2010, ISBN: 9781740519939

Edition reliée

Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Da… Plus…

Speak. Good. 0.9 x 8.4 x 5.5 inches. Paperback. 2010. 320 pages. Cover worn.<br>The critically acclaimed, bestselling n ovel from Gayle Forman, author of Where She Went, Just One Day, a nd Just One Year. Soon to be a major motion picture, starring Ch loe Moretz! In the blink of an eye everything changes. Seventeen ­year-old Mia has no memory of the accident; she can only recall what happened afterwards, watching her own damaged body being ta ken from the wreck. Little by little she struggles to put togethe r the pieces- to figure out what she has lost, what she has left, and the very difficult choice she must make. Heartwrenchingly be autiful, this will change the way you look at life, love, and fam ily. Now a major motion picture starring Chloe Grace Moretz, Mia' s story will stay with you for a long, long time. Editorial Revi ews Review Beautifully written.--Entertainment Weekly A beautif ul novel.--Los Angeles Times A do-not-miss story of love, friend ship, family, loss, control, and coping.--Justine Magazine The b rilliance of this book is the simplicity.-- The Wall Street Journ al A touching and thought-provoking novel.--Romantic Times Abou t the Author Gayle Forman is an award-winning, internationally be stselling author and journalist. Her #1 New York Times bestsellin g novel If I Stay was adapted into a film starring Chloë Grace Mo retz. Gayle is also the author of several other bestselling novel s, including Where She Went, I Was Here, the Just One series, I H ave Lost My Way, and Leave Me. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, w ith her husband and daughters. CONNECT WITH GAYLE: Website: Gayle Forman.com Twitter: @GayleForman Instagram: @GayleForman Facebook : Facebook.com/GayleFormanAuthor Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permiss ion. All rights reserved. 7:09 A.M. Everyone thinks it was becau se of the snow. And in a way, I suppose that's true. I wake up t his morning to a thin blanket of white covering our front lawn. I t isn't even an inch, but in this part of Oregon a slight dusting brings everything to a standstill as the one snowplow in the cou nty gets busy clearing the roads. It is wet water that drops from the sky-and drops and drops and drops-not the frozen kind. It i s enough snow to cancel school. My little brother, Teddy, lets ou t a war whoop when Mom's AM radio announces the closures. Snow da y! he bellows. Dad, let's go make a snowman. My dad smiles and t aps on his pipe. He started smoking one recently as part of this whole 1950s, Father Knows Best retro kick he is on. He also wears bow ties. I am never quite clear on whether all this is sartoria l or sardonic-Dad's way of announcing that he used to be a punker but is now a middle-school English teacher, or if becoming a tea cher has actually turned my dad into this genuine throwback. But I like the smell of the pipe tobacco. It is sweet and smoky, and reminds me of winters and woodstoves. You can make a valiant try , Dad tells Teddy. But it's hardly sticking to the roads. Maybe y ou should consider a snow amoeba. I can tell Dad is happy. Barel y an inch of snow means that all the schools in the county are cl osed, including my high school and the middle school where Dad wo rks, so it's an unexpected day off for him, too. My mother, who w orks for a travel agent in town, clicks off the radio and pours h erself a second cup of coffee. Well, if you lot are playing hooky today, no way I'm going to work. It's simply not right. She pick s up the telephone to call in. When she's done, she looks at us. Should I make breakfast? Dad and I guffaw at the same time. Mom makes cereal and toast. Dad's the cook in the family. Pretending not to hear us, she reaches into the cabinet for a box of Bisqui ck. Please. How hard can it be? Who wants pancakes? I do! I do! Teddy yells. Can we have chocolate chips in them? I don't see wh y not, Mom replies. Woo hoo! Teddy yelps, waving his arms in the air. You have far too much energy for this early in the morning , I tease. I turn to Mom. Maybe you shouldn't let Teddy drink so much coffee. I've switched him to decaf, Mom volleys back. He's just naturally exuberant. As long as you're not switching me to decaf, I say. That would be child abuse, Dad says. Mom hands me a steaming mug and the newspaper. There's a nice picture of you r young man in there, she says. Really? A picture? Yep. It's ab out the most we've seen of him since summer, Mom says, giving me a sidelong glance with her eyebrow arched, her version of a soul- searching stare. I know, I say, and then without meaning to, I s igh. Adam's band, Shooting Star, is on an upward spiral, which, i s a great thing-mostly. Ah, fame, wasted on the youth, Dad says, but he's smiling. I know he's excited for Adam. Proud even. I l eaf through the newspaper to the calendar section. There's a smal l blurb about Shooting Star, with an even smaller picture of the four of them, next to a big article about Bikini and a huge pictu re of the band's lead singer: punk-rock diva