Dead Girls Don't Say Sorry

What does it mean when your best friend is dead and your instinct is relief? A stunningly immersive debut about toxic friendships, grief, romance, and new beginnings. Before: One year ago, best friends Nora and Julia were starting their senior year of high school, with plans to apply to the same university so they wouldn''t be separated. When Dillan Fletcher comes back to town, life as Nora knows it begins to unravel. And then, the unthinkable happens. After: Months after surviving the accident that killed her best friend, Nora Radford is stagnating. Dillan has remained by her side, but he and other friends are starting university, while Nora is still trying to unravel the lies that Julia told, lies disguised as friendship. DEAD GIRLS DON’T SAY SORRY is an absorbing page-tuner told in two timelines about how friendships evolve, how growing up can reveal the dark side of those you trust most. And it’s about how even in the face of tragedy, we can find our way out of the dark and have the courage to step into something better.

Autorentext
Alex Ritany is a lifelong reader and writer. When they’re not at the keyboard, you can find them hosting tabletop game night, working on illustrations, or at their other keyboard composing music. Alex’s love of art, music, and the western Canadian landscape regularly spills into their writing, which tends to feature complex friendships, twisty romances, and explorations of queerness. They live in Calgary with their roommate, cat, and dice collection. Dead Girls Don’t Say Sorry is their debut novel.

Leseprobe
ONE

Before

Nora, are you even paying attention to me?

I looked up from the wood grain of the table and offered Julia a sheepish grin. I m paying attention.

It was halfway true.

She shook her head, exasperated. How are you supposed to see anything if you don t even look?

You re the one who wanted to come here, I pointed out.

Our favorite haunt, mostly at Julia s insistence, was a little café within walking distance of both of our houses. It wasn t all that scenic--the view through the dust-coated windows consisted of a persistently shabby parking lot and the back entrance of the even shabbier recreation center--but every Tuesday at ten after one, the back doors of the rec center opened and the members of Centennial High s summer debate team started trickling out, and the view improved.

Spying on people wasn t my style, but it was Julia s. So, with mild reluctance, I agreed to be dragged here once a week all summer. It s what you do for a friend.

Here he comes. Julia reached across the table and tapped my arm.

Can you be any more obvious? I looked around and then glanced out the window. He s going to think we re creepy.

Nate Gibson, the object of our attention that day, stood outside the door to the rec center, deeply involved in conversation with another member of the team.

Who cares? We are being creepy. Julia mimed a pair of binoculars.

I rolled my eyes. Cut it out.

Julia laughed, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. I m just glad you re finally into someone who isn t boring.

I crossed my arms, watching Nate catch a set of car keys with one hand and grin. The others weren t boring.

Are you kidding me? She scoffed. Please. Collectively, they had the personality of a peanut, and you know it.

Whatever. I slumped in my seat, knocking my sunglasses down over my eyes. The AC unit next to me ticked to life, raising goose bumps on my calves. Julia always shot down guys I liked, which meant I d never actually dated any of them. She said she was looking out for me and I should be grateful. We both knew where I d stood on the social hierarchy when we met, so maybe she had a point.

Nate Gibson was a lot of things, but boring wasn t one of them. He was the sort of person Julia liked to ogle: conventionally attractive, captain of the debate team, decent hockey player, popular. He was smart, too. He d been an alternate for Team Canada in debate last year, and I knew for a fact that he d been top of the class in biology. Julia had broken into the school records to change her grade on a social studies project, and she d shown me a picture of his report card.

Those weren t the reasons I liked him, though.

He had a nice smile, and he wasn t afraid to speak up in class, and once, I d seen him doodling a field of flowers in the corner of his notebook.

Nate s not boring, I told her.

He certainly isn t. She raised her eyebrows.

Hey! I swatted her arm.

What? I d never go for your man. You know that.

He s not my man. I watched him hoist an amp into the back of the van, then glanced down at the chipped polish on my fingernails.

Yet. Julia shoved my leg with her foot. Don t look. He s looking.

Why are you looking? I slumped even farther in my chair. In the reflection of the half-empty pastry case, I saw the team climb into the van and d