Under Threat
3/5
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About this ebook
Robin Stevenson
Robin Stevenson is an award-winning author of books for kids and teens. Her writing has been translated into several languages and published in more than ten countries. She lives with her family on the west coast of Canada.
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Reviews for Under Threat
6 ratings3 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Under Threat is a short easy read but it is thoughtful and hard hitting and it discussed some very relevant and important topics. I thought the characters were interesting and well written although I do wish Leah had a little bit more personality. and had more of her own viewpoints and opinions.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5More of a novella than a novel, and definitely written for a younger age group. I guess if I was 12 or so this wouldn't have been an awful read, but at 28 years old this did absolutely nothing for me. Simple story, flat characters, rushed resolution, etc.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This book would be a wonderful vehicle to start discussion with teenagers about religious extremism and domestic (i.e. christian) terrorism but as a novel unto itself, seems rather heavy-handed.
Our narrator, Franny, is traumatized by repeated threats to her doctor parents (both abortion providrs) and ends up lashing out at her girlfriend's brother for his ignorant views and possibly alienating her beloved forever. But they make up and its fine. I think this book could have been much more nuanced if it had been told from the perspective of Leah, the girlfriend.
I recieved this book free from Orca through GoodReads.
Book preview
Under Threat - Robin Stevenson
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
So did you ride after school? How is that horse of yours?
Dad asks me.
We’re eating dinner, which I made—chicken with feta cheese and green peas on linguine. Learning to cook was one of my New Year’s resolutions. He’s doing well,
I say. Walking and trotting without a limp. I’m taking it slow with him though. Letting that tendon heal.
Well, it was just as well you decided to retire from jumping when you did,
Mom says. She points at her dinner plate with her fork. Franny, this is delish.
Don’t know where she got it from, but our girl can cook,
Dad says approvingly. This recipe is definitely a keeper.
Good. Glad you like it.
I’m not surprised he does—the dish is way too salty, which is exactly what his blood pressure doesn’t need. I’d forgotten how high in sodium feta is. I wouldn’t have had time to show this year anyway,
I say, twirling my fork on the pasta. Even if Buddy wasn’t lame. The amount of homework I have is insane.
Not to mention your love life,
Dad says, rolling his eyes. Every time I see you, you’re texting your girlfriend.
He’s grinning though. He adores Leah. He and Mom both do.
What bothers me,
Dad says, is that your horse got to retire before I did. I mean, I’m pushing seventy.
Sixty-seven,
I correct him quickly. He’s ten years older than mom, and she was forty when I was born, so they are kind of old for parents. But seventy? That’s well into grandparent age.
And Buddy is still in his teens.
Almost twenty,
I say. Which is getting on for a horse.
Dad ignores me. And he has a sore ankle. I had a stroke! Shouldn’t that trump a sore ankle?
"Sore fetlock, I say, even though I know he’s well aware that horses don’t have ankles.
And you didn’t have a stroke, Dad. You had a transient ischemic attack. Which isn’t a real stroke. Just a warning." What I don’t say is that a third of people who have a TIA go on to have a stroke within a year. He’s well aware of that too.
Who’s the doctor here?
he says.
And then the phone rings. I start to get up, even though Leah doesn’t usually use the landline, but Dad waves a hand at me. Let the machine get it. Neither of us is on call.
I sit back down, twirl a fork full of linguine and chew slowly. Definitely too much salt. Not good, considering the only reason I took over the cooking was to stop the family reliance on takeout and make sure Dad ate healthier meals.
The phone rings and rings. Let it be Leah, I think, let it be Leah. I picture her face—her blue-green eyes, her silky brown hair, the deep dimples that appear when she smiles, the way she covers her mouth with her hand when she laughs.
I was just with her, but I miss her already.
Leah’s family owns the farm where I keep Buddy now. Gibson’s Farm—or Buddy’s Retirement Home, as Dad calls it. I was heartbroken when Buddy developed a limp right at the start of last show season, but if he’d stayed sound, and we’d kept jumping and competing, I’d probably never have met Leah Gibson. So that’s kind of a crazy thought. We’ve only been together for a few months, but I’ve never felt like this about any other girl.
No matter how much time I spend with Leah, it’s not nearly enough. Even when I’m with her, I sometimes feel this ache, like I can’t get close enough, can’t hold her tight enough, can’t kiss her long enough. I’ve had other girlfriends, but I’ve never felt like this before.
It’s crazy and, to be honest, a little scary.
Just two hours ago, we were sitting on a bale of hay outside the tack room, cleaning the school horse bridles and listening to the horses munch their oats. Leah’s brother, Jake, was teaching a private lesson in the arena, and I could hear his voice—Extended trot doesn’t mean go faster, Brandy! I want to see longer strides, not speed! Contain that energy!
It was like listening to the soundtrack of my childhood. Leah turned to me and said, I love the sound of horses eating.
I love you, I thought. I love you.
We hadn’t said those words yet, but I thought them the whole time I was with her—and most of the time I wasn’t with her too.
The machine beeps and picks up. You’ve reached the home of Heather, Hugh and Franny Green. Leave a message and one of us will get back to you.
I stop chewing for a second, listening, in case it’s for me. But it’s a man’s voice, deep and oddly muffled. Baby killers,
he says. "You’re going to burn in hell for what you