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We Were Liars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
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BonnieBonnie-Sue
Sue
Hitchcock
Hitchcock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock
Jacket art copyright 2016 by Getty Images
Interior illustrations copyright 2016 by Rebecca Poulson
Map copyright 2016 by Kayley Lefaiver
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint
previously published material:
Chandonnet, Ann: Lines from In the Cranberry Gardens from Ptarmigan Valley:
Poems of Alaska by Ann Chandonnet. Reprinted by permission of Ann Chandonnet.
Straley, John: Haikus by John Straley. Reprinted by permission of John Straley.
White Carlstrom, Nancy: Lines from Sun at the Top of the World from Midnight
Dance of the Snowshoe Hare by Nancy White Carlstrom. Reprinted by permission of
Nancy White Carlstrom.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books,
an imprint of Random House Childrens Books,
a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
A previous version of the title chapter was published as Fast Fiction in the
Los Angeles Review, Volume 18, Fall 2012.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hitchcock, Bonnie-Sue
The smell of other peoples houses / Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Growing up in Alaska in the 1970s isnt like growing up anywhere else:
Dont think life is going to be easy. Know your place. And never talk about yourself.
Four vivid voices tell intertwining stories of hardship, tragedy, wild luck, and
salvationProvided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-553-49778-6 (trade) ISBN 978-0-553-49779-3 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-553-49781-6 (pbk.) ISBN 978-0-553-49780-9 (ebook) 1. Alaska
History20th centuryJuvenile fiction. [1. AlaskaHistory20th centuryFiction.
2. FriendshipFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.H58Sm 2016
[Fic]dc23
2015011309
The text of this book is set in 12-point Apollo.
Jacket design by Ray Shappell
Interior design by Trish Parcell
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books
supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
IN SOUTHEAST ALASKA
AND CANADA
IN FAIRBANKS, ALASKA
Ruth
Mama
Daddy
Lily: Ruths younger sister
Gran
Ray
Dumpling
Bunny: Lilys best friend,
Dumplings younger sister
Selma: Ruths best friend
Alyce: Selmas cousin
Dora: Dumplings best friend
Bumpo: Doras dad
Mr. Moses: Dumplings dad
Alyce
Mom
Dad
Aunt Abigail: Selmas mother
Uncle Gorky
Hank
Sam: Hanks younger brother
Jack: Hanks youngest brother
Mom
Nathan: Moms boyfriend
Phil: night watchman on the
ferry
Isabelle: social worker
Dora
Crazy Dancing Guy
Mom
Dumplings mother
Paula and Annette: Moms
friends
George: cashier at the Salvation
Army
Ruth
Abbess
Sister Agnes
Sister Bernadette
Sister Josephine
P R O L O G U E
The nurse asked what the babys name would be, and when
Mama said Lily I thought she was staring at the flowers
next to her bed, not the pink lump wrapped in a hospital
blanket, screaming as if she didnt want to be here, either.
Gran had come to the hospital for the birth, but afterward
Mama stayed behind while Lily and I were put in a moldy
brown car with cigarette burns on the seats. I didnt think a
brand-new baby should breathe in all the smells in that car,
but Lily just lay there like the lump she was, and I held my
scarf over my nose all the way to Grans house in Birch Park.
Your mama needs more time, Gran said, and she told
me what was in the letter. My fathers plane had crashed in
the Canadian Arctic, right next door to Alaska. Gran said the
men were on their way home from the meeting when the
plane went down. Something about the way Gran talked told
me she did not think Daddy was a brave man, with big
ideas for Alaska, which was what the letter had said. When
Gran read it, she snorted, then wiped her nose with a tissue.
Afterward she said, You can cry if you want, but it wont
bring him back.
The very next day there was a headline on the front page
of the newspaper in thick, four-inch letters that said Were
In and Alaska became the forty-ninth state in the United
States. Gran clipped it out and told me I should save it forever so I would always remember this day, as if she didnt
understand that this was a bad thing. I didnt want to remember anything except the way it used to be, before all
this statehood nonsense.
When Mama did not show up that day, or the one after
that or the one after that, I figured statehood must have done
something to her, too. Maybe she didnt have the right passport or she had the wrong shoes? Or maybe she had gone to
Canada, where she would be swallowed up in the same vast
emptiness that had swallowed up Daddy.
I waited and waited for Mama, worried that Lily would
never know how the world was really supposed to be. But
the years ticked by until just before my tenth birthday,
when the water started to rise and I knew this must be it
the river was fighting back. It flooded its banks and rose
higher and higher, grabbing everything in sight with its big,
wet tongue. Daddy had been right when hed said the rivers
could never be tamed.
Rusty metal oil drums, blue plastic coolers, and whole cans
of peaches and fruit cocktail from peoples pantries bobbed
down Second Avenue. Someones red frilly slip got hung up
in Mr. Petersons climbing peas and made Lily laugh out loud
until Gran shushed her. Grans face was as red as an overripe
raspberry. Even in a flood, underwear was no joking matter.
Lily was now five and out of her mind with excitement
5
But they lied, I said. Nobody had all that nice stuff.
Its not our job to make people accountable.
But youre volunteering for the government. It is your job.
Grans eyes narrowed.
You do not tell me what is and isnt my job, young lady.
I looked down at the paper plate in my lap. The canned
beets had bled into the Spam, which wasnt even real meat.
I wanted a dripping piece of fresh backstrap or nothing. I
folded my plate in two, smashing all the food together. No
one said a word as I crossed the room, even as a trail of
bloody beet juice spilled from the corner of the plate, down
my leg, and onto the floor. I pushed the whole thing deep
into the garbage can, as if it were my own heart, all beat out.
10
SPRING
So many spring stars
I could navigate my skiff
All the way back home.
John Straley
11
C H A P T E R
O N E
The Smell of
Other Peoples Houses
RUTH
12
*
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Bunny says were poor, Lily announces as she and her best
friend, Bunny, clatter through the door, letting in a gust of
cold air. They drop their mittens and snowsuits into a big
pile and trip out of their boots, knocking each other over
trying not to be late for dinner.
Gran is reheating food left over after another Catholic Social Services luncheon. She works part-time typing for the
archbishop, so we get first dibs on whatever food is left from
their functions. Tonights meal was delivered to the door by
Father Mike himself, with his little white collar choking him.
Selma is over and were setting the table. I can see Gran
looking at the food, wondering if it will be enough to feed
two extra mouths. She reaches for a can of Spam to stretch
it out.
I didnt say you were poor. I said you were poorer than
me and Dumpling, Bunny says. Dumpling is her older sister.
I watch Gran sigh, which is a sign that were aging her.
Were always aging her, but especially Lily, and now Bunny
is helping. Gran says if she didnt have to take care of us,
shed still be a young woman. I look at her sagging boobs,
then down at the tuna casserole. Too bad for Lily, there are
peas in it again.
What makes you so rich? she asks Bunny as they jostle
each other at the sink, fighting over the Joy soap.
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Lily, Gran says in a voice that lets Lily know mayonnaise should be the least of her worries. Say grace.
Blessusolordandtheseourgiftswhichweareabouttoreceive
fromthybountythroughchristourlordamenwhy- cant-wehave-a-fish-camp? Lily asks, without taking a breath.
Selma looks at me and we roll our eyes. Lily spends her
life griping that almost everyone else in Birch Park has a fish
camp. But saying it in front of Bunny puts Gran on the spot.
It also shows how clueless both Lily and Bunny are if they
havent figured this one out yet. Theyre both eleven, which
is plenty old enough know to where the lines are drawn.
We dont have a fish camp because we arent native,
Gran says, to her plate.
Im not native, Im Athabascan, Bunny says.
Selma and I laugh.
Whats so funny? She is Athabascan, says Lily. Natives
are the people like Doras mom, the ones who hang out all
day at the bartheyre too drunk to even bother fishing.
Thats enough, Gran says, slapping Lily so hard on the
hand that her fork flies up and then falls with a clatter.
