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Kat is snapped up as the next young supermodel, but dream becomes nightmare; one filled with kidnapping, extortion and theft.
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Author: Lizzie Hexter

Kat Walkowski isn’t your ordinary school girl.

The day she starts at yet another school in some backwater town little does she realise a chance photo taken by a fellow pupil will hurl her into the cut-throat world of high fashion and supermodels.

But having your face splashed across the tabloids can get you some unwelcome attention, especially if you have a gambler for a father who owes big money to every crime boss from Lands End to John O’Groats.

Bad gets to worse when the biggest boss kidnaps Kat’s dad and she’s forced to steal the largest blue diamond in the world or lose him forever.

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Title SNAP
Author Lizzie Hexter
Genre Young Adult
Release March 27, 2018
Designer Charlotte Volnek
Length 191 PAGES
ISBN 978-1-77127-994-9
Price $5.99
Tags Young adult, teens, YA, fashion, fashion models, super models, photography, photos, diamonds, jewels, film stars, theft, gangsters, gambling, friendship, love, crime, adventure, romance


All you need is luck—that’s what my dad says. So I must be lucky. Luckiest girl in the world.

“Give us a twirl, love,” the paparazzi call.

“Show us your frock.”

Flashbulbs dazzle as I trot down the red carpet, arm in arm with a boy who is every girl’s dream. Polka dot pink taffeta pinches my waist and my shoes slip at the heel. I blow a kiss to the crowd.

Luckiest girl in the world, that’s me.

Nine weeks earlier…

A new beginning, dad said, but that’s what he says every time.

“It’ll be a new beginning, love, we can start over, make new people of ourselves.” I’ve never understood what he means by that, we always end up the same—more gambling, more debts, more running from the loan sharks. But maybe this time we’ll make it. Maybe this time we’ll settle down and be a family like other people get to do.

So here I am, on a wet October morning, sitting on the curb, breathing in car fumes, mud splashed up my last pair of Bebaroque tights, wondering why I’m outside the school so early the gates are still closed.

I don’t make a habit of sitting on pavements. I’m not a complete freak, but the benches are ripped at the bus stop, and I have to sit down. My legs are killing me. I kick box, and last night I took my frustrations out on a bag of washing dad strung up for me. I’m out of practice because of us moving, and don’t my muscles know it.

So that’s why I’m down here on a cracked paving slab watching the world go by. Some trolley-bag granny crosses the road to avoid me. Like I care. The way I see it, if I start in the gutter things can only go up. If I make it through the first day at this school without major trauma I’m a winner.

Removing my left trainer, I root out the bit of grit that’s been jabbing into my toe. I’m mulling over the tiny piece of silicate, (that’s the shiny bits in rock if you don’t know already), holding it up and watching it glisten, when this lad turns up with a camera and takes a snap at me. Plush camera, mind, none of your rubbish.

“Oi,” I say, “what’s the idea,” but he’s scarpered before I can throw my shoe at him.

“That’s Owen,” says this girl, crossing the road towards me, all red and black over-the-knee socks and purple feathers in her turquoise hair. Bit too Vivienne Westwood for my tastes.

I give her my look to say, WTF, but she keeps coming then plonks her not so small bottom next to mine on the curb. “He likes taking pictures.”

You don’t say.

“Never takes them of me though.” Her eyes follow him down the street as she gets a little jar out of her bag and dabs some red on her lips. “He’s harmless enough, unless he takes a fancy to you. Then he can be a bit…”—there is a definite pause for effect while she screws the lid back on—“persistent.”

“Great,” I say, wondering what’s got me landed with Little Miss Feathers. I’m cold, I’m wet, my hair is having a frizz frenzy. I am not in a good mood. But then I lighten up. New beginning, after all.

“My name’s Kat,” I say. “Want some gum?” I pull the last piece from my jacket pocket.

She takes it and smiles. “I’m Aledwen.”

Aledwen? Well that’s what happens if you pull up sticks and land yourself in Wales. I blame my dad.

“But people call me Ally.” You can almost see the blush through the layers of foundation.

I’m warming to Feathers. You have to feel sorry for the girl.

So that’s how me and Feathers palled up; my first day at school, 42 days into term. She was a star when it came to sorting out the where and when for me. Me not being the most organised of people. When it comes to information, if it’s not on Wikipedia, you can forget it. I’m a bit of a wiki-chick, because you have to get your education somewhere and the usual system certainly isn’t working. Seventeen schools in eight years has to be some kind of a record. Starting at yet another one, half a term into year eleven, isn’t the easiest. Particularly if you lost your coursework when you were hitching over the fence at midnight to avoid the big men with dogs who were asking your daddy for their money back.

My dad’s a bit of a gambler. He can’t help it. It’s an illness, like flu. Only flu lasts two weeks and doesn’t destroy your daughter’s life. He’s a sweetie though and I won’t have a word said against him.

So, as I said, here’s me and Feathers sitting in media class, counting dead wasps in the fluorescent light covers, waiting for the teacher to arrive, when in trips Paparazzi Boy, camera so close to his face he can’t see where he’s walking, clicking away like his life depends on it. Me, noticing the lens is turned my way, accidentally like puts my foot out and he goes tumbling. He’s all legs and arms sprawled across the floor. Good job the camera has a leather strap round his neck or it would have gone flying. The class cracks up laughing.

He picks himself off the floor and glances up at me. His eyes are shiny, face coloured pink and there’s a half-chewed sweet stuck to his elbow, I feel dead mean.

“The desk behind Ally is free,” I say and Feathers kicks me in the shins.

“S’all right, better light by the window,” he stammers and bends down to scramble his bag off the floor. He’s got a nice bum, I’ll give him that.

“I’m warning you, don’t encourage him. He drove Madeline Wilson mad last year. Wouldn’t lay off her. Obsessed I call it. Even tried to take a picture of her on the loo.”

But I’m not listening to Feathers. No, I’m looking towards the door. Because the most divine creature I ever set eyes on has just wafted into the room and he’s heading straight for me. This one could wear your kid brother’s cast offs and make them look like Armani. He’s drop dead, you know. Hundred dollar haircut and genuine Costa del sunshine tan. Sits himself down behind Feathers, doesn’t he, all Dolce & Gabbana leather bracelet and ‘I’m too cool to notice you’ attitude. I turn round to look at him, because I’ve never been one you’d call shy, and our eyes meet, and I know, right down in my gut like a pain, I just know he’s going to be mine.









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