My Review Of Four Rubbings

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Virtual Book Tour Dates: 1/30/14 – 2/13/14Genres:Mystery/Thriller/SuspenseHorror/OccultTeen/Young Adult




Blurb:
Halloween.The night the barrier between the dead and the living is as thin as muslin. Fourteen-year old Josie, haunted by the death of her mother, leads her best friends to an ancient cemetery to rub graves. Convinced she will come away with proof of her mother’s spirit at last, the evening takes an unexpected turn as the teens gravitate four ways into the haunted grounds. Set against the backdrop of the rainy Pacific Northwest, four graves will be rubbed, touching off a series of events that will rattle their once mundane lives. From the lonely World War II hero to an accused witch, the people buried beneath the stones have stories that need an ending. The journey to unravel the mysteries leaves the friends wondering if the graves would’ve been better off left alone.
Excerpt:
WHY DO PEOPLE have to mess with the dead on Halloweenanyway? They’re dead. Respect the dead. Didn’t their folks teachthem any better? I squint into the distance at a cluster of folksstanding inside the cemetery gates.“I’ll scare them good and give them a piece of my mind alongthe way,” I mumble as I stomp the three hundred or so yards it takesto reach the cemetery entrance from my caretaker’s cottage. Can’thelp but think if I had just done my job in the first place, I wouldn’tbe standing knee-deep in a pile of trouble right now.Not five minutes ago I’d stood staring out the kitchen windowwatching a dull, dreary day change into something better. Leaflessgray trees framed an orange and white fireball sky, framed it likeiron gates, and that is when I’d remembered. Damn, Grace.Ten years of watching over Lakefront Cemetery and tonight ofall nights I’d forgotten to lock the gates. My forty-year-old bones feltsoggy from a day of rain-chilled grave tending. Clearly, I wasthinking more about a hot bath and a cup of warm cider than doingmy job. Ah, well. With an hour before sunset, I’d figured I hadplenty of time to put things right.I’d found my mud-caked work boots and damp flannel coatpiled on the back porch where I’d shed them an hour ago. As Ishoehorned my boots onto bare feet, I’d spotted a group gathering atthe cemetery entrance. I checked my watch. Five o’clock seemedawful early to start Halloween trouble, but there they were. I madeout four bodies, four or five. Couldn’t tell for certain without myglasses, and I wasn’t willing to trudge back through the cottage withmuddy boots to collect them up. I’d know soon enough.As I stomp across the grounds, I rehearse what I will say. I’llgive them a lecture about respecting the dead, then shoo them offspeedy quick. All worked up, I don’t pay no mind to the noise myboots make as I dodge headstones and thunder through wet leavesand mud. I want them to hear me coming and be afraid. Too bad Idon’t have time to go back for my hefty flashlight, or better yet, arusty shovel, to shake at them. Boy, the stories they could tell theirfriends tomorrow about the crazy cemetery lady and her wickedshovel.“You’ll all think twice about coming around here again after Iget through with you,” I spit into the wind.As I near, I see they’re decked out in costumes. I count four ofthem, teenagers, of course. It’s mostly the teens that make troublearound here. I duck behind the Yessir’s family tomb to get a betterlook. “Sorry if I’m blocking your view, folks,” I whisper.I steal quick peeks around the white marble structure and makeout an oversized superhero, a football player, Pocahontas and somekind of dapper fella.Pocahontas, a tiny copper-headed girl, is giving theminstructions. I can’t hear everything she says, but catch phrases like,“Let a stone call you…. open your heart…. connect with the personburied underneath…”She doesn’t sound like my typical vandal rat; I give her thatmuch credit. I rub my chest where a knot has formed and lean incloser to catch the gist of her words.The girl reaches into a tan leather pouch and hands aroundoversized pieces of paper and chunks of black chalk, not the toiletpaper and spray paint I expect to see. Art supplies. My knees giveout as the truth dawns on me. They’ve come to rub the stones.They’ve come to remember the dead, not hurt ‘em.The breath I didn’t know I’d been holding bursts from mymouth. My eyes cloud over. My calloused hands ball into sweatyfists and shake. My cheeks burn with shame. I’ve been wrong aboutthese kids, pegged them as vandals when they are bent on doingsomething good. I fall apart, but gather it all up again quick. I amwrong and have to atone. Good thing I’m already down on myknees.It’s been so long since I‘ve said any kind of prayer. Too long. I’mclumsy about how best to place my hands, how far to bow my head,and how to muster the words. But I close my eyes, and feel warmtears roll down my cheeks. I send a prayer up to the God I’ve beencursing for the past decade.“Let them have a journey, Lord, a journey that begins withremembering the dead and rubbing a stone. Amen.”
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My review: I loved this book. Four teenagers go to a graveyard on Halloween. Each is drawn to a tombstone to do a rubbing of. As they learn about the dead person buried under the tombstones, they each solve their own mystery. I love that this story is written in first person and each character has a chance to show their POV. Thank you, Jennifer, for a good read. About Jennifer Hotes:

Raised across the river from the Hanford Nuclear Reactor, Jennifer grew up looking at the world a little differently. Now she uses her unique perspective and glow-in-the-dark countenance to write YA novels and illustrate for talented authors, preferably with a cat on her lap or dog at her feet.She blogs to teens because she feels the world-at-large gives them a bad shake. Her latest blog is all about finals week and how best to cope/endure.Mrs. Hotes loves living in rainy Seattle, volunteering in her children's schools and raising funds for Providence Hospice of Seattle. Her first novel, Four Rubbings is out now.She is a member of SCBWI, society of children's book writers & illustrators and is currently painting a group of aging men posed in an old red truck for a book cover.




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