No more talking while we eat this meal that Father Mike
has so generously provided for us.
Lily pushes her peas around on her plate. Her cheeks are
bright pink.
Fish camps are pretty much handed down from family to
family, but maybe Gran shouldnt have lumped all Alaska
Natives together. It didnt seem to make Bunny very happy.
Especially because Bunny and Dumpling actually have the
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provided the meal, not Father Mike. All she gets is a halfhearted smile from my sister, who is busy piling her peas
onto Bunnys plate now that Gran isnt looking.
Bunny eats them all in one bite, because thats what best
friends do. Then they both hop up saying theyre going to
Bunnys for Eskimo ice cream and are out the door before
Gran can argue.
Lily has Bunny and I have Selma. And thats why we
havent gone totally batshit crazy yet, living with Gran.
Selma is the complete opposite of me. She came into the world
in the most unconventional way and must have decided before she was even three days old that she was going to fall in
love with her life, no matter what. (It helps that she doesnt
live with someone who might chop off her hair.) Selma has
these enormous brown eyes like a seal, and for whatever reason, she doesnt feel bound by the same rules as the rest of
us, which makes her a great friend. But she doesnt live in
Birch Park, and Im reminded of that when I hear a timid
knock at the door, so light that Gran doesnt hear it in the
kitchen.
Selmas wide eyes are laughing around the edges as she
mouths silently, Alyce.
Alyce will sometimes drop by and pick Selma up on her
way home from ballet. They both live on the other side of
the river, where the houses get nicer in a hurry and the rent
is much higher.
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Finally I get to stay over again, and this time Ray has a little
foil packet the size of a tea bag that he says we should use,
just to be safe. But every Catholic knows thats the worst
sin of all. After asking me about six times if Im sure I dont
want to use it, he gives up and we get drunk on each other,
practically drowning in a blur of skin and hair and tangled
sheets. I dont even think about how this part is probably a
sin, too. Ray keeps calling me beautiful over and over and
over, until I even start believing him. Its as if someone is
seeing me for the first time in my life.
I fall asleep right there next to him, totally naked, and forget to go back to Annas room. Suddenly Mrs. Stevens walks
in with a pile of freshly folded shirts. Its morning; the sun is
streaming in through the big glass windows and I have never
been more embarrassed.
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Oh, sorry, she says when she sees us, didnt mean to
barge in. As she backs out the door, her cloudy blue eyes
look sad and weirdly guilty, as if shes the one whos been
caught.
Oh my God. Isnt she mad? I ask Ray, pulling the sheet
over my head. If that had been Gran, theyd be ordering my
coffin.
But Ray just laughs and tries to roll on top of me.
What can she say? Its not like Anna isnt here because
my mom did the same thing back in high school. Why do
you think she had to get married so young?
He reaches out to touch my breast but I push his hand
away, struggling to get back into my nightgown. I feel queasy
and cant stop seeing his mothers blue, blue eyes, as if they
are the sea and I have just swum way too far from shore.
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Je
A
AN
N OVEL
OVEL
C
RO
C
RO WN
WN
NEW YORK
NEW YORK
@JeffZentner
Jeff
@JeffZentner
Jeff ZentnerWriter
ZentnerWriter
#TheSerpentKing
#TheSerpentKing
Zent_9780553524024_2p_all_r1.indd 3
Zent_9780553524024_2p_all_r1.indd 3
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....
5/28/15 11:08 AM
5/28/15 11:08 AM
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Jeff Zentner
Jacket photographs: (bridge/figures) rolfo/Rolf Brenner/Getty Images;
(clouds) Shutterstock
Jacket design by Alison Impey
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books
for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books,
a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks
of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data
Zentner, Jeff.
The serpent king / Jeff Zentner. First edition.
pages cm.
Summary: The son of a Pentecostal preacher faces his personal demons as he
and his two outcast friends try to make it through their senior year of high
school in rural Forrestville, Tennessee, without letting the small- town culture
destroy their creative spirits and sense of self.
ISBN 978- 0- 553- 52402- 4 (trade) ISBN 978- 0- 553- 52403-1 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 978- 0- 553- 52404- 8 (ebook)
[1. Self- actualization (Psychology) Fiction. 2. Friendship Fiction.
3. Country life Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.Z46Se 2016 [Fic] dc23 2014044883
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment and
celebrates the right to read.
ATTENTION READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT
FREE SAMPLE COPYNOT FOR SALE
Zent_9780553524024_4p_all_r1.indd 4
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7/17/15 10:39 AM
1
DI LL
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senger seat before Dill sat on it, and tossed it in the backseat. Sorry Im late.
Youre not sorry.
Of course Im not. But I have to pretend. Social contractual obligations and whatnot.
You could set your clock by Lydias being twenty minutes
late. And it was no use trying to trick her by telling her to
meet you at a time twenty minutes before you really wanted
to meet. That only made her forty minutes late. She had a
sixth sense.
Lydia leaned over and hugged Dill. Youre already
sweaty and its still morning. Boys are so gross.
The black frames of her glasses creaked against his cheekbone. Her tousled smoky-blue hairthe color of a faded
November sky streaked with clouds smelled like honey,
fig, and vetiver. He breathed it in. It made his head swim
in a pleasant way. She had dressed for Nashville in a vintage sleeveless red gingham blouse with black high-waisted
denim shorts and vintage cowboy boots. He loved the way
she dressed every twist and turn, and there were many.
Dill buckled his seat belt the instant before her acceleration pressed him into his seat. Sorry. I dont have access to
AC that makes August feel like December. He sometimes
went days without feeling air as cool as in Lydias car except
for when he opened the refrigerator.
She reached out and turned the air conditioning down a
couple of clicks. I think my car should fight global warming in every possible way.
32
Dill angled one of the vents toward his face. You ever
think about how weird it is that Earth is hurtling through
the black vacuum of space, where its like a thousand below
zero, and meanwhile were down here sweating?
I often think about how weird it is that Earth is hurtling
through the black vacuum of space and meanwhile youre
down here being a total weirdo.
So, where are we going in Nashville? Opry Mills Mall or
something?
Lydia glared at him and looked back at the road. She
extended her hand toward him, still looking forward.
Excuse me, I thought wed been best friends since ninth
grade, but apparently weve never even met. Lydia Blankenship. You are?
Dill took advantage of the opportunity to take her hand.
Dillard Early. Maybe youve heard of my father by the
same name.
It had thoroughly scandalized Forrestville, Tennessee,
when Pastor Early of the Church of Christs Disciples with
Signs of Belief went to the state penitentiaryand not for
the reasons anyone expected. Everyone assumed hed get
in trouble someday for the twenty- seven or so rattlesnakes
and copperheads his congregants passed around each Sunday. No one knew with certainty what law they were breaking, but it seemed unlawful somehow. And the Tennessee
Department of Wildlife did take custody of the snakes after
his arrest. Or people thought perhaps hed run afoul of
the law by inducing his flock to drink diluted battery acid
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The August air was a steamy haze. Dill could already hear
the bugs, whatever they were called. The ones that made a
pulsing, rattling drone on a sweltering morning, signaling
that the day would only grow hotter. Not cicadas, he didnt
think. Rattlebugs. That seemed as good a name as any.
What am I working with today? Lydia asked. Dill gave
her a blank stare. She held up her hand and rubbed her
fingers together. Come on, buddy, keep up here.
Oh. Fifty bucks. Can you work with that?
She snorted. Of course I can work with that.
Okay, but no dressing me weird.
Lydia extended her hand to him againmore forcefully, as though karate chopping a board. No, but seriously.
Have we met? What was your name again?
Dill grasped her hand again. Any excuse. Youre in a
mood today.
Im in the mood to receive a little credit. Not much.
Dont spoil me.
Wouldnt dream of it.
In the last two years of school shopping, have I ever
made you look ridiculous?
No. I mean, I still caught hell for stuff, but Im sure that
wouldve happened no matter what I wore.
