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Hell Week

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Overview

MAGGIE QUINN IS determined to make her mark as a journalist. The only problem? The Ranger Report does not take freshmen on staff.

Rules are rules. But when has that ever stopped Maggie?

After facing hellfire, infiltrating sorority rush should be easy. It's no Woodward and Bernstein, but going undercover as the Phantom Pledge will allow her to write her expos�. Then she can make a stealth exit before initiation. But when she finds a group of girls who are after way more than "sisterhood," all her instincts say there's something rotten on Greek Row. And when Hell Week rolls around, there may be no turning back.

If there is such a thing as a sorority from hell, you can bet that Maggie Quinn will be the one to stumble into it.

Editorial Reviews

Gr 9 Up-Reluctant psychic Maggie Quinn, introduced in Prom Dates from Hell (Delacorte, 2007), begins her first year of college at Bedivere University. She desperately wants to work on the school paper, but since freshmen aren't allowed on staff, she finds the one story that only a freshman can get. Maggie decides to rush campus sororities to expose the secrets of the Greek system. As she makes the rounds of parties and rituals, she publishes her observations each week. She's surprised, though, to find herself being drawn to Sigma Alpha Xi, one of the most exclusive sororities on campus. SAXis and their alumni are always the most accomplished and powerful women. Maggie soon learns that they all have one other thing in common-they have magical power, and being in the sorority somehow guarantees success in life. That success comes at a price, though, and some of the young women are using their power in very evil ways. A story of evil forces and succubi in a sorority could come off as ludicrous and unbelievable, but Clement-Moore makes it work by tempering the ridiculous with Maggie's dry humor and biting observations of Greek life in general. Teens who like social commentary and witty comebacks with their horror will devour Hell Week.-Stephanie L. Petruso, Anne Arundel County Public Library, Odenton, MD Copyright 2008 Reed Business Information.

Author Information

Bio of Rosemary Clement-Moore

Maggie Quinn: Thank you for letting me interview you. Rosemary Clement-Moore: I'm just glad that the character of my novels is a journalist. It means I don't have to write about myself, which can be so awkward. MQ: Right. Awkward. Like that Starfleet Academy sweatshirt you're wearing. RCM: Only inside the house, I swear. I'm a closet nerd. MQ: I guess I don't need to ask if you were popular in high school. RCM: Like you, I wasn't part of the "in crowd," but I had friends and activities. My grades weren't as good as yours, though, because I was always writing stories when I should have been doing my algebra homework. MQ: So, you've always wanted to be a writer? RCM: While other girls were having runway shows with their Barbies, mine went on fantastic adventures in space or battled evil overlords to free their kingdoms (of which they were all princesses in disguise). MQ: In other words, you were always weird. RCM: I prefer "eccentric and creative." MQ: But you have a master's degree in science-how did that happen? RCM: The usual. A pessimistic but convincing guidance counselor who said, "But what's going to be your day job?" So, I picked something that sounded interesting, then loaded up on electives. My transcript is all over the place, and I had a blast learning new things. Researching my books is like staying in school forever, but without as many final exams and keg parties. MQ: Speaking of jobs, you have a really random collection of hobbies and skills. RCM: I'm a fifth generation Texas rancher on one side, and a first generation American on the other. Being the child of a cowboy and a city girl contributes to my weirdness. I can ride, shoot, sail, tie knots, pitch a tent, and build a campfire and then cook on it. I can also serve high tea, embroider and sew, tap dance, and sing random selections from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. I love history, archeology, literature, ballet, musical theater, horses, and dogs. Plus the whole sci-fi/fantasy obsession. MQ: Did you always want to write for teens? RCM: That's just how it turned out. I enjoy stories about discovering your talents, and how you're going to use them to save the world, sometimes literally. MQ: Yeah, what's up with that? Monsters and demons? Evil cheerleaders? Do you keep yourself up at night? RCM: Well, I don't believe in literal monsters and demons, just figurative ones, which are even more frightening. It's scary to realize that horrific things like the Holocaust or 9/11 or the Virginia Tech shootings aren't caused by supernatural forces, but by human beings. Giving evil a face and defeating it in fiction is very satisfying. The good/evil line isn't as clear-cut when it doesn't involve automatic weapons. Sometimes the little decisions-kind words over hateful ones, unprompted generosity, honesty when no one is watching-are harder than the big obvious ones. But I think they're just as important, which is why my characters are often faced with the choice of doing the easy thing, or doing the right thing. MQ: Way to bring things down. Let's lighten it up a little. Why give up your glamorous job as a youth theater director for writing books? RCM: Well, you don't have to worry about a special effects budget in a book. You can do whatever you want. You can also go anywhere, be anything or anyone-the same things that appeal to me about drama, except I don't have to stay on a diet, and I get to work on the couch, wearing my Starfleet Academy sweatshirt. Though the puppy in my lap does make it hard to type sometimes. MQ: I have to say, your dog, Lizzie, is probably the cutest dog on the planet. RCM: How nice of you to agree with me!

