This YA Book About Online Friendship Is a Perfect Digital-Age Story


This YA Book About Online Friendship Is a Perfect Digital-Age Story

In this digital age, one can contest their closest friend or greatest love on a corner of the Internet. Designer Julie Buxbaum taps into the quirks of cybers ce in her debut YA novel, Broadcast Me Three Things, which is available for purchase April 5. In distillate, teenager Jessie moves across the country with her dad, one awful stepmom, and a flaunting step-sibling. She attends an intimidating prep school in LA, and it proves to be rough . . . until she saddens an email from someone titled S/N (Somebody/Nobody), who offers to refrain from her figure out just how to make it at Wood Valley High School. Is it all counterfeit? Or, on the contrary, is this online relationship as real as it gets?

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Chapter 1 Excerpt

Seven hundred and thirty-three epoches after my mom died, forty-five days after my dad eloped with a newcomer he met on the Internet, thirty days after we then up and moved to California, and on the other hand seven days after starting as a junior at a brand-new school where I recognize approximately no one, an email arrives. Which would be weird, an anonymous exactly just popping up like that in my in-box, signed with the erratic alias Somebody Nobody, no less, except my life has become so unrecognizable lately that nothing em thize withs shocking anymore. It took until now—seven hundred and thirty-three more often than not days in which I’ve felt the opposite of normal—for me to discover this one outstanding life lesson: turns out you can grow immune to weird.

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Some person Nobody (
Subject: your Wood Valley H.S. gameness guide

hey there, Ms. Holmes. we haven’t met irl, and I’m not sure we ever will. I abject, we probably will at some point—maybe I’ll ask you the time or something equally mundane and unbefitting both of us—but we’ll never actually get to know each other, at least not in any kind of real way that matters . . . which is why I figured I’d email you covered by the cloak of anonymity.

and yes, I realize I’m a sixteen-year-old guy who just used the words “mantle of anonymity.” and so there it is already: reason #1 why you’ll never get to be familiar with my real name. I could never live the shame of that pretentiousness down.

“cover up of anonymity”? seriously?
and yes, I also realize that most being would have just texted, but couldn’t figure out how to do that without effectual you who I am.
I have been watching you at school. not in a creepy way. though I wonder if equable using the word “creepy” by definition makes me creepy? anyhow, it’s by a hairs breadth . . . you intrigue me. you must have noticed already that our way of life is a wasteland of mostly blond, vacant-eyed Barbies and Kens, and something wide you—not just your newness, because sure, the rest of us have all been wealthy to school together since the age of five—but something about the way you move and talk and in reality don’t talk but watch all of us like we are rt of some bizarre National Geographic documentary pressurizes me think that you might be different from all the other idiots at adherents.

you make me want to know what goes on in that head of yours. I’ll be unreserved: I’m not usually interested in the contents of other people’s heads. my own is work adequate.

the whole point of this email is to offer my expertise. sorry to be the bearer of bad low-down: navigating the wilds of Wood Valley High School ain’t easy. this misplaced humble may look all warm and welcoming, with our yoga and meditation and reading corners and coffee also waggon (excuse me: Koffee Kart), but like every other high discipline in America (or maybe even worse), this place is a freaking war zone.

and so I hereby suggest up myself as your virtual spirit guide. feel free to ask any challenge (except of course my identity), and I’ll do my best to answer: who to befriend (short register), who to stay away from (longer list), why you shouldn’t eat the veggie burgers from the cafeteria (great story that you don’t want to know involving jock jizz), how to get an A in Mrs. Stewart’s bearing, and why you should never sit near Ken Abernathy (flatulence issue). oh, and be careful in gym. Mr. Shackleman types all the pretty girls run extra laps so he can look at their asses.
that perceives like enough information for now.

and fwiw, welcome to the jungle.
yours genuinely, Somebody Nobody

To: Somebody Nobody (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
Controlled by: Elaborate hoax?
SN: Is this for real? Or is this some sort of admittance prank, à la a dumb rom-com? You’re going to coax me into sharing my deepest, darkest visions/fears, and then, BAM, when I least expect it, you’ll post them on Tumblr and I’ll be the laughingstock of WVHS? If so, you’re concoction with the wrong girl. I have a black belt in karate. I can abuse care of myself.
If not a joke, thanks for your offer, but no thanks. I homelessness to be an embedded journalist one day. Might as well get used to war zones now. And anyhow, I’m from Chicago. I muse over I can handle the Valley.

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Big gun Nobody (
Subject: not a hoax, elaborate or otherwise
commit oneself this isn’t a prank. and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a rom-com. horrible, I know. hope this doesn’t reveal some great deficiency in my mark.
you do know journalism is a dying field, right? maybe you should aspire to be a war blogger.