It would. Because we go to school with people who
wouldnt recognize great style if it bit them right on their
ass. I have a vision for you, planted in rustic Americana.
Western shirts with pearl snaps. Denim. Classic, masculine,
iconic lines. While everyone else at Forrestville High tries
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desperately to appear as though they dont live in Forrestville, well embrace and own your rural Southernness,
continuing in the vein of 1970s Townes Van Zandt meets
Whiskeytown- era Ryan Adams.
Youve planned this. Dill savored the idea of Lydia
thinking about him. Even if only as a glorified mannequin.
Would you expect less?
Dill breathed in the fragrance of her car. Vanilla car
freshener mixed with french fries, jasmine- orange- ginger
lotion, and heated makeup. They were almost to Traviss
house. He lived close to Dill. They stopped at an intersection, and Lydia took a selfie with her cell phone and
handed it to Dill.
Get me from your angle.
You sure? Your fans might start thinking you have
friends.
Hardy har. Do it and let me worry about that.
A couple of blocks later, they pulled up to the Bohannon house. It was white and rundown with a weathered tin
roof and wood stacked on the front porch. Traviss father
perspired in the gravel driveway, changing out the spark
plugs on his pickup that had the name of the family business, Bohannon Lumber, stenciled on the side. He cast Dill
and Lydia a briny glare, cupped his hand to his mouth, and
yelled, Travis, you got company, saving Lydia the trouble
of honking.
Pappy Bohannon looks to be in a bit of a mood himself, Lydia said.
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To hear Travis tell it, Pappy Bohannon is in a permanent mood. Its called being a giant asshole, and its incurable.
A moment or two passed before Travis came loping outside. Ambling, perhaps. Whatever bears do. All six feet, six
inches, and 250 pounds of him. His shaggy, curly red hair
and patchy red teenager beard were wet from the shower.
He wore his signature black work boots, black Wranglers, and baggy black dress shirt buttoned all the way up.
Around his neck, he wore a necklace with a chintzy pewter
dragon gripping a purple crystal balla memento from
some Renaissance festival. He always wore it. He carried a
dog- eared paperback from the Bloodfall series, something
else he was seldom without.
Halfway to the car, he stopped, raised a finger, and spun
and ran back to the house, almost tripping over his feet.
Lydia hunched over, her hands on the wheel, watching
him.
Oh no. The staff, she murmured. He forgot the staff.
Dill groaned and did a facepalm. Yep. The staff.
The oaken staff, Lydia said in a grandiose, medieval
voice.
The magic staff of kings and lords and wizards and . . .
elves or whatever.
Travis returned, clutching his staff, symbols and faces
carved on it with clumsy hands. His father glanced up with
a pained expression, shook his head, and resumed work.
Travis opened the car door.
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Hey, guys.
The staff? Really? Lydia said.
I bring it on journeys. Sides, what if we need it to protect ourselves? Nashville is dangerous.
Yeah, Lydia said, but its not dangerous because of
all the staff-wielding brigands. They have guns now. Gun
beats staff in gun- staff- scissors.
I highly doubt well get in a staff fight in Nashville, Dill
said.
I like it. It makes me feel good to have it.
Lydia rolled her eyes and put the car into gear. Bless
your heart. Okay, boys. Lets do this. The last time we ever
go school shopping together, thank the sweet Lord.
And with that pronouncement, Dill realized that the
dread in his stomach wouldnt be going away any time
soon. Maybe never. The final indignity? He doubted hed
even get a good song out of it.
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lydia
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The wood floor creaked under them. A pretty, bohemianlooking strawberry blonde in her twenties sat behind a glass
counter display full of handmade jewelry, staring intently
at her laptop screen. She looked up as they approached.
Okay, I love your look. How hot are you, seriously? she
said to Lydia.
Lydia curtsied. Why thank you, madam shopkeeper.
How hot are you, seriously?
Lydia gave Dill a look that said Try to get this kind of treatment at stupid Opry Mills Mall.
Are you guys looking for anything in particular today?
Lydia grabbed Dill by the arm and pushed him in front
of her.
Clothes. Duds. Britches. That will fit this guy and make
women swoon across Tennessees Cumberland Plateau region.
Dill averted his eyes. Lets maybe focus on the fitting
part for now, Lydia, he said through clenched teeth.
The woman gasped. My parents almost named me
Lydia. They went with April.
Lead the way, Miss April, Lydia said. I see you have an
excellent and well- curated selection.
Dill went in and out of the dressing room while Travis
sat on a creaky wooden chair and read, lost to the world.
Lydia was in her element, seldom happier than when playing dress-up with Dill, her own little fashion charity project.
Lydia handed Dill another shirt. We need some clothestrying- on-montage musicLets Hear It for the Boy or
something. And at one point you come out of the dressing
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Oh, right, Lydia said, not looking up. Okay, Dill, hurry
it up in there or, like, Ill be grounded or get spanked or
something.
Yeah, hurry it up, Dill, Travis said. I really want to get
home and hang out with my cool dad instead of reading
my favorite book.
Dill gave them an uneasy smile and flipped them the
bird. He took a deep breath and walked toward the main
building. He went through security and signed in. Guards
took him to the visiting area. It didnt look like the visiting
areas on TV. There werent clear dividers and telephone
handsets. There was a big room full of round tables, each
with two or three chairs, and some vending machines. It
resembled his school cafeteria, and he was as excited to be
there as he would be at his school cafeteria. It was stuffy
and just cool enough to remind you that the building had
air conditioning, but some budget or moral constraint kept
it from being used to make things very comfortable. Several guards kept vigil around the room.
Dill was the only visitor there. He sat at the table and
drummed his fingers. He couldnt stop bouncing his legs.
Just get through this.
He turned and stood as a door opened and a guard led
in Dillard Early Sr.
Dills father was tall and gaunt, rawboned. He had deepset dark eyes; a handlebar mustache; and long, greasy black
hair streaked with gray and tied in a ponytail. Every time
Dill saw him, he appeared harder. More cunning. More
feral and serpentine. Prison was whittling him down, carv24
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way. The only way. Your path to salvation. And your music
is your path to Christ. My path to Christ was the manifestation of faith signs. We lose our path to Christ; we lose our
path to salvation. We lose our eternal reward. Got it?
Yeah. I got it. Talking to his father made Dill feel like
he was talking to a sentient brick wall that somehow knew
about Jesus. Okay, well, I have to go.
His fathers face darkened further. You just got here.
Surely you didnt come all this way just to spend a few minutes and go back home.
No. I hitched a ride with some friends who had to do
some school shopping. Theyre waiting out in the parking
lot and its really hot. They were nice to let me come here
for a few minutes.
Dills father exhaled through his nose and stood. Well,
I guess youd better go to them, then. Goodbye, Junior.
Give your mother my love and tell her Ill write soon.
Dill stood. I will.
Tell her Ive been getting her letters.
Okay.
When will I see you again?
I dont know exactly.
Then Ill see you when God wills it. Go with Jesus, son.
Dills father raised his two fists and put them together side
by side. Mark 16:18. Then he turned and walked away.
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keep from inhaling whatever virulence the men imprisoned there harbored. He felt only slightly better without
the dread of visiting his father. Now he just carried the
original dread from that morning.
He reached the car. Lydia was saying something to Travis about how many calories a dragon would have to eat per
day to be able to breathe fire. Her argument did not seem
to be persuading him.
She looked up as Dill approached. Oh thank God. She
started the car. So, hows your dad?
Weird, Dill said. Hes really weird.
Is Travis started to ask.
I dont really feel like talking about it.
Okay, jeez.
Im sorry, Im not trying to be rude, Dill said. Just . . .
lets go home.
They were mostly silent on the return trip. Travis read his
book. Lydia switched to a Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds/Gun
Club mix and tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm,
still radiating good cheer. And why shouldnt she. Shes had a
great day.
