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LOUDER THAN WORDS
LOUDER THAN WORDS
BY LAURIE PLISSNER
ABOUT THE BOOK:
A girl with no voice, only one friend, and a synthetic speech machine that makes her sound like she’s channeling Stephen Hawking—definitely not a candidate for prom queen. When Sasha’s family dies in a car accident, she is so traumatized she loses the ability to speak, along with most of her memories. Four years after the crash, seventeen-year-old Sasha is contemplating a lonely, quiet future…until she meets a boy who seems to know exactly what she’s thinking.
Enter Ben: black belt, honor student, mind reader. After saving her from a pack of bullies, Ben tries to help Sasha find her way off of her silent island and back into the real world. But afraid his unusual talent will impede her recovery, Ben soon retreats, leaving Sasha alone, angry and in love.
Desperate to win Ben back, Sasha digs into her hazy past, hoping to jumpstart her voice. When she discovers that her family’s death might be more than just an accident, Sasha must face her fears head on as she tries to heal her broken psyche and figure out what really happened the night her parents died.
Enter Ben: black belt, honor student, mind reader. After saving her from a pack of bullies, Ben tries to help Sasha find her way off of her silent island and back into the real world. But afraid his unusual talent will impede her recovery, Ben soon retreats, leaving Sasha alone, angry and in love.
Desperate to win Ben back, Sasha digs into her hazy past, hoping to jumpstart her voice. When she discovers that her family’s death might be more than just an accident, Sasha must face her fears head on as she tries to heal her broken psyche and figure out what really happened the night her parents died.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Laurie Plissner graduated from Princeton University with a BA in Art History and has a law degree from UCLA. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children.
AN EXCERPT FROM LOUDER THAN WORDS:
Chapter 1
Every night it’s the same thing. Screeching brakes. Crunching steel. A rush of cold, wet air as the glass crumbles, letting in the snowy night. The chorus of screams, and then nothing -- just the slow drip of fluids from the mangled wreck and the hiss of steam escaping the crushed radiator. And the stench -- scorched rubber, gasoline, the metallic smell of blood, burning electrical wiring -- all mingled with a sweet, flowery smell I couldn’t identify. Was I dead? Did God work behind the perfume counter at Bloomingdale’s?
Why couldn’t I dream about something else? The accident was four years ago, and the dream has never faded, never changed. If only I could remember more, then maybe I could figure out what really happened. Waking up exhausted every morning, my sheets in a tangle, my nightgown drenched in sweat, I was stuck. More than once I’d wished that I wasn’t the one who had "miraculously escaped death," as the newspapers put it, "pulled dazed and bleeding from the wreckage." Reliving my family’s last moments night after night was not my idea of living, and if I had the guts, I probably would have figured out a way to join them, wherever they were, instead of staying here in a sort of no-man’s-land. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. I was a coward and a big talker. Well, actually, I wasn’t a talker at all anymore.
When I woke up in the hospital on that Christmas Eve, three days after the accident, my Aunt Charlotte was sitting next to my bed, wringing her hands as I rubbed my eyes, a fluffy mountain of her crumpled tissues on the bedside table. "Sasha, you’re awake. Oh darling, are you okay? Are you in pain?"
Every night it’s the same thing. Screeching brakes. Crunching steel. A rush of cold, wet air as the glass crumbles, letting in the snowy night. The chorus of screams, and then nothing -- just the slow drip of fluids from the mangled wreck and the hiss of steam escaping the crushed radiator. And the stench -- scorched rubber, gasoline, the metallic smell of blood, burning electrical wiring -- all mingled with a sweet, flowery smell I couldn’t identify. Was I dead? Did God work behind the perfume counter at Bloomingdale’s?
Why couldn’t I dream about something else? The accident was four years ago, and the dream has never faded, never changed. If only I could remember more, then maybe I could figure out what really happened. Waking up exhausted every morning, my sheets in a tangle, my nightgown drenched in sweat, I was stuck. More than once I’d wished that I wasn’t the one who had "miraculously escaped death," as the newspapers put it, "pulled dazed and bleeding from the wreckage." Reliving my family’s last moments night after night was not my idea of living, and if I had the guts, I probably would have figured out a way to join them, wherever they were, instead of staying here in a sort of no-man’s-land. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. I was a coward and a big talker. Well, actually, I wasn’t a talker at all anymore.
When I woke up in the hospital on that Christmas Eve, three days after the accident, my Aunt Charlotte was sitting next to my bed, wringing her hands as I rubbed my eyes, a fluffy mountain of her crumpled tissues on the bedside table. "Sasha, you’re awake. Oh darling, are you okay? Are you in pain?"
To finish reading this excerpt, visit author Laurie Plissner's website HERE.
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