Rx

Rx

From the talented author that brought you the Nine Lives of Chloe King series comes a timely and thought-provoking novel inspired by the epidemic of prescription drug abuse among teens. Thyme Gilcrest is an honors student. Thyme Gilcrest is popular. Thyme Gilcrest is on student council. Thyme Gilcrest is a drug dealer. Thyme Gilcrest is doing everything she can to stay afloat in her over-achieving high school. She’s broken into the academic elite—The Twenty—but barely. So when her best friend Will refuses to take his newly-prescribed Ritalin, Thyme steals it. With SATs quickly approaching, she must keep her self-diagnosed ADHD in check. One prescription is not enough, though. And soon Thyme is trading with classmates to get the meds she “needs.” It’s addictive—not the pills, but the feeling of power that comes with the trade. Her friends come to her for advice. For “prescriptions.” And Thyme can’t help but oblige them all... A fascinating look at a class superstar who is dealing with the stress—by dealing prescription pills. Tracy Lynn is a pseudonym. Liz Braswell is a real person. After the sort of introverted childhood you would expect from a writer, Liz earned a degree in Egyptology at Brown University and then promptly spent the next ten years producing video games. Finally she caved in to fate and wrote Snow , her first novel, followed by the Nine Lives of Chloe King series under her real name, because by then the assassins hunting her were all dead. Liz lives in Brooklyn with her husband, two children, and the occasional luna moth. Rx Well if they’re making it (making it) Then they’re pushing it (pushing it) —Chevelle “CHEESE!” A strobe of red followed by a flash of bright white, hopefully bouncing off my teeth and sparkling in my eyes. I tried not to giggle. “That’s it, everyone,” the school photographer announced with a smile. Everyone on the school literary magazine fell forward, now released from our pose. We were all giddy from just having put the spring issue of Veritas to rest. Even Will, who just designed the cover, had smiled unexpectedly for the camera. And Meera had actually dressed up. Sort of. “Congratulations, everyone,” Mrs. Tildenhurst said. She put her arm around me and gave me a special squeeze. “I am so sorry you’re not going to be with us next year, Thyme. You did such wonderful work.” I blushed a little and felt genuinely bad. “Sorry, I just don’t have the time. I think I should concentrate on my strengths my senior year—and unfortunately they just don’t include anything of literary merit.” Besides, I had been on the magazine for three years now, and junior year extra-curries counted more than senior for college applications. Or so the legend went. Tildenhurst gave me an odd look. “That’s a funny thing for someone so young to say. Don’t you think it’s a little early to write off—pardon the pun—poetry and fiction and journaling?” “I guess I just know my own limitations,” I said self-deprecatingly, winding down our conversation. She was going to be my AP teacher next year, anyway—we’d have more chances to talk then. And I was anxious to get back to the group. They were talking about going to a movie and I didn’t want to miss out. They were the closest thing to a clique I had. All of Ashbury High is divided into three main groups: the rich kids, the jocks, and The Twenty—my nickname for the approximately twenty most overachieving, good-school-bound juniors. They were a social force to be reckoned with, no matter how nerdy. Less important socially (in order) are the partyers, the stoners, the do-gooders, the geeks and freaks. I was just barely in The Twenty possibly GPA #19 or 20 itself, but I was in. In the overinflated world of AP grades and extra credit, staying in the top 10 percent is pretty fricking difficult. But if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t really have had any place in the school hierarchy. I’d be even more of a no one. I sucked at sports, was financially middle class (no matter how upper), never got invited to the good parties, and my interests (making beaded jewelry, e.g.) had no bragging rights among my peers. Nor did they look good on college applications. They were personal. I was personal. Even a little introverted, some might say. So the people in Veritas, the French Club, Model U.N., and everything else were the closest thing I had to a social scene. “Hey, what are we doing?” I asked, bouncing up to Kevin, the current head of The Twenty. I had thought he was cute for about one marking period, but constant competition doesn’t really do much for sexual attraction. “Oh, I don’t know,” he sighed, rolling his eyes. “I think we’re going to see that action-thriller thing Sonia’s cousin is in. Either that or The Life Aquatic. ” Well, that first one sounded kind of exciting. Even if the movie sucked, we would sort of know someone in the credits. “What are they doing here?” someone else asked—GPA #5, as a matter of fact—i