Dill gazed out the window at the trees that lined both
sides of the highway, the occasional handmade roadside
cross, marking where someone had met their end, punctuating the unbroken wall of green. Three vultures circled
something in the distance, soaring on updrafts. He tried
to savor the remaining moments of the drive.
Last time school shopping together. The death of a little piece of
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TELL ME
THREE THINGS
Juli
Juli e
e B
B uxb
uxb au
au m
m
DELACORTE PRESS
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#TellMeThreeThings
#TellMeThreeThings
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Keep
Keep Reading
Reading for
for58a
a Sneak
Sneak Peek.
Peek. .. .. ..
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Julie R. Buxbaum, Inc.
Jacket art copyright 2016 by Getty Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of
Random House Childrens Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of
Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Buxbaum, Julie.
Tell me three things / by Julie Buxbaum.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-553-53564-8 (trade hc) ISBN 978-0-553-53565-5 (library binding)
ISBN 978-0-553-53566-2 (ebook) ISBN 978-0-399-55293-9 (intl. tr. pbk.)
[1. High schoolsFiction. 2. SchoolsFiction. 3. Moving, HouseholdFiction.
4. StepfamiliesFiction. 5. GriefFiction. 6. Los Angeles (Calif.)Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.B897Tel 2016
[Fic]dc23
2015000836
The text of this book is set in 11.5-point Dante.
Jacket design by Ray Shappell
Interior design by Trish Parcell
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books
supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
ATTENTION READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT
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CHAPTER 1
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promise this isnt a prank. and I dont think Ive ever even
seen a rom-com. shocking, I know. hope this doesnt reveal some great deficiency in my character.
you do know journalism is a dying field, right? maybe you
should aspire to be a war blogger.
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terminally lazy.
To: Somebody Nobody (somebodynobo@gmail.com)
From: Jessie A. Holmes (jesster567@gmail.com)
Subject: NOW youre getting personal.
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See, thats the thing with email. Id never say something like
that in person. Crude. Suggestive. Like I am the kind of girl who
could pull off that kind of joke. Who, face to face with an actual
member of the male species, would know how to flirt, and flip
my hair, and, if it came to it, know how to do much more than
kiss. (For the record, I do know how to kiss. Im not saying Id
ace an AP exam on the subject or, you know, win Olympic gold,
but Im pretty sure Im not awful. I know this purely by way of
comparison. Adam Kravitz. Ninth grade. Him: all slobber and
angry, rhythmic tongue, like a zombie trying to eat my head.
Me: all-too-willing participant, with three days of face chafing.)
Email is much like an ADD diagnosis. Guaranteed extra
time on the test. In real life, I constantly rework conversations
after the fact in my head, edit them until Ive perfected my
witty, lighthearted, effortless banterall the stuff that seems
to come naturally to other girls. A waste of time, of course, because by then Im way too late. In the Venn diagram of my life,
my imagined personality and my real personality have never
converged. Over email and text, though, I am given those few
additional beats I need to be the better, edited version of myself. To be that girl in the glorious intersection.
I should be more careful. I realize that now. Thats what
she said. Really? Cant decide if I sound like a frat boy or a slut;
either way, I dont sound like me. More importantly, I have
no idea who I am writing to. Unlikely that SN truly is some
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do-gooder who feels sorry for the new girl. Or better yet, a secret admirer. Because of course thats straight where my brain
went, the result of a lifetime of devouring too many romantic
comedies and reading too many improbable books. Why do
you think I kissed Adam Kravitz? He was my neighbor back in
Chicago. What better story is there than the girl who discovers
that true love has been waiting right next door all along? Of
course, my neighbor turned out to be a zombie with carbonated saliva, but no matter. Live and learn.
Surely SN is a cruel joke. Hes probably not even a he. Just
a mean girl preying on the weak. Because lets face it: I am
weak. Possibly even pathetic. I lied. I dont have a black belt
in karate. I am not tough. Until last month, I thought I was.
I really did. Life threw its punches, I got shat on, but I took it
in the mouth, to mix my metaphors. Or not. Sometimes it felt
just like getting shat on in the mouth. My only point of pride:
no one saw me cry. And then I became the new girl at WVHS,
in this weird area called the Valley, which is in Los Angeles but
not in Los Angeles or something like that, and I ended up here
because my dad married this rich lady who smells like fancy
almonds, and juice costs twelve dollars here, and I dont know.
I dont know anything anymore.
I am as lost and confused and alone as I have ever been.
No, high school will never be a time I look back on fondly. My
mom once told me that the world is divided into two kinds
of people: the ones who love their high school years and the
ones who spend the next decade recovering from them. What
doesnt kill you makes you stronger, she said.
But something did kill her, and Im not stronger. So go figure; maybe theres a third kind of person: the ones who never
recover from high school at all.
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CHAPTER 2
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first day there must have been some moment when I gave off
enough pitiful help me vibes that SN actually took notice of me.
Some moment when the whole my life sucks thing was worn
visibly on the outside.
But figuring that out is not so simple, because that day
turned out to be chock-full of embarrassment, a plethora of
moments to choose from. First of all, I was late, which was
Theos fault. Theo is my new stepbrothermy dads new wifes
son, who, yippee, is also a junior here, and has approached this
whole blended-family dynamic by pretending I dont exist.
For some reason, I was stupid enough to assume that because
we lived in the same house and we were going to the same
school, we would drive in together. Nope. Turns out, Theos
go green T-shirt is purely for show, and of course, he doesnt
have to worry his pretty little head about such petty things as,
you know, gas money. His mom runs some big film marketing
business, and their house (I may live there now, but it is in no
way my house) has its own library. Except, of course, its filled
with movies, not books, because: LA. And so I ended up taking
my own car to school and getting stuck in crazy traffic.
When I finally got to Wood Valley High School drove
through its intimidating front gates and found a parking
spot in its vast luxury carfilled lot and hiked up the long
drivewaythe secretary in the front office directed me to a
group of kids who were sitting cross-legged in a circle in the
grass, with a couple of guitar cases spread around. Like this
was church camp or something. All kumbaya, my Lord. Apparently, that can happen in LA: class outside on an impossibly
green lawn in September, backs leaned up against blooming
trees. Already I was uncomfortable and sweating in my dark
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jeans, trying to shake off both my nerves and my road rage. All
of the other girls had gotten the first-day-of-school memo; they
were wearing light-colored, wispy summer dresses that hung
off their tiny shoulders from even tinier straps.
So far, thats the number one difference between LA and
Chicago: all the girls here are thin and half naked.
Class was already in full swing, and I felt awkward standing there, trying to figure out how to enter the circle. Apparently, they were going around clockwise and telling the group
what they did with their summer vacation. I finally plopped
down behind two tall guys with the hopes they had already
spoken and that I might be able to take cover.
Of course, I picked wrong.
Hey, all. Caleb, the guy right in front of me said, in an
authoritative way that made it sound like he assumed everyone already knew that. I liked his voice: confident, as sure of
his place as I was unsure of mine. I went to Tanzania this
summer, which was totally cool. First my family and I climbed
Kilimanjaro, and my quads were sore for like weeks. And then
I volunteered with a group building a school in a rural village.
So, you know, I gave back a little. All in all, a great summer,
but Im happy to be home. I really missed Mexican food. I
started to clap after he was donehe climbed Kilimanjaro and
built a school, for Gods sake, of course we were supposed to
clapbut stopped as soon as I realized I was the only one.
Caleb was wearing a plain gray T-shirt and designer jeans
and was good-looking in a not-intimidating sort of way, his
features just bland enough that he could be the kind of guy
who I could possibly, one day, maybe, okay, probably not, date.
Not really attainable, no, not at all, too hot for me, but the
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class looked at me, but no big deal, I told myself. This was a
first graders assignment: what did I do with my summer vacation? No reason for my hands to be shaking and my pulse to
be racing; no reason for me to feel like I was in the early stages
of congestive heart failure. I knew the signs. I had seen the
commercials. All eyes were on me, including those of Caleb
and Liam, both of whom were looking with amusement and
suspicion. Or maybe it was curiosity. I couldnt tell.