Brooke Vega. The bit about them basically says that local band Shooting Star is openi ng for Bikini on the Portland leg of Bikini's national tour. It d oesn't mention the even-bigger-to-me news that last night Shootin g Star headlined at a club in Seattle and, according to the text Adam sent me at midnight, sold out the place. Are you going toni ght? Dad asks. I was planning to. It depends if they shut down t he whole state on account of the snow. It is approaching a blizz ard, Dad says, pointing to a single snowflake floating its way to the earth. I'm also supposed to rehearse with some pianist from the college that Professor Christie dug up. Professor Christie, a retired music teacher at the university who I've been working w ith for the last few years, is always looking for victims for me to play with. Keep you sharp so you can show all those Juilliard snobs how it's really done, she says. I haven't gotten into Juil liard yet, but my audition went really well. The Bach suite and t he Shostakovich had both flown out of me like never before, like my fingers were just an extension of the strings and bow. When I' d finished playing, panting, my legs shaking from pressing togeth er so hard, one judge had clapped a little, which I guess doesn't happen very often. As I'd shuffled out, that same judge had told me that it had been a long time since the school had seen an Ore gon country girl. Professor Christie had taken that to mean a gua ranteed acceptance. I wasn't so sure that was true. And I wasn't 100 percent sure that I wanted it to be true. Just like with Shoo ting Star's meteoric rise, my admission to Juilliard-if it happen s-will create certain complications, or, more accurately, would c ompound the complications that have already cropped up in the las t few months. I need more coffee. Anyone else? Mom asks, hoverin g over me with the ancient percolator. I sniff the coffee, the r ich, black, oily French roast we all prefer. The smell alone perk s me up. I'm pondering going back to bed, I say. My cello's at sc hool, so I can't even practice. Not practice? For twenty-four ho urs? Be still, my broken heart, Mom says. Though she has acquired a taste for classical music over the years-it's like learning to appreciate a stinky cheese-she's been a not-always-delighted cap tive audience for many of my marathon rehearsals. I hear a crash and a boom coming from upstairs. Teddy is pounding on his drum k it. It used to belong to Dad. Back when he'd played drums in a bi g-in-our-town, unknown-anywhere-else band, back when he'd worked at a record store. Dad grins at Teddy's noise, and seeing that, I feel a familiar pang. I know it's silly but I have always wonde red if Dad is disappointed that I didn't become a rock chick. I'd meant to. Then, in third grade, I'd wandered over to the cello i n music class-it looked almost human to me. It looked like if you played it, it would tell you secrets, so I started playing. It's been almost ten years now and I haven't stopped. So much for go ing back to sleep, Mom yells over Teddy's noise. What do you kno w, the snow's already melting. Dad says, puffing on his pipe. I g o to the back door and peek outside. A patch of sunlight has brok en through the clouds, and I can hear the hiss of the ice melting . I close the door and go back to the table. I think the county overreacted, I say. Maybe. But they can't un-cancel school. Hors e is already out of the barn, and I already called in for the day off, Mom says. Indeed. But we might take advantage of this unex pected boon and go somewhere, Dad says. Take a drive. Visit Henry and Willow. Henry and Willow are some of Mom and Dad's old music friends who'd also had a kid and decided to start behaving like grown-ups. They live in a big old farmhouse. Henry does Web stuff from the barn they converted into a home office and Willow works at a nearby hospital. They have a baby girl. That's the real rea son Mom and Dad want to go out there. Teddy having just turned ei ght and me being seventeen means that we are long past giving off that sour-milk smell that makes adults melt. We can stop at Boo kBarn on the way back, Mom says, as if to entice me. BookBarn is a giant, dusty old used-book store. In the back they keep a stash of twenty-five-cent classical records that nobody ever seems to buy except me. I keep a pile of them hidden under my bed. A colle ction of classical records is not the kind of thing you advertise . I've shown them to Adam, but that was only after we'd already been together for five months. I'd expected him to laugh. He's su ch the cool guy with his pegged jeans and black low-tops, his eff ortlessly beat-up punk-rock tees and his subtle tattoos. He is so not the kind of guy to end up with someone like me. Which was wh y when I'd first spotted him watching me at the music studios at school two years ago, I'd been convinced he was making fun of me and I'd hidden from him. Anyhow, he hadn't laughed. It turned out he had a dusty collection of punk-rock records under his bed. W e can also stop by Gran and Gramps for an early dinner, Dad says, already reaching for the phone. We'll