Youthjuice

Review by Booklist Review

In this fast-paced and scathing satire of the beauty industry, Sophia begins her dream job three months before her thirtieth birthday at HEBE, a woman-run lifestyle corporation pushing "essential" products focused on allowing women to look as young as possible for as long as possible. When charismatic CEO Tree Whitestone asks Sophia to test HEBE's newest product, youthjuice, the immediate and miraculous results suck her further into Tree's orbit, even as young interns are disappearing without a trace. In a story told exclusively from Sophia's point of view in two time frames, at HEBE and in 2008, readers are able to see the skeletons from Sophia's past emerge, figuring out what is going on very quickly. But Sathue is not trying to obscure the twist; rather she is laying bare the chilling truth, and readers sit with that knowledge and watch the visceral horrors unfold without remorse. Fans of intensely unsettling stories about unlikable but captivating women, such as Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl (2012) and CJ Leede's Maeve Fly (2023), will flock to this debut.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

If The Picture of Dorian Gray were set at a contemporary Goop-esque "wellness and lifestyle" brand, it might read something like Sathue's satirical, gory, and delectable debut. Sophia Bannion, 29, is the newest creative hire at Manhattan's Hebe, a beauty and wellness company run by the freakishly beautiful Tree Whitestone and named for the Greek goddess of youth. From the jump, Sathue makes readers aware that something sinister is behind the façade of perfection at Hebe, and as Sophia becomes more enmeshed in Tree's inner circle, that something slowly comes into focus. In this horror story examining the social pressures on girls and women, the only fault is how on-the-nose some of the symbolism is ("We bathed in their blood to stay young" goes the opening line). Nonetheless, as Sophia's past comes to light and Hebe's dark side is revealed, readers will be on the edges of their seats waiting to find out the truth. It's a certifiable page-turner. (June)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

"Beauty is possible"--That's the slogan for HEBE, the latest and greatest luxury skincare and wellness company. Sophia lands her dream job at the company and becomes deeply entrenched in its obsessive, self-absorbed culture. When founder and CEO Tree Whitestone asks Sophia to test a forthcoming product named youthjuice, she jumps at the chance. As Sophia becomes more absorbed in the HEBE lifestyle, her eyes open to the shadier sides of the business and she must ask herself what she's willing to do for beauty. The story shines with a bold performance from narrator Suzy Jackson, who packs a punch with colleague frequent alliterations. Jackson embodies multiple characters; her range reaches from Tree's elite, holier-than-thou attitude to Sophia's roommate Dom, with the gravelly tone of a heavy smoker, to twittering young interns sounding fresh out of the Valley. VERDICT A satirical look at the cultish nature of beauty and influencer mentality, Sathue's debut deserves to be heard. Jackson's narration pops and snaps the sharp dialogue and alliterative writing like bubblegum. Similarly disturbing tales about the dark side of the beauty industry are Ling Ling Huang's Natural Beauty and Mona Awad's Rouge.--Meghan Bouffard

