Thank you for joining us on the Virtual Book Tour for The Dream Diaries, a Young Adult Contemporary Paranormal Romantic Suspense by Philip Hoy (19 May 2016, Evernight Teen, 163 pages). This is the second book in the Evelyn Hernandez series.
PREVIEW: Check out the book's synopsis and excerpt below. Read the first three chapters with Amazon Look Inside.
Author Philip Hoy will be awarding a $10 Evernight Teen card to a randomly drawn winner via Rafflecopter during the tour. Please do take part: comment on our post and follow the tour where you will be able to read other excerpts (☀), interviews (ℚ), reviews (✍) and guest blog posts (✉).
Synopsis | Teaser | The Series | About the Author | Giveaway & Tour Stops
Synopsis
The rumor at school is that after the varsity quarterback broke her heart, Evelyn Hernandez broke his hand. Then she demolished his car, beat up his girlfriend, and smashed all the windows in his house—or so the story goes. Some say that under the long hair and blunt cut bangs, beneath the cute dresses and colorful tights, and behind the pretty face and big brown eyes … hides a black-hearted, spell-casting, evil witch.Only Evelyn doesn’t care what people at school say, or think. She couldn’t be happier. Her bullies have been brought to justice, her parents trust her, and she has a boyfriend who adores her. She’s even returned to drawing in her journal … but that’s when the nightmares begin.
Evelyn believes her violent dreams are messages from the future. Something terrible is going to happen at her school and only she can stop it—but how, and at what price?
16+ due to sexuality, language, and adult situations.
Teaser: Excerpt
Evelyn woke gasping for air.
The horrifying clarity of her dream, the cold night air, the dumpster stench, the clammy, calloused hands on her face and body continued to vibrate terror in the surrounding darkness, until finally, she summoned the courage to reach up and turn on the small reading lamp next to her bed. For a while, all she did was lie there, eyes wide open and heart pounding, reassuring herself that she was home, safe, and only having a nightmare. Still, when she turned toward the mirrored doors of her closet, she half expected to see Karen looking back at her.
Oh my God, she thought, Karen!
She grabbed her phone and dialed. It rang several times, and just when she was about to end the call and dial again, someone answered.
“Karen, it’s Evelyn,” she almost shouted.
Her friend was slow to respond. “Ev … lyn?”
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“I’m … sleeping.”
“Is everything all right?”
“It was. What time is it?”
“Okay, sorry.” Evelyn thought to lower her voice. “Go back to sleep.”
“What? Why are you calling me? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry, it’s just that I … I had a bad dream.”
“A bad dream? What the hell, Evelyn? Why didn’t you call Sammy or something? Guys love that shit.”
Evelyn was somewhat reassured by her friend’s temper. “Yeah, okay, sorry.”
“Hey,” Karen took a deep breath and exhaled. “Do you need to talk about it, or whatever?”
“No.”
“Okay, good. Go back to sleep. It was just a dream.”
Evelyn put the phone down and climbed out of bed. That was one thing she wouldn’t be doing, she thought, going back to sleep anytime soon.
On the floor nearby, she found her backpack and withdrew from it the two sketchbooks she kept there, one black and one white, and set both on the desk before her. Neither had left her bag in weeks.
She bent back the worn cover of the first— the black one— and began slowly turning the pages. Each captured a specific moment of her life over the last few months of the school year.
Whether the image was of a person, an object, a place, or a patchwork of details, she could remember where and when it happened and what she was feeling as she made each sketch. There was a drawing of the pleated edge of a skirt over knee-knocked legs that ended in a pair of round-toed leather shoes. Evelyn had sat on the edge of her bed and sketched her reflection in the closet mirror on the morning of the day she first wore a dress she’d sewn herself to school. She was so proud of her creation, and so terrified someone would know it was homemade.
There was a drawing of the empty lunch tables along the backside of the art rooms where Theo had said he would meet her afterschool that day, but never showed. And then, three pages later, there was Theo sitting awkwardly on the bench across from her the afternoon he finally did. There were several sketches of Denise and Karen, including a two-page study of Denise’s ears and another very detailed rendering of the bottom of Karen’s left foot.
