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First published March 11, 2014
"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.”In YA literature, I often find myself wishing I could kill the main character.


“I appreciate the effort, man, but let it go,” Gabe said, sincerely. “You know what’s most important right now: to learn the truth and bring justice. For her.”No classes. No female friends. Stupid female rivals. Hot guys who adore her AND befriend her. This book is truly the epitome of idiotic, simpering wishfulness.
My grades certainly didn’t get me into Wickham Hall. I assumed it was my portfolio.The school is beautiful. Stunning. The students are dull. Every single girl is a clone, except for Liv.
They dressed the same. Their hair was almost identical. Their skin was milky with the occasional bout of freckles. Their noses even turned up in the same way. But mostly, they all talked the same.Liv, who stands out. Liv, who is the object of ostracization because every single girl hates her.
That’s when I noticed him. He was standing next to the headmaster, still looking at me even though the others had turned away. Our eyes met, and I quickly looked away. But I could feel his gaze linger. I desperately willed my face not to flush, my lips not to purse. Suddenly I was aware of every single muscle in my face.Malcolm Astor, who immediately singles Liv out for his specialized attention, the most prestigious First Dance at the school ball.
I looked up, mouth full of bread, to see what had happened and...he was there.Not only is there Golden Boy Malcolm, but there is brooding, dark Gabe.
He stood in front of me and asked, “May I have this dance?”
He was skittish and intense, but his brown eyes were gentle. Still, I wanted to keep at least three feet away. He was almost exactly how I’d always pictured Vincent Van Gogh—in other words, pretty crazy.Two boys, ever so different. *rolls eyes*
Malcolm let go of my hand and took out his iPod. He clicked it on and then handed it to me. A playlist called Liv, Forever was cued up.Malcolm then takes her on a romantic sun-dappled tour of the school based on that playlist.
“I made it for you. Obviously.”
And we walked along a sun-dappled path, comfortable like two people who’d known each other forever.*gag*
I looked out over the terrain. Lush and seemingly endless. And we walked right into it, serenaded by the Beatles’s “I’m Looking Through You.”
He turned to me. “Draw on me.”Of course it is.
“What?”
“Draw on me.""
After he said that, he took his shirt off. His body was perfect.
My head whipped back from its force. And that’s when everything went black.Part II: I'm pretty when I'm dead; And the wish-fulfillment continues. You see, Liv is pretty, even when she's dead.
My body was cold and dull. Plump with death. I looked almost serene. My dark hair spread around my head, kind of like that famous painting of Ophelia floating in the river. Funny, I’d made so many self-portraits and yet I’d never really looked at myself and realized I was actually kind of pretty.Her so-perfect lover weeps over her, ever so dramatically. She is loved when she is lost.
He kneeled on the ground next to my body and kissed my cheek.Crime-scene contamination, be damned.
I was separate from the world. I had become the star, hadn’t I? That tragic, lonely thing.Like a fallen angel, beautiful in her fragility!
I imagined myself an angel. I kind of was, wasn’t I?For someone dead, she sure is full of herself.
I waited and waited until there was enough condensation for me to write a single sentence. It took every ounce of willpower to ignore the pain in my fingertip. But I did it.Or she could just use it to write a note to her lover. Same thing, really.
I will hold u again, I wrote on the glass.
It was mid-afternoon so there were no stars, of course, but the leaves were every possible orange and the clouds were perfect puffs.It's not so much a school campus, as it is vacation resort.
A self-portrait. Almost all my drawings are self-portraits. They don’t necessarily look like me—in fact, they rarely do—but they represent me.Yet somehow, everyone thinks she is fucking perfection. Her new art teacher raves over her talents. Talents of which we are never convinced.
“You are so talented. Do you understand? Your skill is exceptional. If you unleash and add true emotion to your work, it will sing, Olivia! It will fly!”Her new boy toy knows that she is the one approximately 15 minutes after meeting her, after knowing nothing about her.
“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”The Artistic References: Listen, I like art as much as the next person. I studied it for years when I was younger, but there is a way to appreciate art, and shoving it down the readers' throat isn't it. There is an incredible amount of artistic name-dropping in this book. Klimt. Pollock. Modigliani. Yue. Van Gogh. Rothko.
“It must’ve been a pretty boring life.”
“It was. Then I met you.”
But then images started to emerge from the darkness around us. At first they were pleasant: a Titian cherub, a Chagall angel. But then one of Bosch’s devils appeared. And Munch’s screaming terror. Francis Bacon’s agonizing Pope. And one of Basquiat’s jagged skulls.It feels forced. It feels false. It feels like the book is trying too hard.
There was an opening in the canopy of trees where we could see the brilliant moon. And stars. Hundreds of them. He took my hand. He held it strongly—with commitment. We lay there silently for a long while until he spoke.Fuck curfew. What curfew. Is this even a school?
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
I was dying inside. Brain exploding like a Pollock. Heart melting like one of Dalí’s clocks.Malcolm is completely unrealistic. he is too perfect to be true. He cries.
And he cried. He didn’t have that embarrassed look guys usually have when they cry, like the way my dad had struggled against his tears. Malcolm let go, without shame.Repeatedly. Unashamedly. I'm not saying that men can't cry, I'm saying that Malcolm's image in this book is too romanticized, too idealistic to be realistic.
“You know what I wish?” he asked.The romance is completely, utterly ludicrous. As is the entirety of this book.
What?
“That I could just see you one last time—hear your voice. Hold you.”
Malcolm: “I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
Liv: “It must’ve been a pretty boring life.”
Malcolm: “It was. Then I met you.”