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Switched by Amanda Hocking: Extract

Switched by Amanda Hocking: Extract

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Published by Jamie Hall
The prologue to Amanda Hocking's novel
The prologue to Amanda Hocking's novel

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Published by: Jamie Hall on Jan 24, 2012
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved

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07/18/2014

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couple things made that day stand out more than anyother: it was my sixth birthday, and my mother waswielding a knie. Not a tiny steak knie, but some kind o mas-sive butcher knie glinting in the light like in a bad horrormovie. She defnitely wanted to kill me.I try to think o the days that led up to that one to see i Imissed something about her, but I have no memory o her be-ore then. I have some memories o my childhood, and I caneven remember my dad, who died when I was fve, but not her.When I ask my brother, Matt, about her, he always an-swers with things like, “She’s batshit, Wendy. That’s all youneed to know.” He’s seven years older than I am, so he remem-bers things better, but he never wants to talk about it.We lived in the Hamptons when I was a kid, and my motherwas a lady o leisure. She’d hired a live-in nanny to deal withme, but the night beore my birthday the nanny had let or a
PROLOGUE
eleven years ago
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Amanda Hocking
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amily emergency. My mother was in charge o me, or the frsttime in her lie, and neither o us was happy.I didn’t even want the party. I liked gits, but I didn’t haveany riends. The people coming to the party were my mother’sriends and their snobby little kids. She had planned somekind o princess tea party I didn’t want, but Matt and ourmaid spent all morning setting it up anyway.By the time the guests arrived, I’d already ripped o myshoes and plucked the bows rom my hair. My mother camedown in the middle o opening gits, surveying the scene withher icy blue eyes.Her blond hair had been smoothed back, and she had onbright red lipstick that only made her appear paler. She stillwore my ather’s red silk robe, the same way she had since theday he died, but she’d added a necklace and black heels, as i that would make the outft appropriate.No one commented on it, but everyone was too busy watch-ing my perormance. I complained about every single git Igot. They were all dolls or ponies or some other thing I wouldnever play with.My mother came into the room, stealthily gliding throughthe guests to where I sat. I had torn through a box wrapped inpink teddy bears, containing yet another porcelain doll. In-stead o showing any gratitude, I started yelling about what astupid present it was.Beore I could fnish, she slapped me sharply across the ace.“You are not my daughter,” my mother said, her voice cold.My cheek stung rom where she had hit me, and I gaped at her.
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Switched
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The maid quickly redirected the estivities, but the idea per-colated in my mother’s mind the rest o the aternoon. I think,when she said it, she meant it the way parents do when theirchild behaves appallingly. But the more she thought, the moreit made sense to her.Ater an aternoon o similar tantrums on my part, some-one decided it was time to have cake. My mother seemed to betaking orever in the kitchen, and I went to check on her. I don’teven know why she was the one getting the cake instead o themaid, who was ar more maternal.On the island in the kitchen, a massive chocolate cake cov-ered in pink owers sat in the middle. My mother stood on theother side, holding a gigantic knie she was using to cut thecake to serve on tiny saucers. Her hair was coming loose romits bobby pins.“Chocolate?” I wrinkled my nose as she tried to set perectpieces onto the saucers.“Yes, Wendy, you like chocolate,” my mother inormed me.“No, I don’t!” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I hate choc-olate! I’m not going to eat it, and you can’t make me!”“Wendy!”The knie happened to point in my direction, some rostingstuck to the tip, but I wasn’t araid. I I had been, everythingmight’ve turned out dierent. Instead, I wanted to have an-other one o my tantrums.“No, no, no! It’s my birthday, and I don’t want choco-late!” I shouted and stomped my oot on the oor as hard asI could.
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