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Read Online Books/Novels:

The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Rebekah Crane

1503939820 (ISBN13: 9781503939820)
Book Information:

According to sixteen-year-old Zander Osborne, nowhere is an actual place—and she’s just fine there. But her parents insist that she get out of her head—and her home state—and attend Camp Padua, a summer camp for at-risk teens.

Zander does not fit in—or so she thinks. She has only one word for her fellow campers: crazy. In fact, the whole camp population exists somewhere between disaster and diagnosis. There’s her cabinmate Cassie, a self-described manic-depressive-bipolar-anorexic. Grover Cleveland (yes, like the president), a cute but confrontational boy who expects to be schizophrenic someday, odds being what they are. And Bek, a charmingly confounding pathological liar.

But amid group “share-apy” sessions and forbidden late-night outings, unlikely friendships form, and as the Michigan summer heats up, the four teens begin to reveal their tragic secrets. Zander finds herself inextricably drawn to Grover’s earnest charms, and she begins to wonder if she could be happy. But first she must come completely unraveled to have any hope of putting herself back together again.

Books by Author:

Rebekah Crane Books


Mom and Dad,

They told me I had to write this. Camp is fine. I’ll see you soon.


PS—I’m fine, too . . . no matter what you think.

The doorknob locks with a single key from the inside of the cabin. My bag hangs over my shoulder as I stare at the silver knob like it might start talking. This can’t be legal.

“We only lock the doors at night for precautionary reasons. And I sleep in the cabin with you,” Madison says, tugging on the key dangling from her neck. She touches my arm. I glance down at her finely painted fingernails pressing into my skin. The magenta polish has a glossy layer of perfection.

“What is there to be cautious about?” I ask.

Madison doesn’t answer me right away. She gives me one of those half smiles and cocks her head to the side, like she’s thinking about what to say next. She picks up her long brown braided hair and inspects the end of it.

“It keeps the bears out.” She pulls a split end free.

“I didn’t think there were bears here.”

“The woods around here are filled with a lot of things people don’t want to admit exist. But don’t worry. That’s what I’m here for.” She touches my arm again.

Madison is dressed in a hunter-green T-shirt with the camp’s logo across the front and black cargo shorts. Her bright nail polish contrasts with her outdoorsy outfit. It doesn’t match.

“I remember my first time at camp. I was so nervous,” Madison says.

“Did you go here?”

“No . . .” Madison trails off. She fiddles with her shirt, smoothing down the front of it. “It was a horse camp in California.”

Madison looks like a girl who grew up wealthy enough to ride horses and wear pink polo shirts and white shorts with whales on them. It would match her nail polish perfectly.

“I’m not nervous,” I say.

“That’s good.” Madison smiles. “Well, get yourself situated and we’ll meet in the Circle of Hope in a half hour.”

“The Circle of Hope. Why there?” I ask.

“If we don’t have hope, Zander, we don’t have anything. It’s the best place to start.” She touches my arm and smiles one more time before walking away, her braid swishing across her back.

“That’s not an answer,” I mumble as a mosquito buzzes in my face. I swat it away, but it’s back within seconds. A door that locks and unlocks from the inside by a single key has to be a fire hazard. I’m right. This is totally illegal. Maybe I could report this place and get it shut down, but then I’d have to go home.

I drop my bag on the ground. It makes a dull thud on the cement floor. Other than the cold concrete beneath my feet, everything in the room is wood—the beds, the walls, the dressers. I sit down on the bare mattress of one of the beds and run my hands through my hair, pulling a little too hard. A few black strands pop loose. I can’t seem to break the habit though it makes my thin hair even thinner and more lightweight.

“Crap,” I murmur to myself.

The door flies open, smacking against the wood wall with a bang.

A girl dressed in the smallest white tank top and shortest red shorts I’ve ever seen stands in the doorway.

“Talking to yourself isn’t a good sign,” she says, circling her index finger next to her temple.

She flings her bag onto the bed. I stare at her. I can’t help it. She’s not wearing a bra. What girl doesn’t wear a bra under a thin white tank top? Her dark brown skin shows through the shirt. All her skin. Even her nipples.

“What?” she barks at me.

She’s skinny, too, like the kind of skinny that gets you hospitalized. Gaunt might be a better term. She is practically hollow.

She plops down on the bed, crossing her long legs.

“I’m Cassie,” she states but doesn’t hold out her hand. “I know. It’s a fat girl’s name.” Before I can get my name out, Cassie proceeds to dump the contents of her duffel bag out on the bed. I scan the pile of clothes looking for a bra of any kind, but all I see is a hot-pink bikini, short shorts, and tank tops in multiple colors. Cassie takes an armful of clothes and says, “I take it you met Madison.” She stuffs them into a drawer without folding or separating the items. She just shoves all the chaos into one space. “She’s a fucking moron.”

As she talks, Cassie grabs her empty bag and turns it upside down. A waterfall of pill containers splatters onto the bed.

“Like I said, these counselors are idiots. They don’t even check the pockets.” She pops the top on a bottle. “Don’t stare. It’s rude,” she says.

“Sorry.” I look down at my hands.

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