“If you’re serious about your art, get yourself a journal and draw in it every day,” Ms. Shipley had recommended, and Evelyn had.
Only Garvey Valenzuela had changed all that.
When she turned to Garvey’s portrait, with his mischievous half-smile and its single dimple, she knew she was getting close.
“You’re drawing me, aren’t you?” he had asked.
“No,” she had lied.
On the next page was the drawing that started everything, that had turned this sketchbook from a record … to a weapon. There was the picture of Garvey's hand, palm up and fingers slightly curled. She clearly remembered the intimacy of the moment she had sketched it that day in English, and how content and carefree she had felt all that afternoon. And just as clearly, she remembered the hurt and anger that had later caused her to draw a number-two pencil pierced completely through its center. She remembered how Garvey had held out his hand and how the blood— not black, like in the drawing, but red and real— had begun to roll down the bottom half of the pencil, gather at the pointy end, and drip messily onto the floor.
She hesitated before turning the next page. Did she really need to see the rest: Vanessa’s battered face, Kevin’s mangled tire, Brianna’s phantom house, and Sammy— Sammy without her? She carefully closed the journal instead. That was all behind her now. "You're supposed to keep your diary under your bed, stupid," Kevin had said, "not run around school with it." Maybe he was right. From the top of her sewing table she found a piece of red ribbon. Wrapping it around the journal twice, she tied it firmly with a knot and then slid the book between the mattress and box spring of her bed.
Returning to her desk, she opened the white journal for the very first time. The cover unfolded with an enticing crackle of the binding and the faint bleach-smell of new paper and glue. Inside, she discovered a hand-written quote: “Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.” It was credited to Ralph Waldo Emerson and written in Mr. Schwartz’s careful hand.
Evelyn turned to the first blank page. The problem was, she didn’t trust herself, not as far as her drawings were concerned. Not at the risk of manipulating or hurting others, intentionally or not. But what if she didn’t try to draw her daily reality? What if she documented her dreams instead? This one had left her too anxious to sleep anyway. Maybe by drawing it, by capturing the terrible details of the nightmare on paper, she could exorcise them from her mind.
Evelyn selected a pencil from the mug on her desk, touched the paper with the point, and began to draw.
The horrifying clarity of her dream, the cold night air, the dumpster stench, the clammy, calloused hands on her face and body continued to vibrate terror in the surrounding darkness, until finally, she summoned the courage to reach up and turn on the small reading lamp next to her bed. For a while, all she did was lie there, eyes wide open and heart pounding, reassuring herself that she was home, safe, and only having a nightmare. Still, when she turned toward the mirrored doors of her closet, she half expected to see Karen looking back at her.
Oh my God, she thought, Karen!
She grabbed her phone and dialed. It rang several times, and just when she was about to end the call and dial again, someone answered.
“Karen, it’s Evelyn,” she almost shouted.
Her friend was slow to respond. “Ev … lyn?”
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“I’m … sleeping.”
“Is everything all right?”
“It was. What time is it?”
“Okay, sorry.” Evelyn thought to lower her voice. “Go back to sleep.”
“What? Why are you calling me? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry, it’s just that I … I had a bad dream.”
“A bad dream? What the hell, Evelyn? Why didn’t you call Sammy or something? Guys love that shit.”
Evelyn was somewhat reassured by her friend’s temper. “Yeah, okay, sorry.”
“Hey,” Karen took a deep breath and exhaled. “Do you need to talk about it, or whatever?”
“No.”
“Okay, good. Go back to sleep. It was just a dream.”
Evelyn put the phone down and climbed out of bed. That was one thing she wouldn’t be doing, she thought, going back to sleep anytime soon.
On the floor nearby, she found her backpack and withdrew from it the two sketchbooks she kept there, one black and one white, and set both on the desk before her. Neither had left her bag in weeks.
She bent back the worn cover of the first— the black one— and began slowly turning the pages. Each captured a specific moment of her life over the last few months of the school year.
