This Is Not the Real World

Nineties nostalgia takes a dark turn in this thrilling sequel to This Is Not the Jess Show, perfect for readers of We Were Liars and One of Us Is Lying.

Months after Jess escaped from the set of Stuck in the 90s, the nostalgic reality show she believed was her real life, the teen star is getting to know the outside world for the first time. But she can t outrun her fictional life forever or the media empire that owns it.

After Like-Life Productions tracks her down and forces her boyfriend to return to the show, Jess teams up with an underground network fighting to uncover Like-Life s schemes. To expose the truth, Jess must go back to the set and take Like-Life down from the inside . . . but getting revenge might just cost her everything.

Autorentext
Anna Carey is the author of several books for teens including This is Not The Jess Show, This is Not the Real World, and the Eve trilogy. She lives in Los Angeles.

Klappentext

*Nineties nostalgia takes a dark turn in this thrilling sequel to This Is Not the Jess Show, perfect for readers of We Were Liars and One of Us Is Lying.*

Months after Jess escaped from the set of Stuck in the ’90s, the nostalgic reality show she believed was her real life, the teen star is getting to know the outside world for the first time. But she can’t outrun her fictional life forever—or the media empire that owns it.

After Like-Life Productions tracks her down and forces her boyfriend to return to the show, Jess teams up with an underground network fighting to uncover Like-Life’s schemes. To expose the truth, Jess must go back to the set and take Like-Life down from the inside . . . but getting revenge might just cost her everything.

Zusammenfassung
In the explosive, thrilling sequel to This Is Not the Jess Show, 18-year-old Jess is out for revenge as she confronts the corrupt media empire that documented every moment of her childhood.

Leseprobe
The gondola glided between buildings, and that same song filtered in right as we slipped under the third arched bridge. It was coming from an upper balcony, where the same violin player sat, his bow gliding back and forth across the strings. Below him, the window was open, and the same man with that same stubby gray mustache was cooking pasta. It wasn’t until Kipps pointed it out that I realized he looked exactly like Chef Boyardee. He even had the white hat.
     “How much do you think they paid for that product placement?” I asked.
     “This is supposed to be romantic, Jess.”
     I tried not to look at Kipps too much in the simulations, because his features were always a little off from what they were in real life. His nose looked huge and angular, his wavy hair like tiny brown snakes spilling out of his scalp. His left eye always went rogue. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if he was looking at me or my right ear.
     “But seriously. Italy, the association with the Venice canals and pasta. I bet that spot was as pricey as the Armani one.” I pointed to the right but I was a beat early. The gondola took a few seconds to clear the end of the building and then we saw the dark-haired couple dancing in the alley, their cheeks pressed together. In an instant the woman stepped out, spinning once under the man’s arm, then pausing to show the long, lacy black skirt to us. “Or maybe that’s better real estate. It’s more front and center.”
     The violin music faded behind us, giving way to the sounds of tourists shopping for watercolors on the bridge above. An American woman with overlined lips argued with the seller over two euros. Kipps squeezed my hand, then the scene stopped and the menu came down in front of us. VENICE, ITALY, was highlighted.
     “What are you doing?”
     “You’re not into it. Maybe Singapore?” He flicked through the list of cities, past Tokyo and Marrakech. We’d already been to Paris five times. “What about Siem Reap? We could do the hot-air balloon over Angkor Wat again.”
     “Eh.”
     “Eh?!? It’s one of the wonders of the world.”
     “We’ve been to all of these places already. It’s just . . . the same thing again and again. We must’ve gone down this canal a dozen times, and we’ve played Bot Wars and explored every corner of the Spiderverse and did that stupid building game—”
     “I like Skyscrapers.”
     “It’s just okay.”
     “It could be worse. At least we’re together.”
     I tried to look at Kipps, but his eye was rebelling again. I knew he was right—we were lucky—so I kissed him. Our VR goggles clinked against each other and we pulled them off, leaving the world behind.
     The immersive theater in Charli and Sara’s house was all black—black walls and black ceiling and black foam floor. Monochrome props in varying states of disarray. With the lights dimmed everything blended together, and it felt like we were floating in space, weightless, suspended in a dream. Kipps’s hand slid from my cheek to my neck as we kissed, then out across my collarbone. Whatever was missing in Venice was here, as I drew him closer, his mouth against mine.
     He fell back onto the floor and I rested my face in his neck, listening to his breaths slow, then steady. I kicked at the padded gondola seat that came in the World in a Box, pushing it away from us. The scaffolding platform from Skyscrapers rested against the wall beside the lights from the Thai beach experience, which were so strong you had to wear sunblock.
     “Don’t expect me to feel too sorry for you,” he said, squeezing my arm. “I mean, how bad is it, really? Being stuck here with a devastatingly handsome, younger man—”
     “Eleven months. You’re only eleven months younger.”
     “Still . . . you have your own personal love machine, catering to your every whim.”
     “Ew. Please do not refer to yourself as a love machine.”
     “Okay, okay. Your devoted boyfriend who loves you.”
     His head was leaning against mine when he said it, his eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. I tried to fix my face into something normal, but the words were still with me, and then I couldn’t stop smiling. I kept repeating them in my head—who loves you—trying to be sure I hadn’t imagined it. It was possible he just meant it in a casual way, like how he loved the mango ice cream bars Charli ordered from Delancey Grocer, or the mattress on his bed, which was like a huge block of clay that left Kipps-shaped indents every time he got up.
   Your boyfriend who loves you.
   Your devoted boyfriend who loves you.
   Love.
   Love.
   Love.
     I couldn’t tell if he expected me to say it back. He’d closed his eyes and I played with the front pocket of his shirt, running my finger over the stitching. I’d thought through it a hundred times. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t gotten in the car with him that day, when he shouted at me from the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. What would’ve happened if the NextGen Cloud had crapped out on the highway, with hundreds of cars racing past, before we could reach the more secluded…