Um, hi, Im Jessie. Im new here. I didnt do anything exciting this summer. I mean, I . . . I moved here from Chicago,
but until then, I worked, um, at, you know, the Smoothie King
at the mall. No one was rude enough to laugh outright, but
this time I could easily read their looks. Straight-up pity. They
had built schools and traveled to foreign locales, interned at
billion-dollar corporations.
I had spent my two months off blending high-fructose
corn syrup.
In retrospect, I realize I should have lied and said I helped
paraplegic orphans in Madagascar. No one would have batted
an eye.
Or clapped, for that matter.
Wait. I dont have you on my list, Mr. Shackleman said.
Are you a senior?
Um, no, I said, feeling a bead of sweat release and streak
the side of my face. Quick calculation: would wiping it bring
more or less attention to the fact that I was excreting a massive
quantity of water from my pores? I wiped.
Wrong class, he said. I dont look like Mrs. Murray, do
I? There were outright laughs now at a joke that was marginally funny, at best. And twenty-five faces turned toward
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CHAPTER 3
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something with bite and edge. Instead, Ive only got me: me
and my delayed response time and my burning retinas. Ive
been trying to convince myself that I can go it alone for the
next two years. That if I need a boost, I can just text Scarlett
and it will feel like shes nearby, not halfway across the country. Shes fast on the trigger. I just wish I felt a little less stupid
about how this place works. Actually, SN is right: I have lots of
practical questions. I could totally use a Wood Valley app that
would tell me how to use the lunch credit cards, what the hell
Wood Valley Giving Day is, and why Im supposed to wear
closed-toed shoes that day. Maybe most importantly, who is
off-limits for accidental eye contact. What are you staring at?
The flirting blondes now walk by my benchguess their
attempt to get Batman to walk was fruitlessand giggle as
they pass.
Are they laughing at me?
Is she for real? the blonder girl mock-whispers to
her only slightly less blond friend, and then glances back at
me. They are both pretty in that lucky, conventional way.
Shiny, freshly blown yellow hair, blue eyes, clear skin, skinny.
Oddly big boobs. Short skirts that Im pretty sure violate
the schools dress code, and four coats of makeup that
was probably applied with the help of a YouTube tutorial.
Ill be honest: I wouldnt mind being lucky in precisely that
way, being that rare teenager who has never stared down
the head of a pimple. My face, even on its clearest days, has
what my grandmother has always not-so-charitably called
character. It takes a second, maybe a third look for someone to notice my potential. That is, if I have any. Did you
see that scrunchie?
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Oh crap. I was right. They are talking about me. Not only
will I spend the next two years without a single friend, but
all those 20/20 specials on school bullying will finally make
sense. Somebody Nobody may be a prank, but he/she is right:
this place is a war zone. Im going to need my own personal It
Gets Better video.
My face burns. I touch my finger to my head, a sign of
weakness, yes, but also a reflex. Theres nothing wrong with
my scrunchie. I read on Rookie that theyre back. Scarlett
wears one too sometimes, and she won Best Dressed last year.
I fight the tears filling my eyes. No, they will not see me cry.
Scratch that. They will not make me cry.
Screw them.
Shhh, she can hear you, the other one says, and then
looks back at me, at once apologetic and gleeful. Shes high
with a vicarious bitch thrill. Then they walk onsashay, really,
as if they think theres an audience watching and whistling. I
glance behind me, just to make sure, but no, Im the only one
here. They are swaying their perfect asses for my benefit.
I pull out my phone. Text Scarlett. Its lunchtime for me,
but shes just getting out of school. I hate that we are far apart
in both space and time.
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We have never been the types who are all, I hate my left
pinky finger! Its just so . . . bendy. Scarlett is right. I have better things to do than compare myself with the unattainable
ideals established by magazine art directors who shave off
thighs with a finger swipe. But Id be lying if I didnt admit to
noticing that Im on the bigger side of things here. How is that
possible? Do they put laxatives in the water?
I quickly snap a selfie of me alone on a bench with my halfeaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I smile instead of pout,
though, and label with the hashtag #Day14. Those blondes
would pout, turn it into an Im so sexy picture, and then Instagram it. Look how hot I am not eating my sandwich!
Scarlett: Lose the scrunchie. A little too farm girl with that shirt.
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e. lockhart
DELACORTE PRESS
Please lie:
WeWereLiars
#wewereliars
Lock_9780385741262_2p_all_r1.indd 4
K E E P R E A D I N G F O R83A S N E A K P E E K . . . .
10/30/13 9:16 AM
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WELCOME TO THE beautiful Sinclair family.
No one is a criminal.
No one is an addict.
No one is a failure.
The Sinclairs are athletic, tall, and handsome. We are oldmoney Democrats. Our smiles are wide, our chins square, and
our tennis serves aggressive.
It doesnt matter if divorce shreds the muscles of our hearts
so that they will hardly beat without a struggle. It doesnt matter if trust-fund money is running out; if credit card bills go
unpaid on the kitchen counter. It doesnt matter if theres a
cluster of pill bottles on the bedside table.
It doesnt matter if one of us is desperately, desperately in
love.
So much
in love
that equally desperate measures
must be taken.
We are Sinclairs.
No one is needy.
No one is wrong.
We live, at least in the summertime, on a private island off
the coast of Massachusetts.
Perhaps that is all you need to know.
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2
is Cadence Sinclair Eastman.
I live in Burlington, Vermont, with Mummy and three dogs.
I am nearly eighteen.
I own a well-used library card and not much else, though it
is true I live in a grand house full of expensive, useless objects.
I used to be blond, but now my hair is black.
I used to be strong, but now I am weak.
I used to be pretty, but now I look sick.
It is true I suffer migraines since my accident.
It is true I do not suffer fools.
I like a twist of meaning. You see? Suffer migraines. Do not
suffer fools. The word means almost the same as it did in the
previous sentence, but not quite.
Suffer.
You could say it means endure, but thats not exactly right.
MY FULL NA ME
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Bess are the daughters of Tipper and
Harris Sinclair. Harris came into his money at twenty-one after
Harvard and grew the fortune doing business I never bothered
to understand. He inherited houses and land. He made intelligent decisions about the stock market. He married Tipper and
kept her in the kitchen and the garden. He put her on display
in pearls and on sailboats. She seemed to enjoy it.
Granddads only failure was that he never had a son, but no
matter. The Sinclair daughters were sunburnt and blessed. Tall,
PENNY, CARRIE, AND
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merry, and rich, those girls were like princesses in a fairy tale.
They were known throughout Boston, Harvard Yard, and Marthas Vineyard for their cashmere cardigans and grand parties.
They were made for legends. Made for princes and Ivy League
schools, ivory statues and majestic houses.
Granddad and Tipper loved the girls so, they couldnt say
whom they loved best. First Carrie, then Penny, then Bess, then
Carrie again. There were splashy weddings with salmon and
harpists, then bright blond grandchildren and funny blond
dogs. No one could ever have been prouder of their beautiful
American girls than Tipper and Harris were, back then.
They built three new houses on their craggy private island
and gave them each a name: Windemere for Penny, Red Gate
for Carrie, and Cuddledown for Bess.
I am the eldest Sinclair grandchild. Heiress to the island, the
fortune, and the expectations.
Well, probably.
4
ME, JOHNNY, MIRREN, and Gat. Gat, Mirren, Johnny, and
me.
The family calls us four the Liars, and probably we deserve
it. We are all nearly the same age, and we all have birthdays in
the fall. Most years on the island, weve been trouble.
Gat started coming to Beechwood the year we were eight.
Summer eight, we called it.
Before that, Mirren, Johnny, and I werent Liars. We were
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Johnny leapt off the boat and threw his own vest on the
dock. First thing, he ran up to Mirren and kicked her. Then he
kicked me. Kicked the twins. Walked over to our grandparents
and stood up straight. Good to see you, Granny and Granddad.
