Brigid Kemmerer was born in Omaha, Nebraska, though her parents quickly moved her all over the United States, from the desert in Albuquerque, New Mexico, to the lakeside in Cleveland, Ohio, and several stops in between, eventually settling near Annapolis, Maryland. Brigid started writing in high school, and her first real “novel” was about four vampire brothers causing a ruckus in the suburbs. Those four brothers are the same boys living in the pages of The Elemental Series, so Brigid likes to say she’s had four teenage boys taking up space in her head for the last seventeen years. (Though sometimes that just makes her sound nuts.)
Brigid writes anywhere she can find a place to sit down (and she’s embarrassed to say a great many pages of The Elemental Series were written while sitting on the floor in the basement of a hotel while she was attending a writers’ conference). Most writers enjoy peace and quiet while writing, but Brigid prefers pandemonium. A good thing, considering she has three boys in the house, ranging in age from an infant to a teenager.
While writing STORM, it’s ironic to note that Brigid’s personal life was plagued by water problems: her basement flooded three times, her roof leaked, her kitchen faucet broke, causing the cabinet underneath to be destroyed by water, the wall in her son’s room had to be torn down because water had crept into the wall, and her bedroom wall recently developed a minor leak. Considering SPARK, book 2 in the series, is about the brother who controls fire, Brigid is currently making sure all the smoke detectors in her house have batteries.
Brigid loves hearing from people, and she probably won’t refer to herself in the third person like this if you actually correspond with her. She has a smartphone surgically attached to her person nearby at all times, and email is the best way to reach her. Her email address is firstname.lastname@example.org.
Book Tour Organized by: YA Bound Book Tours
2 – copies of Thicker Than Water (US/CAN)
I hate this suit.
Mom bought it two weeks ago, and I hated it then. But she started with the whole please and for me and just this once and I gave in. Because she knows my buttons.
Knew. She knew my buttons.
I hate the past tense.
I’m definitely not a suit guy. She knows that.
She knew that, like she knew how I liked my oatmeal and the reason my hair got too long and how I still don’t like to sleep with my door closed even though eighteen is way too old to be afraid of the dark. If she’d walked into a store to buy me clothes on a random day, she’d walk out with the right things: T-shirts and hoodies and jeans and dark socks. She knew the right kind of charcoal pencils and the right brand of sketchpad and the right time to leave me alone.
The last time she bought me a suit was for Homecoming sophomore year. I wasn’t a suit guy then either, but I’d worked up the nerve to ask Anne Marie Lassiter and she’d said yes, so a suit it was.
I outgrew the girl before I outgrew the suit.
Just this once.
Of all the things Mom said to me, that’s the one that keeps echoing. Because it wasn’t once.
I’m on my third try with this stupid tie, and I’m getting to the point where I just want to hang myself with it. It’s yellow and navy, the colors of the ribbons on her wedding bouquet. The colors of the bars on Stan’s police uniform.
Ironically, they’re the colors of the bruises on your neck when you die of strangulation.
Trust me. I got a firsthand view.
Just this once.
My hands are shaking now, and I yank the tie free and fling it on my dresser.
Stan knocks on the door and sticks his head in without waiting.
He does that. I hate that.
I don’t hate him, though. Not yet, anyway. I barely know the guy.
Stan probably figured he was hitting the jackpot, marrying a single mom with an eighteen-year-old kid. Get the stepdad brownie points without the work. At first I was worried that he’d be a pain in the ass, being a cop and all. That whole gotta-be-the-bigger-man crap. But I stayed out of his way, he stayed out of mine. He treated her well and made her happy. Good enough for me.
He’s still standing there, looking at me in the mirror.
“What?” I say.
“You about ready?”
I think about telling him I can’t get the tie knotted, but then he’d offer to help me and this would be all kinds of awkward.
This is already all kinds of awkward.
“Yeah,” I say.
He disappears from the doorway.
I ball up the tie and put it in my pocket.
Stan doesn’t say anything during the drive to the church. I don’t either. When he makes a turn, the click of the signal makes my head pound.
It’s weird sitting in the front seat with him. I should be in the back. Mom should be up front, providing a buffer of conversation, asking me about school and graduation while simultaneously asking Stan about cases he’s working on. Stan is a detective.
I wonder if it’s a blow to his ego, a cop’s wife murdered in his own bed ten days after their wedding. Poor ol’ Stan, the subject of police gossip.
God, I’m such a dick sometimes. Maybe I do hate him. Words are trapped in my mouth, and I’m afraid to say any of them, because they’ll explode out of me with enough force to wreck the car.
Why haven’t you done something?
Why couldn’t you protect her?
HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?!
Stan was at work when she died. I was in my own bed.
I don’t know which is worse.
I didn’t hear anything. I found her when I woke to use the bathroom.
Maybe I hate myself. Maybe I hate everyone.