have you back in plenty of time to get to Portland, he adds as he dials. I'm in, I say. It isn't the lure of BookBarn, or the fact that Adam is on tour, or that my best friend, Kim, is busy doing yearbook stuff. It isn't even that my cello is at school or that I could stay home and wa tch TV or sleep. I'd actually rather go off with my family. This is another thing you don't advertise about yourself, but Adam get s that, too. Teddy, Dad calls. Get dressed. We're going on an ad venture. Teddy finishes off his drum solo with a crash of cymbal s. A moment later he's bounding into the kitchen fully dressed, a s if he'd pulled on his clothes while careening down the steep wo oden staircase of our drafty Victorian house. School's out for su mmer . . . he sings. Alice Cooper? Dad asks. Have we no standard s? At least sing the Ramones. School's out forever, Teddy sings over Dad's protests. Ever the optimist, I say. Mom laughs. She puts a plate of slightly charred pancakes down on the kitchen tab le. Eat up, family. 8:17 A.M. We pile into the car, a rusting B uick that was already old when Gran gave it to us after Teddy was born. Mom and Dad offer to let me drive, but I say no. Dad slips behind the wheel. He likes to drive now. He'd stubbornly refused to get a license for years, insisting on riding his bike everywh ere. Back when he played music, his ban on driving meant that his bandmates were the ones stuck behind the wheel on tours. They us ed to roll their eyes at him. Mom had done more than that. She'd pestered, cajoled, and sometimes yelled at Dad to get a license, but he'd insisted that he preferred pedal power. Well, then you b etter get to work on building a bike that can hold a family of th ree and keep us dry when it rains, she'd demanded. To which Dad a lways had laughed and said that he'd get on that. But when Mom h ad gotten pregnant with Teddy, she'd put her foot down. Enough, s he said. Dad seemed to understand that something had changed. He' d stopped arguing and had gotten a driver's license. He'd also go ne back to school to get his teaching certificate. I guess it was okay to be in arrested development with one kid. But with two, t ime to grow up. Time to start wearing a bow tie. He has one on t his morning, along with a flecked sport coat and vintage wingtips . Dressed for the snow, I see, I say. I'm like the post office, Dad replies, scraping the snow off the car with one of Teddy's pl astic dinosaurs that are scattered on the lawn. Neither sleet nor rain nor a half inch of snow will compel me to dress like a lumb erjack. Hey, my relatives were lumberjacks, Mom warns. No making fun of the white-trash woodsmen. Wouldn't dream of it, Dad repl ies. Just making stylistic contrasts. Dad has to turn the igniti on over a few times before the car chokes to life. As usual, ther e is a battle for stereo dominance. Mom wants NPR. Dad wants Fran k Sinatra. Teddy wants SpongeBob SquarePants. I want the classica l-music station, but recognizing that I'm the only classical fan in the family, I am willing to compromise with Shooting Star. Da d brokers the deal. Seeing as we're missing school today, we ough t to listen to the news for a while so we don't become ignoramuse s- I believe that's ignoramusi, Mom says. Dad rolls his eyes an d clasps his hand over Mom's and clears his throat in that school teachery way of his. As I was saying, NPR first, and then when th e news is over, the classical station. Teddy, we will not torture you with that. You can use the Discman, Dad says, starting to di sconnect the portable player he's rigged to the car radio. But yo u are not allowed to play Alice Cooper in my car. I forbid it. Da d reaches into the glove box to examine what's inside. How about Jonathan Richman? I want SpongeBob. It's in the machine, Teddy s houts, bouncing up and down and pointing to the Discman. The choc olate-chip pancakes dowsed in syrup have clearly only enhanced hi s hyper excitement. Son, you break my heart, Dad jokes. Both Ted dy and I were raised on the goofy tunes of Jonathan Richman, who is Mom and Dad's musical patron saint. Once the musical selectio ns have been made, we are off. The road has some patches of snow, but mostly it's just wet. But, Speak, 2010, 2.5, Viking. Good. Paperback. 2010. 228 pages. Cover worn.<br>The inimitable William Trevor returns w ith a story of suspicion, guilt, forbidden love and the possibili ty of starting over. It s summer, and nothing much is happening in Rathmoye. So it doesn t go unnoticed when a dark-haired stran ger begins photographing the mourners at Mrs. Connulty s funeral. Florian Kilderry couldn t know that the Connultys were said to o wn half the town. But Miss Connulty resolves to keep an eye on Fl orian ... and she becomes a witness to the ensuing events. In a c haracteristically masterful way, Trevor evokes the passions and f rustrations in an Irish town during one long summer. Editorial R eviews From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. The tragic consequ ences of a woman's lost honor and a family's shame haunt several generations in Trevor's masterful 14th novel. His prose