What I Thought Was True. Huntley Fitzpatrick

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Название What I Thought Was True
Автор произведения Huntley Fitzpatrick
Жанр Учебная литература
Серия
Издательство Учебная литература
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781780317380



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      First published in the USA by Dial Books 2014

       This edition published 2016 by Electric Monkey

       an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

       The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

      Text copyright © Huntley Fitzpatrick 2014

       Published by arrangement with Dial, an imprint of Penguin Young

       Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

      The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

      First e-book edition 2016

      ISBN 978 1 4052 8038 9

       Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1738 0

       www.egmont.co.uk

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

      Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties.

      Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

       For you, John, for more than twenty years of your love, faith, and friendship. For all the moments when I despaired of Cass or Gwen or Nic, and you said softly, “I like them.” For all those distracted hours of mine when you picked up the slack. Picking up groceries, taking kids to ballet . . . those things never show up in romantic novels. But they should.

       For you, K, A, R, J, D, and C, the Fitzpatrick six . . . who love books and beaches and summer. What I know is true? You are the best things that have ever happened to me.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-one

       Chapter Twenty-two

       Chapter Twenty-three

       Chapter Twenty-four

       Chapter Twenty-five

       Chapter Twenty-six

       Chapter Twenty-seven

       Chapter Twenty-eight

       Chapter Twenty-nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Chapter Thirty-one

       Chapter Thirty-two

       Chapter Thirty-three

       Chapter Thirty-four

       Chapter Thirty-five

       Chapter Thirty-six

       Chapter Thirty-seven

       Chapter Thirty-eight

       EPILOGUE

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       About the Author

      Nothing like a carful of boys to completely change my mood.

      There’s a muffled expletive from inside Castle’s Ice Cream, so I know Dad’s spotted them too. A gang of high school boys tops his list of Least Favorite Customers – they eat a ton, they want it now, and they never tip. Or so he claims.

      At first, I barely pay attention. I’m carrying a tray of wobbly root beer floats, foil-wrapped burgers, and a greasy Everest’s worth of fried scallops toward table four out front. In a few weeks, I’ll be in the rhythm of work. Balancing all this and more will be no big deal. But school got out three days ago, Castle’s reopened full-time last week, the sun is dazzling, the early summer air is sticky with salt, and I have only a few more minutes left in my shift. My mind is already at the beach. So I don’t look up to see who just drove in until I hear a couple of whistles. And my name.

      I glance back. A convertible is parked, slanted, taking up two spaces. Sure enough, Spence Channing, who was driving, shakes his hair from his eyes and grins at me. Trevor Sharpe and Jimmy Pieretti are piling out, laughing. I whip off my Castle’s hat, with its spiky gold crown, and push it into the pocket of my apron.

      “Got a special for us, Gwen?” Spence calls.

      “Take a number,” I call back. There’s a predictable chorus of ooo ’s from some of the boys. I set the tray down at table four, add soda cans and napkins from my front pockets, give them a speedy, practiced smile, then pause by the table where my brother is waiting for me, dreamily dragging French fries through ketchup.