I look forward to a happy summer.
Tipper hugged him. Your mother told you to say that,
didnt she?
Yes, said Johnny. And Im to say, nice to see you again.
Good boy.
Can I go now?
Tipper kissed his freckled cheek. Go on, then.
Ed followed Johnny, having stopped to help the staff unload
the luggage from the motorboat. He was tall and slim. His skin
was very dark: Indian heritage, wed later learn. He wore blackframed glasses and was dressed in dapper city clothes: a linen
suit and striped shirt. The pants were wrinkled from traveling.
Granddad set me down.
Granny Tippers mouth made a straight line. Then she
showed all her teeth and went forward.
You must be Ed. What a lovely surprise.
He shook hands. Didnt Carrie tell you we were coming?
Of course she did.
Ed looked around at our white, white family. Turned to Carrie. Wheres Gat?
They called for him, and he climbed from the inside of the
boat, taking off his life vest, looking down to undo the buckles.
Mother, Dad, said Carrie, we brought Eds nephew to
play with Johnny. This is Gat Patil.
Granddad reached out and patted Gats head. Hello, young
man.
Hello.
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5
SUM MER FOURTEEN, GAT and I took out the small motor-
boat alone. It was just after breakfast. Bess made Mirren play
tennis with the twins and Taft. Johnny had started running
that year and was doing loops around the perimeter path. Gat
found me in the Clairmont kitchen and asked, did I want to
take the boat out?
Not really. I wanted to go back to bed with a book.
Please? Gat almost never said please.
Take it out yourself.
I cant borrow it, he said. I dont feel right.
Of course you can borrow it.
Not without one of you.
He was being ridiculous. Where do you want to go? I
asked.
I just want to get off-island. Sometimes I cant stand it
here.
I couldnt imagine, then, what it was he couldnt stand, but
I said all right. We motored out to sea in wind jackets and
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bathing suits. After a bit, Gat cut the engine. We sat eating pistachios and breathing salt air. The sunlight shone on the water.
Lets go in, I said.
Gat jumped and I followed, but the water was so much
colder than off the beach, it snatched our breath. The sun went
behind a cloud. We laughed panicky laughs and shouted that it
was the stupidest idea to get in the water. What had we been
thinking? There were sharks off the coast, everybody knew
that.
Dont talk about sharks, God! We scrambled and pushed
each other, struggling to be the first one up the ladder at the
back of the boat.
After a minute, Gat leaned back and let me go first. Not because youre a girl but because Im a good person, he told me.
Thanks. I stuck out my tongue.
But when a shark bites my legs off, promise to write a
speech about how awesome I was.
Done, I said. Gatwick Matthew Patil made a delicious
meal.
It seemed hysterically funny to be so cold. We didnt have
towels. We huddled together under a fleece blanket we found
under the seats, our bare shoulders touching each other. Cold
feet, on top of one another.
This is only so we dont get hypothermia, said Gat. Dont
think I find you pretty or anything.
I know you dont.
Youre hogging the blanket.
Sorry.
A pause.
Gat said, I do find you pretty, Cady. I didnt mean that the
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way it came out. In fact, when did you get so pretty? Its distracting.
I look the same as always.
You changed over the school year. Its putting me off my
game.
You have a game?
He nodded solemnly.
That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. What is your
game?
Nothing penetrates my armor. Hadnt you noticed?
That made me laugh. No.
Damn. I thought it was working.
We changed the subject. Talked about bringing the littles to
Edgartown to see a movie in the afternoon, about sharks and
whether they really ate people, about Plants Versus Zombies.
Then we drove back to the island.
Not long after that, Gat started lending me his books and
finding me at the tiny beach in the early evenings. Hed search
me out when I was lying on the Windemere lawn with the
goldens.
We started walking together on the path that circles the
island, Gat in front and me behind. Wed talk about books
or invent imaginary worlds. Sometimes wed end up walking
several times around the edge before we got hungry or bored.
Beach roses lined the path, deep pink. Their smell was faint
and sweet.
One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock
with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he
was my particular person.
I got in the hammock next to him, silently. I took the pen
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arrived a week later than the others. Dad
had left us, and Mummy and I had all that shopping to do,
consulting the decorator and everything.
Johnny and Mirren met us at the dock, pink in the cheeks
and full of summer plans. They were staging a family tennis
tournament and had bookmarked ice cream recipes. We would
go sailing, build bonfires.
The littles swarmed and yelled like always. The aunts
smiled chilly smiles. After the bustle of arrival, everyone went
to Clairmont for cocktail hour.
I went to Red Gate, looking for Gat. Red Gate is a much
smaller house than Clairmont, but it still has four bedrooms up
top. Its where Johnny, Gat, and Will lived with Aunt Carrie
plus Ed, when he was there, which wasnt often.
I walked to the kitchen door and looked through the screen.
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Gat didnt see me at first. He was standing at the counter wearing a worn gray T-shirt and jeans. His shoulders were broader
than I remembered.
He untied a dried flower from where it hung upside down
on a ribbon in the window over the sink. The flower was a
beach rose, pink and loosely constructed, the kind that grows
along the Beechwood perimeter.
Gat, my Gat. He had picked me a rose from our favorite
walking place. He had hung it to dry and waited for me to arrive on the island so he could give it to me.
I had kissed an unimportant boy or three by now.
I had lost my dad.
I had come here to this island from a house of tears and
falsehood
and I saw Gat,
and I saw that rose in his hand,
and in that one moment, with the sunlight from the window shining in on him,
the apples on the kitchen counter,
the smell of wood and ocean in the air,
I did call it love.
It was love, and it hit me so hard I leaned against the screen
door that still stood between us, just to stay vertical. I wanted to
touch him like he was a bunny, a kitten, something so special
and soft your fingertips cant leave it alone. The universe was
good because he was in it. I loved the hole in his jeans and the
dirt on his bare feet and the scab on his elbow and the scar that
laced through one eyebrow. Gat, my Gat.
As I stood there, staring, he put the rose in an envelope. He
searched for a pen, banging drawers open and shut, found one
in his own pocket, and wrote.
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7
about the New York girlfriend that evening. Her name was Raquel. Johnny had even met her. He lives
in New York, like Gat does, but downtown with Carrie and Ed,
while Gat lives uptown with his mom. Johnny said Raquel was
a modern dancer and wore black clothes.
Mirrens brother, Taft, told me Raquel had sent Gat a package of homemade brownies. Liberty and Bonnie told me Gat
had pictures of her on his phone.
Gat didnt mention her at all, but he had trouble meeting
my eyes.
That first night, I cried and bit my fingers and drank wine I
snuck from the Clairmont pantry. I spun violently into the sky,
raging and banging stars from their moorings, swirling and
vomiting.
I hit my fist into the wall of the shower. I washed off the shame
and anger in cold, cold water. Then I shivered in my bed like the
abandoned dog that I was, my skin shaking over my bones.
JOHNNY TOLD ME
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on his back. His wet hair was slicked off his face, showing the
thin scar through one eyebrow.
I reached for his arm. Gat.
He startled. Stood in the waist-high sea.
Sorry, I whispered.
I dont tell you to shut up, Cady, he said. I dont ever say
that to you.
I know.
He was silent.
Please dont shut up, I said.
I felt his eyes go over my body in my wet dress. I talk too
much, he said. I politicize everything.
I like it when you talk, I said, because it was true. When I
stopped to listen, I did like it.
Its that everything makes me. . . He paused. Things are
messed up in the world, thats all.
Yeah.
Maybe I shouldGat took my hands, turned them over
to look at the words written on the backsI should live for today
and not be agitating all the time.
My hand was in his wet hand.
I shivered. His arms were bare and wet. We used to hold
hands all the time, but he hadnt touched me all summer.
Its good that you look at the world the way you do, I
toldhim.
Gat let go of me and leaned back into the water. Johnny
wants me to shut up. Im boring you and Mirren.