precisely nuanced and restrained, Trevor depicts a society beginning to lo osen itself from the Church's implacable condemnation of sexual i mmorality. Years ago, Miss Connulty's dragon of a mother forced h er into lifelong atonement after she was abandoned by her lover. Now, in the mid-1950s, middle-aged and forever marked for spinste rhood in her small Irish town, she is intent on protecting Ellie Dillahan, the naïve young wife of an older farmer. A foundling ra ised by nuns, Ellie was sent to housekeep for the widowed farmer, and she is content until her dormant emotions are awakened by a charming but feckless bachelor, Florian Kilderry, who has plans t o soon leave Ireland. Their affair is bittersweet, evoking Floria n's regretful knowledge that he will cause heartbreak and Ellie's shy but urgent passion and culminating in a surprising resolutio n. Trevor renders the fictional town of Rathmoye with the precise detail of a photograph, while his portrait of its inhabitants is more subtle and painterly, suggesting their interwoven secrets, respectful traditions and stoic courtesy. (Sept.) Copyright ® Re ed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rig hts reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Revie w Trevor is fantastically effective at foreboding; he can make a reader squirm just by withholding the next bit of some long-past anterior action he's been recounting. . . . Love and Summer, the latest item from his venerable suitcase, is a thrilling work of a rt. -- Thomas Mallon, The New York Times Marvellously written, c onsummately plotted. . . . One of the joys of Love and Summer is the perfection of its Irish geography and the wealth of emotions attached to it. . . . As brief and beautiful as summer itself, it is a book to be read and reread, as perfect a thing as our blemi shed world can offer -- The Globe and Mail A triumph of style an d content. -- The Herald Love and Summer is so exquisite I had t o pace myself reading it, so it wouldn't end too soon. -- Belfast Telegraph --This text refers to the hardcover edition. From Boo kmarks Magazine Trevor is a master storyteller, and Love and Summ er exhibits all the hallmarks of his most luminous works: his sta rk and graceful prose; his profound insight into the human heart; and his hauntingly authentic characters, precisely sketched in j ust a few short lines. In Trevor's provincial Ireland, every pers on has a story--a secret hope or a heartache--and he teases them out and weaves them together subtly and seamlessly. Gentle, naïve Ellie is the highlight of this spare and nuanced portrayal of fr agile humans dwarfed by life's circumstances (Philadelphia Inquir er), and while Trevor offers no easy answers or tidy endings, he provides a believable and satisfying denouement. Readers, along w ith the critic from the Boston Globe, will find it hard to leave Rathmoye. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author William Trevor has won the Hawthornden Prize and he is a four-time nominee for the Man Booker Prize. He received the David Cohen Literature Prize recognizing a lifetime s literary achieve ment, and he was knighted for his services to literature. Born in Michelstown, County Cork, he now lives in Devon. --This text ref ers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission . All rights reserved. 1. On a June evening some years after the middle of the last century Mrs Eileen Connulty passed through th e town of Rathmoye: from Number 4 The Square to Magennis Street, into Hurley Lane, along Irish Street, across Cloughjordan Road to the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. Her night was spent there. The life that had come to an end had been one of good works and resolution, with a degree of severity in domestic and family mat ters. The anticipation of personal contentment, which had long ag o influenced Mrs Connulty's acceptance of the married state and t he bearing of two children, had since failed her: she had been di sappointed in her husband and in her daughter. As death approache d, she had feared she would now be obliged to join her husband an d prayed she would not have to. Her daughter she was glad to part from; her son - now in his fiftieth year, her pet since first he lay in her arms as an infant - Mrs Connulty had wept to leave be hind. The blinds of private houses, drawn down as the coffin wen t by, were released soon after it had passed. Shops that had clos ed opened again. Men who had uncovered their heads replaced caps or hats, children who had ceased to play in Hurley Lane were no l onger constrained. The undertakers descended the steps of the chu rch. Tomorrow's Mass would bring a bishop; until the very last, M rs Connulty would be given her due. People at that time said the family Mrs Connulty had married into owned half of Rathmoye, an impression created by their licensed premises in Magennis Street, their coal yards in St Matthew Street, and Number 4 The Square, a lodging house established by the Connultys in 1903. During the decades that had passed since then there had been the acquisition of other properties in the