Nothing is as it seems in this darkly romantic tale of infatuation and possession, inspired by Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca . Becca was the perfect girlfriend: smart, gorgeous, and loved by everyone at New England’s premier boarding school, Thorn Abbey. But Becca’s dead. And her boyfriend, Max, can’t get over his loss. Then Tess transfers to Thorn Abbey. She’s shy, insecure, and ordinary—everything that Becca wasn’t. And despite her roommate’s warnings, she falls for brooding Max. Now Max finally has a reason to move on. Except it won’t be easy. Because Becca may be gone, but she’s not quite ready to let him go… This homage to Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier, sets the story at the exclusive Thorn Abbey school, where unconfident Tess has transferred from a public school near Albany. When the handsome Max de Villars seems to be interested, roommate Devon is quick to tell Tess of his love and devotion for her friend, Becca, who drowned during the last school year. As in the book and the movie, mishaps and mistakes keep Tess and Max apart at times—and then there’s the ghost of Becca, who seems to be everywhere. Although the tension throughout is uneven (a climactic scene, in which Tess, thanks to Devon, inadvertently wears a dress of Becca’s to a dance, hardly gets a buildup), the ghostly goings-on and the contemporary vibe should keep readers turning pages. Though most of the characters only play off the originals, Killian, Becca’s cousin, seems to be channeling actor George Saunders in the film version—a hoot for those who’ve seen the movie. A surprise ending twists the plot once more. Grades 7-12. --Ilene Cooper Nancy Ohlin is the author of Consent ; Always , Forever ; and Beauty . She is also the author of the Shai & Emmie series with Quevenzhané Wallis. Born in Tokyo, Japan, Nancy divided her time between there and Ohio. She received a BA in English from the University of Chicago, and she lives in Ithaca, New York, with her family. Learn more at NancyOhlin.com. Always, Forever 1. “Tess, this is Devon McCain. She’ll be your roommate. Devon, this is Tess Szekeres. She’s a sophomore.” The house counselor, Mrs. Frith, moves aside as she makes the introductions and waves me into my new room. I enter, hesitating in the doorway as two enormous emerald eyes size me up. “Hi, Tess! Welcome to Thorn Abbey!” Devon steps forward and gives me a quick, fierce hug. She is tall, maybe five ten, and reminds me of an Amazon warrior. Her long, silky black hair looks striking against her crisp white blouse and plaid school jumper. “I’ll leave you to unpack and get settled,” Mrs. Frith says to me. “Devon is a junior. From Boston. She’s been here since ninth grade, so she can fill you in on anything you need to know.” “Yeah, like all the best places on campus to get high and make out,” Devon says merrily. My cheeks grow hot as I wait for Mrs. Frith to start yelling or give Devon a detention or something. But instead, she laughs. “Good one, Devon. Don’t forget the Welcome Tea at four, in the downstairs parlors. See you girls then.” “Lipton’s and stale scones. Can’t wait.” Devon closes the door after Mrs. Frith and turns to me with a dazzling smile. She has perfect teeth—braces, obviously—and I instinctively clamp my mouth shut. “I thought she’d never leave. Come on, show me the clothes you brought. I saved you the good closet.” “Um, thanks. I didn’t bring . . . that is, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to . . .” My voice drifts as I picture my wardrobe, Old Navy circa 2010, folded neatly in my one suitcase. I glance around the room, which is so much bigger than my own at home. Devon, who must have arrived on the early side of check-in, has already taken possession of her half. She’s hung framed posters on the yellow-rose wallpaper: a Vogue cover from the sixties, an ad for a German production of the opera Aida, and photos of Billie Holiday and Amy Winehouse. Her desk is cluttered with makeup, tampons, an iPod, a white laptop, and what look like birth control pills. There is a purple silk quilt on her bed that looks impossibly glamorous. Devon plops down on the quilt and kicks off her ballerina flats. She grabs a bottle of nail polish from her nightstand and starts painting her toenails. The way she is sitting, I can just make out a tattoo on her left thigh—a flower?—and a sliver of her black lace panties. I look away. “Soooo. What is that, Greek?” she asks me. “What?” “Your name. Sounds Greek.” “Actually, it’s Hungarian. My family’s a mix of Hungarian, Swedish, Chinese, Dutch, and a few other things.” “Wow. Mine are, like, straight Irish American. My dad’s ancestors were potato farmers from Galway. My nana on my mom’s side was an opera singer from Dublin. I’m boring, compared to you.” “I don’t think so.” I can’t imagine Devon ever being boring. “Where did you transfer from?” “You mean, what school? Avery Park.” “Never heard of it. Oh my God, is that one of those hippie prep sc