I looked at his profile. He wasnt just Gat. He was contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. All that
was there, in the lids of his brown eyes, his smooth skin, his
lower lip pushed out. There was coiled energy inside.
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had trouble sleeping.
After midnight, he called my name.
I looked out my window. Gat was lying on his back on the
wooden walkway that leads to Windemere. The golden retriev-
THAT NIGHT I
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ers were lying near him, all five: Bosh, Grendel, Poppy, Prince
Philip, and Fatima. Their tails thumped gently.
The moonlight made them all look blue.
Come down, he called.
I did.
Mummys light was out. The rest of the island was dark. We
were alone, except for all the dogs.
Scoot, I told him. The walkway wasnt wide. When I lay
down next to him, our arms touched, mine bare and his in an
olive-green hunting jacket.
We looked at the sky. So many stars, it seemed like a celebration, a grand, illicit party the galaxy was holding after the
humans had been put to bed.
I was glad Gat didnt try to sound knowledgeable about constellations or say stupid stuff about wishing on stars. But I didnt
know what to make of his silence, either.
Can I hold your hand? he asked.
I put mine in his.
The universe is seeming really huge right now, he told
me. I need something to hold on to.
Im here.
His thumb rubbed the center of my palm. All my nerves
concentrated there, alive to every movement of his skin on
mine. I am not sure Im a good person, he said after a while.
Im not sure I am, either, I said. Im winging it.
Yeah. Gat was silent for a moment. Do you believe in
God?
Halfway. I tried to think about it seriously. I knew Gat
wouldnt settle for a flippant answer. When things are bad,
Ill pray or imagine someone watching over me, listening. Like
the first few days after my dad left, I thought about God. For
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1:02 PM
Nive_9780385755887_3p_all_r1.indd 3
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Nive_9780385755887_3p_all_r1.indd 3
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This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters (with
the exception of the creators of the Worlds Largest Ball of Paint and the Blue
Flash and Blue Too roller coasters), are products of the authors imagination.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2015 by Jennifer Niven
Jacket photographs (flowers) copyright 2015 by Neil Fletcher and Matthew
Ward/Getty Images
Hand-lettering and illustrations copyright 2015 by Sarah Watts
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an
imprint of Random House Childrens Books, a division of Random House
LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Random House LLC.
Excerpt from Oh, the Places Youll Go! by Dr. Seuss, TM and copyright
by Dr. Seuss Enterprises L.P. 1990. Used by permission of Random House
Childrens Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random
House Company, New York. All rights reserved.
Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Niven, Jennifer.
All the bright places / Jennifer Niven.1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Told in alternating voices, when Theodore Finch and Violet
Markey meet on the ledge of the bell tower at schoolboth teetering on the
edgeits the beginning of an unlikely relationship, a journey to discover the
natural wonders of the state of Indiana, and two teens desperate desire to
heal and save one another.Provided by publisher
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-385-75588-7 (trade) ISBN 978-0-385-75589-4 (lib. bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-385-75590-0 (ebook) ISBN 978-0-553-53358-3 (intl. tr. pbk.)
[1. FriendshipFiction. 2. SuicideFiction. 3. Emotional problems
Fiction. 4. IndianaFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N6434Al 2015
[Fic]dc23
2014002238
The text of this book is set in 11-point Simoncini Garamond.
Printed in the United States of America
January 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books supports the First Amendment and
celebrates the right to read.
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9/18/14 12:47 PM
J ennifer N iven
I dont remember climbing up here. In fact, I dont remember much of anything before Sunday, at least not anything so
far this winter. This happens every timethe blanking out,
the waking up. Im like that old man with the beard, Rip Van
Winkle. Now you see me, now you dont. Youd think Id have
gotten used to it, but this last time was the worst yet because I
wasnt asleep for a couple days or a week or twoI was asleep
for the holidays, meaning Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New
Years. I cant tell you what was different this time around, only
that when I woke up, I felt deader than usual. Awake, yeah, but
completely empty, like someone had been feasting on my blood.
This is day six of being awake again, and my first week back at
school since November 14.
I open my eyes, and the ground is still there, hard and permanent. I am in the bell tower of the high school, standing on
a ledge about four inches wide. The tower is pretty small, with
only a few feet of concrete floor space on all sides of the bell
itself, and then this low stone railing, which Ive climbed over
to get here. Every now and then I knock one of my legs against
it to remind myself its there.
My arms are outstretched as if Im conducting a sermon
and this entire not-very-big, dull, dull town is my congregation.
Ladies and gentlemen, I shout, I would like to welcome you
to my death! You might expect me to say life, having just
woken up and all, but its only when Im awake that I think
about dying.
I am shouting in an old-school-preacher way, all jerking
head and words that twitch at the ends, and I almost lose my
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balance. I hold on behind me, happy no one seems to have noticed, because, lets face it, its hard to look fearless when youre
clutching the railing like a chicken.
I, Theodore Finch, being of unsound mind, do hereby bequeath all my earthly possessions to Charlie Donahue, Brenda
Shank-Kravitz, and my sisters. Everyone else can go f--- themselves. In my house, my mom taught us early to spell that word
(if we must use it) or, better yet, not spell it, and, sadly, this has
stuck.
Even though the bell has rung, some of my classmates are
still milling around on the ground. Its the first week of the
second semester of senior year, and already theyre acting as if
theyre almost done and out of here. One of them looks up in
my direction, as if he heard me, but the others dont, either because they havent spotted me or because they know Im there
and Oh well, its just Theodore Freak.
Then his head turns away from me and he points at the sky.
At first I think hes pointing at me, but its at that moment I
see her, the girl. She stands a few feet away on the other side
of the tower, also out on the ledge, dark-blond hair waving in
the breeze, the hem of her skirt blowing up like a parachute.
Even though its January in Indiana, she is shoeless in tights, a
pair of boots in her hand, and staring either at her feet or at the
groundits hard to tell. She seems frozen in place.
In my regular, nonpreacher voice I say, as calmly as possible,
Take it from me, the worst thing you can do is look down.
Very slowly, she turns her head toward me, and I know
this girl, or at least Ive seen her in the hallways. I cant resist:
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name a few. By the way, its apparently true that youll never use
it in the real world. Math, I mean.
I keep talking, but I can tell Im running out of steam. I need
to take a piss, for one thing, and so my words arent the only
thing twitching. (Note to self: Before attempting to take own life,
remember to take a leak.) And, two, its starting to rain, which,
in this temperature, will probably turn to sleet before it hits the
ground.
Its starting to rain, I say, as if she doesnt know this. I
guess theres an argument to be made that the rain will wash
away the blood, leaving us a neater mess to clean up than
otherwise. But its the mess part thats got me thinking. Im not
a vain person, but I am human, and I dont know about you,
but I dont want to look like Ive been run through the wood
chipper at my funeral.
Shes shivering or shaking, I cant tell which, and so I slowly
inch my way toward her, hoping I dont fall off before I get
there, because the last thing I want to do is make a jackass out
of myself in front of this girl. Ive made it clear I want cremation, but my mom doesnt believe in it. And my dad will do
whatever she says so he wont upset her any more than he already has, and besides, Youre far too young to think about this,
you know your Grandma Finch lived to be ninety-eight, we dont
need to talk about that now, Theodore, dont upset your mother.
So itll be an open coffin for me, which means if I jump, it
aint gonna be pretty. Besides, I kind of like my face intact like
this, two eyes, one nose, one mouth, a full set of teeth, which,
if Im being honest, is one of my better features. I smile so she
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She slowly looks at me and then reaches for the floor of the
bell tower with her right foot, and once shes found it, I say,
Now get that left leg back over however you can. Dont let go
of the wall. By now shes shaking so hard I can hear her teeth
chatter, but I watch as her left foot joins her right, and she is
safe.
