give a shit about what you have to say. I’m done with you. Sasha has
better tits, anyways.” All the guys cheer. A knot hardens in my stomach. I
clench my teeth. I hold back rage tears as he fumbles toward the gazebo
with his friends. I square my shoulders and walk away. This was so
stupid. It was too soon. I didn’t think it through enough. The
rehearsal in my head, in my bedroom, in my notebook, jumbled. I’d even
kept my distance the first several weeks of school to prepare. It all
went wrong. I have to find Georgie. We have to get out of here. I wipe my
face. Chance saunters past again with his camera. “Tsk, tsk. Show
didn’t go as planned, huh? No one buying your lies? Everyone knows what
a bitch you are.” He holds out a piece of paper and shakes it at me.
“Want to sign this petition? I’m trying to get you removed as student
body president a little early, you see. I’ve already got over fifty
signatures.” “Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP!”
“Wouldn’t
you like that? But nope, I’m good.”
“I’m looking
for Georgie—and trust me—I’ll be out of here.” “She went in the house with
Baez,” he reported. “Even she’s done with you.”
My anger
flashes hot. I shove him into the pool with his camera. He makes a huge
splash.
That shuts
him up good.
Bryn Colburn
Net loss of followers:
−3,528
Group chats:
0
Friday 9:34 PM
Bryn:
Where are
you?
Bryn:
You said you
were just getting seltzer.
Bryn:
Are you
ignoring me?
Things went
bad. I tried to talk to him.
Bryn:
I feel
weird. I wanna go.
Friday 9:45 PM
Georgie:
I’m in the
bathroom. Spilled my drink.
Georgie:
Gimme a
minute.
Friday 9:46 PM
Bryn:
I’ll be in
the car. Hurry up.
About Dhonielle Clayton:
Dhonielle Clayton is the New York Times best-selling author of the
Belles series, The Mirror: Shattered Midnight, and the coauthor of Blackout
and the Tiny Pretty Things duology, now a Netflix original series. She
hails from the Washington, DC, suburbs on the Maryland side. She taught
secondary school for several years, and is a former elementary and
middle school librarian. She is COO of the non-profit We Need Diverse
Books, and president of Cake Creative, an IP story kitchen dedicated to diverse
representation. She’s an avid traveler, and always on the hunt for magic
and mischief. Up next: The Marvellers, her middle grade fantasy debut.
You can find her on social media @brownbookworm.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub
About Sona Charaipotra:
Sona Charaipotra is the author of Symptoms of a Heartbreak and How
Maya Got Fierce, and coauthor of the Tiny Pretty Things duology, now a
Netflix original series. She earned her master’s in screenwriting from NYU and
an MFA in creative writing from the New School. A working journalist, Sona has
held editorial roles at People, TeenPeople, ABCNews.com, MSN, and
most recently, the Barnes & Noble Teen Blog (RIP), and contributed to
publications from the New York Times to TeenVogue. She is a
former We Need Diverse Books board member, and co-founder of CAKE Literary, a
boutique book packager focused on high-concept diverse titles. Find her on the
web talking about books, Bollywood movies, and chai.
Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | TikTok | Pinterest | Goodreads
| BookBub
Giveaway Details:
3 winners
will receive a finished copy of THE RUMOR GAME, US Only.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
Week Two:
Week Three:
Week Four:
Week Five:
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