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Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes

Ich hatte mir diesen Band kurz vor dem Urlaub auf den Paperwhite geladen, aber dann doch nicht auf Rügen gelesen - und das war auch gut so, weil die Story mir wieder so nahe ging, dass ich das Buch nicht aus der Hand legen konnte, was im Urlaub nicht so wirklich angebracht gewesen wäre. Faszinierend hier wieder wie Picoult das Unerklärliche greifbar macht und gleichzeitig ihre Story ganz unabhängig und eigenständig von der Wirklichkeit und dem Schrecken der wahren Ereignisse, die hier den Hintergrund lieferten, gestaltet. Wieder einmal ein anstrengendes, nahegehendes und fast verstörendes Buch.
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Everyone would remember Peter for nineteen minutes of his life, but what about the other nine million? Lacy would have to be the keeper of those, because it was the only way for that part of Peter to stay alive. For every recollection of him that involved a bullet or a scream, she would have a hundred others: of a little boy splashing in a pond, or riding a bicycle for the first time, of waving from the top of a jungle gym. Of a kiss good night, or a crayoned Mother's Day card, or a voice off-key in the shower. She would string them together - the moments when her child had been just like other people's. She would wear them, precious pearls, every day of her life; because if she lost them, then the boy she had loved and raised and known would really be gone.
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Dusty Spears understood kids like Drew Girard, because he had once been one. The way he saw it, bullies either were good enough to get football scholarships to Big Ten schools, where they could make the business connections to play on golf courses for the rest of their lives, or they busted their knees and wound up teaching gym at the middle school.

(Jodi Picoult, Nineteen Minutes, 2007)