Whether the image was of a person, an object, a place, or a patchwork of details, she could remember where and when it happened and what she was feeling as she made each sketch. There was a drawing of the pleated edge of a skirt over knee-knocked legs that ended in a pair of round-toed leather shoes. Evelyn had sat on the edge of her bed and sketched her reflection in the closet mirror on the morning of the day she first wore a dress she’d sewn herself to school. She was so proud of her creation, and so terrified someone would know it was homemade.
There was a drawing of the empty lunch tables along the backside of the art rooms where Theo had said he would meet her afterschool that day, but never showed. And then, three pages later, there was Theo sitting awkwardly on the bench across from her the afternoon he finally did. There were several sketches of Denise and Karen, including a two-page study of Denise’s ears and another very detailed rendering of the bottom of Karen’s left foot.
“If you’re serious about your art, get yourself a journal and draw in it every day,” Ms. Shipley had recommended, and Evelyn had.
Only Garvey Valenzuela had changed all that.
When she turned to Garvey’s portrait, with his mischievous half-smile and its single dimple, she knew she was getting close.
“You’re drawing me, aren’t you?” he had asked.
“No,” she had lied.
On the next page was the drawing that started everything, that had turned this sketchbook from a record … to a weapon. There was the picture of Garvey's hand, palm up and fingers slightly curled. She clearly remembered the intimacy of the moment she had sketched it that day in English, and how content and carefree she had felt all that afternoon. And just as clearly, she remembered the hurt and anger that had later caused her to draw a number-two pencil pierced completely through its center. She remembered how Garvey had held out his hand and how the blood— not black, like in the drawing, but red and real— had begun to roll down the bottom half of the pencil, gather at the pointy end, and drip messily onto the floor.
She hesitated before turning the next page. Did she really need to see the rest: Vanessa’s battered face, Kevin’s mangled tire, Brianna’s phantom house, and Sammy— Sammy without her? She carefully closed the journal instead. That was all behind her now. "You're supposed to keep your diary under your bed, stupid," Kevin had said, "not run around school with it." Maybe he was right. From the top of her sewing table she found a piece of red ribbon. Wrapping it around the journal twice, she tied it firmly with a knot and then slid the book between the mattress and box spring of her bed.
Returning to her desk, she opened the white journal for the very first time. The cover unfolded with an enticing crackle of the binding and the faint bleach-smell of new paper and glue. Inside, she discovered a hand-written quote: “Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.” It was credited to Ralph Waldo Emerson and written in Mr. Schwartz’s careful hand.
Evelyn turned to the first blank page. The problem was, she didn’t trust herself, not as far as her drawings were concerned. Not at the risk of manipulating or hurting others, intentionally or not. But what if she didn’t try to draw her daily reality? What if she documented her dreams instead? This one had left her too anxious to sleep anyway. Maybe by drawing it, by capturing the terrible details of the nightmare on paper, she could exorcise them from her mind.
Evelyn selected a pencil from the mug on her desk, touched the paper with the point, and began to draw.
The Dream Diaries
Available NOW!
The Series: Evelyn Hernandez
Click on the book cover to Look Inside the book on Amazon and read an excerpt.
The Revenge Artist [1]
**Read the full feature!**Evelyn Hernandez is a high school junior who reads Shakespeare for fun, sews her own dresses, and keeps a sketch journal of her daily life. When Varsity quarterback Garvey Valenzuela breaks her heart, she sends him to the emergency room with a busted hand.
Add black magic to her resume...
Evelyn embarks on a dark journey of revenge when she discovers she has the power to make bad things happen by drawing them. Her emotional pain, isolation, and self-hatred lead her down a self-destructive path with dire consequences.
16+ due to sexuality, language, and adult situations
[Published 20 January 2016, 224 pages]
About the Author
Philip Hoy is a high school English teacher by day and a short-story author, novelist, and poet by night.
When he is not creating lesson plans or grading essays, he is writing.
He lives in Southern California with his wife Magdalena, also a teacher.
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