Monday, 19 January 2015

Evernight Teen Author Spotlight: Tiffany Truitt

Welcome THE LANGUAGE OF SILENCE author, Tiffany Truitt!

I am so excited to be here on the Evernight Teen Blog today to talk about my YA Contemporary, The Language of Silence.


Brett is certain that someone is responsible for her brother’s death.  He wouldn't just leave her and his best friend, Ed, behind.  Although Tristan’s death is ruled an accident, Brett and Ed know there is something more sinister happening. They are looking for the secret that no one in this small Georgia town of Wendall wants to acknowledge, the truth that may rock the town establishment and particularly one of its most upstanding families.  
Together, Brett and Ed must discover the hidden truth behind Tristan's death and deal with their feelings for each other, or they might just discover the darkest secrets are the ones they are keeping themselves.
14+ for sexuality and adult situations

In my novel, Brett and Ed take a break from all the mystery and intrigue to spend a little quality time together on New Year’s Eve. In an effort to make it special for the both of them, Brett plans a day full of New Year’s traditions from around the world including: the Danish tradition of smashing plates, the Mexican tradition of eating grapes for luck, and, oh, the fun little tradition of wearing red…everything. Here’s a sneak peak from the novel…and Happy New Year!


I don’t bother knocking on Ed’s door. It’s eight in the morning, and I know for sure that he isn’t awake. The final text I got from him last night said he just made it to some new level in his video game, so there was no way he went to bed at a decent hour. Ed and Tristan would always get sucked into this black hole when it came to video games, never showing their faces till they beat it. They would circle the release dates of new games on their calendars, stock up on junk food, and burrow themselves in poor hygiene and sleep deprivation.
With a grunt, I lift my thousand pound duffle bag over my shoulder and creep into Ed’s room. Yesterday, I called his mom and asked permission before setting my New Year’s Remix plan into action. Leaving us the house, she made me promise to tell her all the details when she returned later this afternoon.
Of course, I wouldn’t tell her all the details.
I almost drop my bag when I spot Ed sitting straight up in bed staring at me, a smug smile slipping across his face. My mouth falls open. “How did you know?”
Ed throws the covers off of his legs and hops down from his bed. He saunters over to me with the confidence of a character out of a 1920s gangster movie. He takes my bag from my hands and lowers it to the ground. Reaching forward, he pulls me by the waist close to him. So close I can smell the mouthwash on his breath. He’s been waiting for me.
As Ed leans down to kiss me, I turn my head. “How did you know?” I repeat, sticking out my bottom lip in an attempt to pout.
Ed laughs, that deep, throaty laugh that makes me shiver, and kisses me on the side of the head. Right on the temple. Who knew it would be such a turn-on spot? “How did I know you’d turn New Year’s Eve on its ass? I don’t know. Maybe I just know you, Brett. You kept asking me if I was free at eight, and I wondered why you brought it up a billion times. I knew you couldn’t just celebrate New Year’s like the rest of the world.”
I feel my cheeks go red. “I just wanted us to be the first people in Wendall to celebrate it. Make it ours. It’s silly,” I answer sheepishly.
Ed shakes his head. “It’s perfect,” he says softly.  “Now, can I kiss you? I imagine it would do more for me than a cup of coffee,” he teases.
I stand on the tips of my toes and peck him on the cheek. “The real kissing has to wait till noon,” I whisper.
“Then you might want to stand back a bit. I can’t promise to mind my manners with you looking like that,” he replies, gently pushing me away from him.
It took days to find the perfect dress. I finally decided on a gold sequin vintage number that fit tight around the chest and flared slightly out at the waist. “Thanks. And before you question my feminism for actually caring that you like this dress, a woman can still want to be smart and sexy. It’s her choice. That’s what feminism is, you know. Choice.”
Ed chuckles and plops back down on his bed. “I wouldn’t dare question your feminism,” he scoffs. He leans back on his elbows and looks me up and down. “Now, what choices have you made for us today?”
I clap my hands with excitement and give a little jump as I move to the bag. I’m practically giddy. I reach down and unzip my bag of tricks, pulling out a stack of ceramic plates. Ed raises an eyebrow. I don’t give him time to question me. Instead, I lift my hands up and smash the plates down hard against the floor.
“What the world?” Ed yells, jumping off the bed.
“It’s for luck,” I laugh.