So now its just me out here. I gaze down at the ground one
last time, past my size-thirteen feet that wont stop growing
today Im wearing sneakers with fluorescent lacespast the
open windows of the fourth floor, the third, the second, past
Amanda Monk, who is cackling from the front steps and swishing her blond hair like a pony, books over her head, trying to
flirt and protect herself from the rain at the same time.
I gaze past all of this at the ground itself, which is now slick
and damp, and imagine myself lying there.
I could just step off. It would be over in seconds. No more
Theodore Freak. No more hurt. No more anything.
I try to get past the unexpected interruption of saving a life
and return to the business at hand. For a minute, I can feel it:
the sense of peace as my mind goes quiet, like Im already dead.
I am weightless and free. Nothing and no one to fear, not even
myself.
Then a voice from behind me says, I want you to hold on to
the rail, and once youve got it, lean against it and lift your right
foot up and over.
Like that, I can feel the moment passing, maybe already
passed, and now it seems like a stupid idea, except for picturing
the look on Amandas face as I go sailing by her. I laugh at the
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but for Violet, the hero. Up close like this, I can see that her
skin is smooth and clear except for two freckles on her right
cheek, and her eyes are a gray-green that makes me think of fall.
Its the eyes that get me. They are large and arresting, as if she
sees everything. As warm as they are, they are busy, no-bullshit
eyes, the kind that can look right into you, which I can tell even
through the glasses. Shes pretty and tall, but not too tall, with
long, restless legs and curvy hips, which I like on a girl. Too
many high school girls are built like boys.
I was just sitting there, she says. On the railing. I didnt
come up here to
Let me ask you something. Do you think theres such a
thing as a perfect day?
What?
A perfect day. Start to finish. When nothing terrible or sad
or ordinary happens. Do you think its possible?
I dont know.
Have you ever had one?
No.
Ive never had one either, but Im looking for it.
She whispers, Thank you, Theodore Finch. She reaches
up and kisses me on the cheek, and I can smell her shampoo,
which reminds me of flowers. She says into my ear, If you
ever tell anyone about this, Ill kill you. Carrying her boots,
she hurries away and out of the rain, back through the door
that leads to the flight of dark and rickety stairs that takes you
down to one of the many too-bright and too-crowded school
hallways.
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Charlie watches her go and, as the door swings closed behind her, he turns back to me. Man, why do you do that?
Because we all have to die someday. I just want to be
prepared. This isnt the reason, of course, but it will be
enough for him. The truth is, there are a lot of reasons, most
of which change daily, like the thirteen fourth graders killed
earlier this week when some SOB opened fire in their school
gym, or the girl two years behind me who just died of cancer,
or the man I saw outside the Mall Cinema kicking his dog, or
my father.
Charlie may think it, but at least he doesnt say Weirdo,
which is why hes my best friend. Other than the fact that I appreciate this about him, we dont have much in common.
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trouble starts. If I f--- anything up from here on out, its expulsion for me.
Inside the counseling office, I check in with the secretary and
take a seat in one of the hard wooden chairs until Mr. Embry is
ready for me. If I know Embryoas I call him to myselflike I
know Embryo, hell want to know just what the hell I was doing
in the bell tower. If Im lucky, we wont have time to cover much
more than that.
In a few minutes he waves me in, a short, thick man built
like a bull. As he shuts the door, he drops the smile. He sits
down, hunches over his desk, and fixes his eyes on me like Im
a suspect he needs to crack. What in the hell were you doing
in the bell tower?
The thing I like about Embryo is that not only is he predictable, he gets to the point. Ive known him since sophomore year.
I wanted to see the view.
Were you planning to jump off?
Not on pizza day. Never on pizza day, which is one of the
better days of the week. I should mention that I am a brilliant
deflector. So brilliant that I could get a full scholarship to college and major in it, except why bother? Ive already mastered
the art.
I wait for him to ask about Violet, but instead he says, I
need to know if you were or are planning to harm yourself. I am
goddamn serious. If Principal Wertz hears about this, youre
gone before you can say suspended, or worse. Not to mention
if I dont pay attention and you decide to go back up there and
jump off, Im looking at a lawsuit, and on the salary they pay
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disease just to make it simple for me and also for them. Anything would be better than the truth: I shut down again. I went
blank. One minute I was spinning, and the next minute my mind
was dragging itself around in a circle, like an old, arthritic dog
trying to lie down. And then I just turned off and went to sleep,
but not sleep in the way you do every night. Think a long, dark
sleep where you dont dream at all.
Embryo once again narrows his eyes to a squint and stares at
me hard, trying to induce a sweat. And can we expect you to
show up and stay out of trouble this semester?
Absolutely.
And keep up with your classwork?
Yes, sir.
Ill arrange the drug test with the nurse. He jabs the air
with his finger, pointing at me. Probation means period of
testing somebodys suitability; period when student must improve. Look it up if you dont believe me, and for Christs sake,
stay alive.
The thing I dont say is: I want to stay alive. The reason I
dont say it is because, given that fat folder in front of him, hed
never believe it. And heres something else hed never believe
Im fighting to be here in this shitty, messed-up world. Standing
on the ledge of the bell tower isnt about dying. Its about having control. Its about never going to sleep again.
Embryo stalks around his desk and gathers a stack of Teens
in Trouble pamphlets. Then he tells me Im not alone and I
can always talk to him, his door is open, hes here, and hell see
me on Monday. I want to say no offense, but thats not much
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Friday morning. Office of Mrs. Marion Kresney, school counselor, who has small, kind eyes and a smile too big for her
face. According to the certificate on the wall above her head,
shes been at Bartlett High for fifteen years. This is our twelfth
meeting.
My heart is still racing and my hands are still shaking from
being up on that ledge. I have gone cold all over, and what I
want is to lie down. I wait for Mrs. Kresney to say: I know what
you were doing first period, Violet Markey. Your parents are on
their way. Doctors are standing by, ready to escort you to the nearest mental health facility.
But we start as we always do.
How are you, Violet?
Im fine, and you? I sit on my hands.
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This time last year, I would have loved to talk about college.
Eleanor and I used to do this sometimes after Mom and Dad
had gone to bed. Wed sit outside if it was warm enough, inside
if it was too cold. We imagined the places we would go and the
people we would meet, far away from Bartlett, Indiana, population 14,983, where we felt like aliens from some distant planet.
Youve applied to UCLA, Stanford, Berkeley, the University of Florida, the University of Buenos Aires, Northern Caribbean University, and the National University of Singapore. This
is a very diverse list, but what happened to NYU?
Since the summer before seventh grade, NYUs creative
writing program has been my dream. This is thanks to visiting New York with my mother, who is a college professor and
writer. She did her graduate work at NYU, and for three weeks
the four of us stayed in the city and socialized with her former
teachers and classmatesnovelists, playwrights, screenwriters,
poets. My plan was to apply for early admission in October. But
then the accident happened and I changed my mind.
I missed the application deadline. The deadline for regular admission was one week ago today. I filled everything out,
even wrote my essay, but didnt send it in.
Lets talk about the writing. Lets talk about the website.
She means EleanorandViolet.com. Eleanor and I started it
after we moved to Indiana. We wanted to create an online magazine that offered two (very) different perspectives on fashion,
beauty, boys, books, life. Last year, Eleanors friend Gemma
Sterling (star of the hit Web series Rant) mentioned us in an
interview, and our following tripled. But I havent touched the
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Im not ready. These are the three magic words. Ive discovered they can get you out of almost anything.
She leans forward. Have you thought about returning to
cheerleading?
No.
Student council?
No.
You still play flute in the orchestra?
Im last chair. Thats something that hasnt changed since
the accident. I was always last chair because Im not very good
at flute.
She sits back again. For a moment I think shes given up.
Then she says, Im concerned about your progress, Violet.
Frankly, you should be further along than you are right
now. You cant avoid cars forever, especially now that were in
winter. You cant keep standing still. You need to remember
that youre a survivor, and that means . . .
I will never know what that means because as soon as I hear
the word survivor, I get up and walk out.
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