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Additional Info

Imprint

Delacorte Books for Young Readers

Filesize

887.35 KB

Number of Pages

336

eBook ISBN

9780375891199

Excerpt from: Hell Week by Rosemary Clement-Moore

Bright teeth flashed; I fought the instinct to recoil. Perfectly white, perfectly even, possibly once human. Coral pink lips pulled back all the way to the gums, giving the smile an unfortunate equine quality. "Soooo . . . ?" The owner of the teeth and lips drew out the word and flipped it up at the end in a question. "What's your major?"

"English." An untruth. I don't tell them, as a rule, but I'd been asked this question five times in the last hour, and the lie rolled off my tongue now with ease.

"Gosh, you must have to read a lot, huh?" Another blinding smile; I hoped my squint passed for an answer. "So, Maggie. What made you decide to go through Rush?"

She pronounced it with a capital R. Five rounds of the cattle call officially known as Sorority Formal Recruitment had run together in my banality-numbed brain, and I couldn't remember where I was. I glanced around the crowded room for a clue. The noise was formidable, the chatter of a hundred or more coiffed and groomed girls like purebred dogs at a show, their yelping echoing from the walls.

Just like every other sorority house I'd been to in this first series of parties. Here, though, the dicor was Cotton Candy Pink and Tampax Box Blue. Verily, I had reached the lair of the Delta Delta Gammas.

"Well, Ashley . . ." My slightly breathless drawl mim- icked hers. "I thought Rush would be fun. Get to know people, you know."

She laughed, her eyes squinched up in two half-moons of insincerity. "Soooo? Which dorm are you in, Maggie?"

She kept checking my name tag. At every house, the girls had used my name exhaustively, making me feel as though I'd wandered onto a used car lot.

"I'm living at home." This much was certainly true. "I grew up here in Avalon."

"Oh." Her smile, and I use the word loosely, was forced. "Well, at least you know your way around. You probably have a car, too. What kind is it?"

Her segues could really use a little polish. "It's vintage."

"Oh, really?" She raised her brows with renewed interest.

"Yeah. A Ford Pinto."

"Really." Beneath her carefully applied self-tanner, the corners of her mouth were white with strain. "Your parents live here in Avalon?"

It would be hard to live at home and go to school here if they didn't. But smart-ass wasn't my persona here at the International House of Snobcakes, so I merely answered enthusiastically, "My dad works here at Bedivere University. He's an engineer."

"Is he really? Mechanical or civil?"

"Custodial."

"O-kay." She glanced at her watch, then searched the room for rescue, or maybe just an avenue of escape. "Well, it's been real nice meeting you, Maggie. I need to go . . . um . . . talk to these girls over here."

She took off; I knew from my research that leaving a rushee standing alone was a big fat no-no. Unless, of course, you'd rather invite a chimpanzee to join your sisterhood. And no one in the Delta Delta Gamma house looked like Jane Goodall to me.

But since I'd been deserted, I reached into my purse and turned off my microrecorder. No sense in wasting megabytes.