Perfect for fans of Rory Power and Tiffany D. Jackson, this twisty horror novel follows a magnetic young influencer who gets ensnared in a web of dark, jealousy-fueled magic.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Such a Lucky Girl by Wendy Heard, which is out now.
Three years ago, Bella dumped her best friend Kerry to follow her dreams of becoming an influencer. It worked; she is Such a Lucky Girl, famous for her epic manifesting glow-up and dedicated to helping other girls be “lucky,” too. She’s living the dream—success, sponsorships, and fame. She burned her old life to the ground and never looked back.
Leaving Kerry behind. Alone. Angry.
When Kerry picks up a vintage self-help book on shadow work, she’s fascinated by the suggested rituals. Get back at those who have wronged her? Yes, please. She has one person in mind, and that girl is smiling at her millions of followers, having forgotten Kerry long ago. But there’s something attached to the book, something dark and ancient, and Kerry and Bella may not be ready for what is about to be unleashed.
It starts just like it always does: Slowly, I realize I’m not asleep. I’ve been drowsing, drifting on a melatonin haze, and I was so close.
Another half hour passes where I lie in grumpy, sweaty denial, anger rising inside me like high tide. It doesn’t make sense. I did everything the internet says to cure insomnia: I didn’t look at screens for an hour before bed; I took melatonin; I didn’t eat a heavy dinner. For god’s sake, I’m seventeen years old. There’s no reason.
And now I’m fully awake.
The internet says you aren’t supposed to lie in bed trying to sleep. You’re supposed to do something else, then lie down again when you feel sleepy.
What if you never feel sleepy? Or at least not until science class the following day when you pass out and drool on your desk? Hypothetically.
I turn on my bedside lamp and check the time. 2:12. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow. Silently, I curse my brain for not cooperating with our society’s need to put everyone on the same sleep schedule.
I pull on a sweatshirt and tiptoe out of my room, grateful we have What, exactly, was planned, though? What are we doing here? If the demon is working Bella like a puppet, then this whole idea to destroy the book and banish the demon or whatever is definitely not happening. (old, smelly) carpet. In the dark kitchen, I fumble in the cabinet for Sleepytime tea and a mug, microwaving it without slamming the door, putting tiny amounts of pressure on the handle until it clicks softly. I can hear my stepdad whine‑ ranting in my head. “You know we have to work. Your brother needs his sleep.” I don’t think he’s particularly concerned about Connor; it’s just that Connor is an incoherent, thirteen‑year‑ old moron and everyone in the house cherishes every moment he’s unconscious.
Back in my room, I slump into bed and get my phone off its charger, abandoning my blue light abstinence. I open Instagram, and of course, Bella comes up first. Her handle is @imsuchaluckygirl.
“Why, universe?” I groan, sipping my tea. I swear she gets blonder every time I open this godforsaken app.
“Comets are often symbols of change,” she chirps. “They can break the status quo and cause disruptions . . . and revelations.” She smiles, flashing perfect white teeth. “We’re reaching peak visibility for Comet Kimura, which can be seen from February through June. I’m going to be talking about different manifesting methods you can use to even greater effect while the comet is passing through, and we’ll explore some exciting techniques you can try for the upcoming lunar eclipse. Let’s start with the three‑ six‑ nine approach.”
I pause the video, my eyes tracing the lines of her face. She’s changed since we were friends. I joke about her getting blonder, but her hair hasn’t actually been lightened; it just looks . . . glossier, like it’s spun from metallic thread. Her eyes look brighter, her skin smooth and supple.
She built her platform one manifesting video at a time, always describing herself as “such a lucky girl,” talking about how fortunate she is to have learned to manifest, about changing her life and turning herself into a whole new person, blah blah blah.
I exit the video and switch to my burner account (yes, I made an account for stalking Bella, shut up). I go to her Reels and click on her top pinned video. It has 4.9 million views and is titled “My Manifesta‑ tion Glow‑Up,” the words in script on the cover image. She’s wide-eyed with apparent excitement, having just successfully manifested a car. “I can’t believe it worked,” she says, jingling her keys at the camera. “If you had seen me a couple of years ago, you’d never have thought I could do this.” She flashes to some pictures of her from freshman year. In one of them, she’s smiling with her arm around me, but I’m cut out of the frame.
Bitch.
I mean, yeah, she had shorter hair, and she definitely dressed less femme back then. But her glow‑up is greater than the sum of its parts. She really seems like a different person.
I scroll through the comments, looking for fellow haters, and smile at Manifest me hooking up with your mom. Another says, You need to manifest yourself an ass. Yours is so flat, it’s like your legs just stop. Okay, that’s mean. I create a comment, double-checking that I’m using my burner account. I don’t talk to her anymore, and I doubt she even reads all her comments, but it’s somehow. . . satisfying?. . . to drop these uncensored one-liners. You’re white, skinny, and pretty. The world gives you whatever you want. That’s not manifesting, that’s capitalism, baby.
Secretly, I do everything she says. Because, look—I despise her, don’t get me wrong. Despise. She dropped me the second she entered glow‑up season, and she’s never looked back. But also? I wouldn’t mind some of that energy flowing in my direction. I need a car. It’s a miracle whenever my mom lets me drive her crappy sedan.
So, I take notes, and I try to visualize myself as pretty and shiny, just like Bella. Because as much as I hate her, I hate myself more