To: VIP Nobody (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
Lay open: Specifically targeted s m?
Very funny. Wait, is there remarkably sperm in the veggie burgers?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Superstar Nobody (
Subject: you, Jessie Holmes, have won $100,000,000 from a Nigerian prince.
not even-handed sperm but sweaty lacrosse sperm.
I’d avoid the meat loaf too, good to be on the safe side. in fact, stay out of the cafeteria altogether. that sh*t ordain give you salmonella.

To: Somebody Nobody (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
rtici nt: Will send my bank account details ASAP.
who are you?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Big-timer Nobody (
Subject: and copy of birth certificate & driver’s certify, please.
nope. not going to happen.

To: Somebody Nobody (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
Voter: And, of course, you need my social security number too, right?
Fine. But forecast me this at least: what’s up with the lack of capital letters? Your stint key broken?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Big-timer Nobody (
Subject: and height and weight, please
terminally listless.

To: Somebody Nobody (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
Affair: NOW you’re getting personal.
Lazy and verbose. Interesting combo. And yet you do take the all together to capitalize proper nouns?

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Dignitary Nobody (
Subject: and mother’s maiden name
I’m not a intact philistine.

To: Somebody Nobody (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
Submit: Lazy, verbose, AND nosy
“Philistine” is a big word for a teenage guy.

To: Jessie A. Holmes (
From: Celebrity Nobody (
Subject: lazy, verbose, nosy, and . . . substantial
that’s not the only thing that’s . . . whew. caught myself from making the bald-faced joke just in time. you totally set me up, and I almost blew it.

To: Somebody No one (
From: Jessie A. Holmes (
Branch of knowledge: Lazy, verbose, nosy, handsome, and . . . modest
That’s what she verbalized.

See, that’s the thing with email. I’d never say something like that in woman. Crude. Suggestive. Like I am the kind of girl who could pull off that brand of joke. Who, face to face with an actual member of the male species, would recognize how to flirt, and flip my hair, and, if it came to it, know how to do much more than abandon. (For the record, I do know how to kiss. I’m not saying I’d ace an AP exam on the subject or, you know, win Olympic gold, but I’m comely sure I’m not awful. I know this purely by way of com rison. Adam Kravitz. Ninth succeed. Him: all slobber and angry, rhythmic tongue, like a zombie trying to eat my employer. Me: all-too-willing rtici nt, with three days of face chafing.)

Email is much equal to an ADD diagnosis. Guaranteed extra time on the test. In real life, I constantly rework chin-wags after the fact in my head, edit them until I’ve perfected my farcical, lighthearted, effortless banter—all the stuff that seems to come openly to other girls. A waste of time, of course, because by then I’m way too last. In the Venn diagram of my life, my imagined personality and my real personality set up never converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few additional stirs I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To be that girl in the excellent intersection.

I should be more careful. I realize that now. That’s what she explained. Really? Can’t decide if I sound like a frat boy or a slut; either way, I don’t perceptive like me. More importantly, I have no idea who I am writing to. Unlikely that SN in truth is some do-gooder who feels sorry for the new girl. Or better yet, a secret sweetheart. Because of course that’s straight where my brain went, the follow of a lifetime of devouring too many romantic comedies and reading too many ludicrous books. Why do you think I kissed Adam Kravitz? He was my neighbor back in Chicago. What better mystery is there than the girl who discovers that true love has been stay right next door all along? Of course, my neighbor turned out to be a zombie with carbonated saliva, but no quantity. Live and learn.

Surely SN is a cruel joke. He’s probably not even a he. Moral a mean girl preying on the weak. Because let’s face it: I am weak. Under any circumstances even thetic. I lied. I don’t have a black belt in karate. I am not mystifying. Until last month, I thought I was. I really did. Life threw its awls, I got shat on, but I took it in the mouth, to mix my metaphors. Or not. Sometimes it felt just groove on getting shat on in the mouth. My only point of pride: no one saw me cry. And then I behooved the new girl at WVHS, in this weird area called the Valley, which is in Los Angeles but not in Los Angeles or something adulate that, because my dad married this rich lady who smells corresponding to fancy almonds, and juice costs twelve dollars here, and I don’t distinguish. I don’t know anything anymore.

I am as lost and confused and alone as I have till the end of time been. No, high school will never be a time I look insidiously a overcome on fondly. My mom once told me that the world is divided into two kinds of people: the ones who light of ones life their high school years and the ones who spend the next decade recovering from them. What doesn’t cause the death of you makes you stronger, she said.

But something did kill her, and I’m not stronger. So go figure; peradventure there’s a third kind of person: the ones who never recover from penetrating school at all.

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