i read most of wasted tucked up in my bed, blankets wrapped around me, but that wasn't enough to keep the chill of this novel out. midnight bled into the small hours, and emma's words were sharp-edged and dark, where in midnight sherbet they were sickly sweet and relatable. i thought i knew where it was going-- three girls, secrets like bruises under the skin, the slow, honey-thick unraveling of a mystery.
oh, boy, i was wrong.
the pacing was agonisingly deliberate, like standing at the edge of the cliff, knowing the fall is coming but not when. but boy when that fall came, when the cilmax unraveled like thread, it was visceral. gory in a way that made me flinch, the image of blue eyes through wooden slats made me flinch and prickle.
there's something intoxicating about emma's writing, the way it seeps under your skin. i've been working through her books like sweets, unwrapping them slowly and letting the taste of each: first guided, then midnight sherbet, and now this one, linger on my tongue. each one is so different, but always defined as emma's by that same aching coming of age-- girls growing up too fast, growing sharp and lost.
wasted is no exception to emma's mastery. it hums with pretty little liars-esque secrets, friendship twisted and rotten, but it's something much rawer, closer to home.
i couldn't sleep after i finished it, shocked at emma's unapologetic dive into the deep and dark and scary.
wasted doesn't just end, it stays with you, and that is why emma smith is my favourite author.