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A young woman's career in the beauty industry takes a gruesome turn when the luxury brand she works for develops a product--with questionable ingredients--that can miraculously preserve youth. It's clear from the very first pages that there's something wrong with HEBE, the SoHo-based skincare company where Sophia Bannion works. Sophia herself isn't particularly concerned with HEBE's cultlike following, her boss' obsession with eternal youth, or the fact that the company's interns keep going missing. Haunted by some shocking events in her youth and suffering from a violent nail-biting habit--"I've stripped a hangnail from thumb to wrist. Crimson beads collect in the divot of shiny, wormy skin"--Sophia cares more about fitting in with her beautiful co-workers than anything else and is willing to turn a blind eye to the strange goings-on. When her boss, Tree Whitestone, asks her to try a new product called youthjuice, Sophia jumps at the opportunity. The result is nothing short of miraculous as, virtually overnight, the cream erases the scars from her nail-biting. Soon, what began as just a job for Sophia becomes a full-blown obsession. There's nothing particularly subtle here: From the name of the company where Sophia works (a reference to the Greek goddess of youth), to her detached, Patrick-Bateman-meets-Amy-Dunne It-girl voice, to the intense images of body horror that combine the beautiful and the grotesque, Sathue's story is bold and brash and can be extremely uncomfortable to read. Although she overuses similes, it's a fault that can be overlooked when the plot is as audacious and thrilling as this one. With an ending that will no doubt divide its readers, this novel is perfect for fans of Mona Awad and Emily Danforth. A stomach-turning work of corporate horror with a sharp focus on satirizing the beauty industry and its influencers. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter 1 We bathed in their blood to stay young. Slick, fatty liquid kept us alight in our wild beauty. Their blood was the fountain of youth, burbling through our very own veins. Platelets are the secret to radiance. The key to a brighter complexion. Blood, with the fortifying run of an egg yolk's slow drip, is the opposite of tech. It's messy, never sterile. To care for one's skin is a learned art. Tree famously wore sunscreen every day from age five onward. First applied by her mother before Tree picked up the mantle of self-care when she turned twelve. She was the master and I her apprentice. The world is one assault on the face after another. The bloodbath was all we could do to survive. An email. Ghostly at the top of my empty inbox. It's from Marigold Vreeland, Assistant to the Founder and CEO. Tree will see you in the subject line. The body is blank. Tree Whitestone's office is at the end of a long hall. I shake the wrinkles from my first-day skirt. Japanese designer with a complex system of pleats. Borrowed from Dom. I bury my gloved hands into the pockets, posture lifted, and head for the frosted glass door. Stationed out front at a kidney-shaped obsidian desk is Marigold, her hair a center-parted bob swishing on either side of her freckled face like the panels in a car wash. She works her flat lips into a mirthless grimace. No teeth. "Hi, I'm--" "The new Creative," she finishes. "Welcome. I'm Marigold, Tree's assistant. You'll work with me to schedule appointments with the founder and CEO." She extends an arm. I shove my right hand, sheathed in flimsy lace frayed at the seams, into hers and we shake. Marigold pumps with a propeller's force. "You may go in." A Lucite desk, the transparent mirror of Marigold's, is the centerpiece of the room. Through it I see Tree's cigarette trousers tapered to crossed ankles, the impressive bend of her knees, which are pressed together, calves set neatly to the side like a ballet dancer in repose. Her eyes are closed, the wall behind her splashed with old campaign imagery. Light spills through the tall windows. A quiet bell chimes. I take a tentative step and clear my throat. Tree's eyelids unfurl like electronic window shades. She stares and stares and then--she smiles. She says, "Soph." As if she has been waiting decades to hold my name in her mouth. "Please. Sit down." Tree gestures to a pink velvet settee and moves over to a beverage dispenser on a rattan table in the corner. I sit on the couch, taking in the room: the collaged photos of dew-soaked women behind the desk, the faux-bohemian accents, the product prototypes with naked, malformed packaging spread on a teak and gold tray. I must be one of the first in the world to see them. Beside the desk is a library cart with two rows of books, the spines battered. Some are old. Binding peeling away from the pages. I can't read the titles from this distance. Tree's narrow torso blocks my view as she hands me a glass of lemon water and rests on the opposite domed cushion. "Soph," she says again. No one has ever felt the need to shorten Sophia before. "Welcome." I balance the glass on my knee. The gloves affect my grip so that I'm often on the verge of dropping something. Richard, my boyfriend, calls me butterfingers . Inside my left pocket, my index nail worries a dent in the thumb's knuckle. The urge to bite is strong. I rub the uneven ridge through the glove's lace weave. "I'm so happy to be here," I say. "This is my dream job." "You're already a vital member of our team," Tree replies. "You've been given a computer? And the products? Everything you need?" "Yes, thank you." Tree waves. "No need to thank me, I have moisturizer coming out of my ears. And everywhere else." She winks. I blush and force an echoey laugh. She is, indeed, incredibly moisturized. Her forehead flashes, a boom light. Her shoulders glimmer in her sleeveless top. I feel it coming off of her in waves, a hissing mist. Tree laughs heartily, from the gut. She laughs and laughs. Slaps a knee. I sit there, smile frozen, an ache burning my cheeks, clutching the glass. Her white-blond hair, parted down the middle, grazes her shoulders as she shakes her head. "Loosen up. Beauty is fun. That's one of HEBE's guiding principles." Hebe. The Greek goddess of youth. Serving ambrosia to the gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus. I laugh, softening into it, and settle farther into the couch's embrace. I'm suddenly tired; I could nap. I touch the water glass to my inner wrist, hoping for a jolt, but it's lukewarm. "Let's talk business for a sec. Your first major project will be next Wednesday; Gem will fill you in on the details, but we have a shoot for a new launch. And please, come out for drinks with us tonight! My treat." Gem is Gemma. HEBE's Lead Storyteller, my boss. She hates the word boss , Tree said in our final interview. I do too. It's so masculine. Call me your True North. She plucked the final word from the air with a finger curl. "I would love to, but--" She cuts me off. "Ah, time for my next appointment. Take your time settling in. The real work starts soon!" I'm nodding, hard. Picturing my head rolling off my neck. I see it plunging onto the creamy rug, dripping the wrong pink for the color scheme. There's a light knock and we both turn toward Marigold's spooky face pressed to the door, summoning me. It isn't until I'm back at my desk that I realize I'm still holding the glass of water, tight enough that I'm surprised it doesn't break. Excerpted from Youthjuice by E. K. Sathue All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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