With her new bookFlawed, out April 5, Cecelia Ahern, author ofP.S.
If you lie, you might be branded on your tongue.
And beneath that, check out an exclusive excerpt from the book.
ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: Youre a successful adult novelist.
What made you want to dive into YA?
The idea arrived in my head and was bursting to be told.
I always just write the story that moves me and hope that the right audience finds it.
The whole experience was a thrill and a joy.
How have the experiences differed so far?
It holds a magnifying glass up to society.
How I went about writing the novel wasnt any different.
After 13 novels, its fantastic for things to still feel fresh.
Where did you find the inspiration forFlawed?
What interests you about the concept of public shaming?
It moves me to the point of frustration.
And if people arent to make mistakes, how do they learn?
Often the biggest mistakes we make teach us so much about ourselves.
What aspects of our own society are mirrored in the society inFlawed?
Did writing this make you feel more or less comfortable in todays world?
Thankfully this has changed, but there are many countries where this is still illegal.
Everyday I looked at the tabloids online to see who was being targeted.
People who live off the grid from the government.
Police officers sexting on work phones.
What is incorrectly described as news is just publicly shaming people.
I could go on and on.
There was a lot of research.
That was a disturbing day at the office.
What was the most difficult part of your writing process?
What was the most exciting part?
The most exciting scene to write was the branding chamber.
Its not what the reader is expecting.
As a public figure, have you ever found yourself facing public shame/criticism?
I write to yo myself.
I must connect with my work, I must be moved.
The same stands for every aspect of life.
If I feel like Ive let myself down, then I probably have.
I do the best I can.
If you faced the Flawed Court, what crimes would you be most likely to be found guilty of?
I think I would be very similar to Celestine in this instance.
For that, Id probably get just as many brands as Celestine did.
My prejudice strikes me.
The man is in his seventies or eighties.
He looks respectable, and again I study him, surprised by his appearance.
He stands near them, holding on to the pole to stay upright.
I hope they notice soon.
He doesnt look like he will go very far standing.
A few dozen minutes pass.
He is still standing.
There are at least a dozen free seats where he could sit, but he is not allowed to.
Im a logical person, and this does not prove logical to me.
For once I am glad she and I feel the same.
The old man starts coughing.
And then he wont stop.
His breath is wheezy, barely still for a moment before he coughs again.
He takes out a handkerchief and coughs into that, trying to block the germs and noise.
She looks at the two women chatting, then back at the old man.
Finally, he stops coughing.
Moments later he starts again, and all heads turn away from him and look out the window.
Instead, she tuts as if hes bothering her and continues her conversation.
Now I straighten up in my seat.
The cough is bothering her.
It is bothering everyone on the bus.
His loud gasps for breath cant be ignored, and yet they are.
Are we to watch him struggling right before us?
My heart is pounding.
I let go of Arts hand.
Cant you hear that?
Theres no one coughing.
Why dont we miss the first class?
I can barely hear him over the coughing, over my pounding heart.
Does nobody hear the old man?
Does nobody see him?
I look around, flustered.
Junipers eyes are filled with tears.
My own flesh and blood agreeing with me is validation enough.
I make a move to sand up and Arts hand suddenly clamps around my arm.
Dont, he says firmly.
I venture to move, but instead his grip feels like a burn.
And do you think when they sear your skin it wont hurt more than this?
I feel my skin burning.
How is this fair?
He has done something wrong, Celestine.
Something thats completely legal in another country but that people are prosecuted for here anyway?
He looks as if I stung him.
Dont do anything stupid, Celestine, he says, sensing he has lost the argument.
And dont help him, he adds quickly.
I have no intention of helping him.
I walk straight to the two women in the Flawed seats.
They are chatting about making jam as if nothing is wrong.
Excuse me, I say sweetly, offering them the most polite smile I can muster.
They respond immediately with their own bright smiles.
Two polite, friendly women from the suburbs, willing to help me with anything.
I was wondering if you could help me.
Of course, dear.
Could one of you sit in any of the available seats here?
As I look up at Art, all I can see is terror on his face.
Funny, I no longer feel it.
The problem was disturbing me, and fixing it just made sense.
Im not doing anything wrong; Im not breaking any laws or rules.
Ive always been complimented on my timing, my perfection.
I come from a good home.
I have a pleasant manner.
The anklet of geometric harmony proves it.
May I ask why?
the woman with the broken leg asks.
He cant sit down anywhere else.
And he is struggling.
I notice a few faces turn to stare at me when I say that.
I expect them to understand when I say that.
I expect there to be no further conversation.
I even expect the few who have overheard to step in and agree, make sense of the situation.
They look confused, some even scared.
One man looks amused.
This is Junipers territory, not mine.
I look at her.
She has the same face of terror as Art does.
She is not moving.
If I ever thought she was going to back me up, I know now that she wont.
But were talking, the other woman says.
Are you trying to help him?
the woman with the crutches asks.
N-n-no, I stutter.
Im trying to help the situation…
I flash her a brilliant smile but she recoils from me.
I want nothing to do with this, she says loudly, attracting more attention.
Your leg is fine.
Now we have the attention of the entire bus.
The old man, who is beside me, can barely stand.
He is bent over coughing.
He turns to me, face purple, and tries to talk, but he cant catch his breath.
I dont know what hes trying to say.
I dont know what to do.
I dont know what medical help to give him.
I cant help, but a doctor can.
Is there a doctor here?
I call down the bus, and I see Art put his face in his hands.
Theres an audible gasp on the bus.
I look around at everyone, the judgmental faces of surprise.
I feel dizzy and confused.
This man is going to collapse, maybe die.
My eyes start to fill.
Are we just going to watch this?
Stop it, dear, a woman says to me in a hushed voice.
She is clearly upset about it, too.
Its not just me, but shes warning me.
Im going too far.
This is completely illogical.
Have we no compassion for this human being, Flawed or not, that we wont help?
Okay, okay, I say to the old man, who by now is panicking severely.
He continues to cough and I can see the F on his tongue, which makes me recoil slightly.
I cant even imagine the pain of receiving it.
He punches his chest, starts to fall to his knees.
I pull him up under the arms, and I bring him to the nearest open seat.
The bus stops, and I assure the old man everything will be fine.
I look over at Juniper and see that she is crying.
Its okay, I tell her and Art.
Its going to be fine.
My heart is still pounding.
This has all been so very ridiculous.
My voice is high-pitched and shrill; it doesnt sound like mine.
And then I hear the siren, loud, close, intense, and threatening.
Everyone stays still in their seats, waiting, my heart beating loudly over the silence.
Two Whistleblowers climb aboard blowing silver whistles so loudly most people block their ears.
They make their way toward me and the old man.
I told you it will be fine, I tell the man over the noise.
He nods faintly, his eyes closed.
But they dont go to him.
They come for me.
And then they take me away.