“Yeah, it’s a Danish tradition. You throw plates and dishes at your neighbor’s house. The house with the most plates is supposed to be the luckiest. And since this is the only house I care about, broken plates it is,” I reply with a shimmer-shrug of my shoulders. “Now sit down,” I demand.
“You’re wonderfully weird, Brett Jensen,” he replies, dutifully sitting back down on the bed. Despite the shock, his eyes light up, and I can tell he’s excited. It fills me with a warmth that I thought I’d lost forever. That’s what love is. Wanting to see the other person happy. Not because you want something in return. Seeing them happy is its own gift. 
I could write for Hallmark with as sappy as I have become.
I pull the second object out of the bag and toss it to Ed. “Grapes?” he asks, catching and cradling them against his chest.
“Yes, grapes. You must eat twelve for luck,” I explain, taking a seat next to him on the bed. I furrow my brow as Ed reaches behind me and grabs a pillow, wedging it between us like a mini Great Wall of China.
“If I have to wait till noon to kiss you, I’m gonna need that pillow to stay right there.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but grin. I wonder if it’s normal, all this darn grinning. I tug a grape off the vine. “I would feed you, but I don’t want to get you all hot and bothered,” I quip, popping the grape into my mouth.
“Tease,” he jabs before pulling a grape off the vine and tossing it into his mouth.
As we both continue to take grapes, Ed’s fingers brush against mine. Neither of us makes jokes about tearing down the wall or sexual frustration. Mostly because it isn’t a joke. I didn’t know it was possible to want someone so bad. His pointer finger slowly runs down the back of my hand, snaking around my wrist. I turn my hand over and let his finger trace the inside of my palm. My throat becomes painfully dry. I drop the grape I’m holding in my hand. Ed picks it up off his comforter and drops it in my mouth, his thumb resting against my bottom lip. He pulls down on it slightly, and for a crazy second, I think about licking it. Is that a thing? There isn’t a part of him that my lips don’t want to touch.
He pulls away from me and licks his lips. “Is there anything else in that bag?” he asks, all breathy and husky. A symphony of desire and restraint.
I stand up and shuffle a few feet back from the bed. “Not in the bag, no. But there is one more tradition. It’s a Latin thing. They believe that if you wear red underwear on New Year’s, you’ll have a year of good fortune.”
Now it’s Ed’s turn to be shocked. His eyes go wide. When I giggle, he clears his throat. “Red underwear?”
I bite my bottom lip and nod. I’m having way too much fun. I reach behind and unzip my dress. I tug on the shoulders and slip it down to my waist, revealing the hot red lacy bra I drove two towns over to get so no one would gossip about it.
“Holy shit,” Ed stammers.
I tug on the dress and pull it over my waist, letting it drop to the floor. The bra came with matching underwear. I refuse to call them panties. I hate that word. I lift my chin up and stare him down. “I figure if there’s anyone who needs luck in this town, it’s you and me.” I don’t mean for the sadness to slip out, but I hear it. It bounces off the walls of the room. It falls down on us like confetti.
Ed stares past me for a moment. Only a moment. Lost in all the pain that we have shared. When he comes back to me, he shakes his head slowly back and forth. “How the hell am I not supposed to kiss you?” he groans, throwing himself back on the bed.
I place a hand on my hip, and do the best impersonation of a vixen that I can muster. “I said we couldn’t kiss till noon. I didn’t say we couldn’t touch.”
Ed bolts up. “Best. New. Year’s. Ever.”


About the author:
Tiffany Truitt was born in Peoria, Illinois. A self-proclaimed Navy brat, Tiffany spent most of her childhood living in Virginia, but don’t call her a Southerner. She also spent a few years living in Cuba. Since her time on the island of one McDonalds and Banana Rats (don't ask), she has been obsessed with traveling. Tiffany recently added China to her list of travels (hello inspiration for a new book).

Besides traveling, Tiffany has always been an avid reader. The earliest books she remembers reading belong to The Little House on the Prairie Series. First book she read in one day? Little Woman (5th grade). First author she fell in love with? Jane Austen in middle school. Tiffany spent most of her high school and college career as a literary snob. She refused to read anything considered "low brow" or outside the "classics."

Tiffany began teaching middle school in 2006. Her students introduced her to the wide, wonderful world of Young Adult literature. Today, Tiffany embraces popular Young Adult literature and uses it in her classroom.
Find Tiffany here:

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