town; repaired and generally put righ t, they brought in modest rents that, accumulating, became a size able total. But even so it was an exaggeration when people said t hat the Connultys owned half of Rathmoye. Compact and ordinary, it was a town in a hollow that had grown up there for no reason t hat anyone knew or wondered about. Farmers brought in livestock o n the first Monday of every month, and borrowed money from one of Rathmoye's two banks. They had their teeth drawn by the dentist who practised in the Square, from time to time consulted a solici tor there, inspected the agricultural machinery at Des Devlin's o n the Nenagh road, dealt with Heffernan the seed merchant, drank in one of the town's many public houses. Their wives shopped for groceries from the warehouse shelves of the Cash and Carry, or in McGovern's if they weren't economizing; for shoes in Tyler's; fo r clothes, curtain material and oilcloth in Corbally's drapery. T here had once been employment at the mill, and at the mill's elec tricity plant before the Shannon Scheme came; there was employmen t now at the creamery and the condensed-milk factory, in builders ' yards, in shops and public houses, at the bottled-water plant. There was a courthouse in the Square, an abandoned railway statio n at the end of Mill Street. There were two churches and a conven t, a Christian Brothers' school and a technical school. Plans for a swimming-pool were awaiting the acquisition of funds. Nothing happened in Rathmoye, its people said, but most of them went on living there. It was the young who left - for Dublin or Cork or L imerick, for England, sometimes for America. A lot came back. Tha t nothing happened was an exaggeration too. The funeral Mass was on the morning of the following day, and when it was over Mrs Co nnulty's mourners stood about outside the cemetery gates, declari ng that she would never be forgotten in the town and beyond it. T he women who had toiled beside her in the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer asserted that she had been an example to them all. They recalled how no task had been too menial for her to undertake, h ow the hours spent polishing a surfeit of brass or scraping away old candle-grease had never been begrudged. The altar flowers had not once in sixty years gone in need of fresh water; the mission ary leaflets were replaced when necessary. Small repairs had been effected on cassocks and surplices and robes. Washing the chance l tiles had been a sacred duty. While such recollections were sh ared, and the life that had ended further lauded, a young man in a pale tweed suit that stood out a bit on a warm morning surrepti tiously photographed the scene. He had earlier cycled the seven a nd a half miles from where he lived, and was then held up by the funeral traffic. He had come to photograph the town's burnt-out c inema, which he had heard about in a similar small town where rec ently he had photographed the perilous condition of a terrace of houses wrenched from their foundations in a landslip. Dark-haire d and thin, in his early twenties, the young man was a stranger i n Rathmoye. A suggestion of stylishness - in his general demeanou r, in his jaunty green-and-bluestriped tie - was repudiated by th e comfortable bagginess of his suit. His features had a misleadin g element of seriousness in their natural cast, contributing furt her to this impression of contradiction. His name was Florian Kil derry. 'Whose funeral?' he enquired in the crowd, returning to i t from where he had temporarily positioned himself behind a parke d car in order to take his photographs. He nodded when he was tol d, then asked for directions to the ruined cinema. 'Thanks,' he s aid politely, his smile friendly. 'Thanks,' he said again, and pu shed his bicycle through the throng of mourners. Neither Mrs Con nulty's son nor her daughter knew that the funeral attendance had been recorded in such a manner, and when they made their way, se parately, back to Number 4 The Square they remained ignorant of t his unusual development. The crowd began to disperse then, many t o gather again in Number 4, others to return to their interrupted morning. The last to go was an old Protestant called Orpen Wren, who believed the coffin that had been interred contained the mor tal remains of an elderly kitchenmaid whose death had occurred th irty-four years ago in a household he had known well. The respect ful murmur of voices around him dwindled to nothing; cars drove o ff. Alone where he stood, Orpen Wren remained for a few moments l onger before he, too, went on his way. * Cycling out of the tow n, Ellie wondered who the man who'd been taking photographs was. The way he'd asked about the old picture house you could tell he didn't know Rathmoye at all, and she'd never seen him on the stre ets or in a shop. She wondered if he was connected with the Connu ltys, since it was the Connultys who owned the picture house and since it had been Mrs Connulty's funeral. She'd never seen photog raphs taken at a funeral before, and supposed the Connultys could have employed him to do it. Or he was maybe off a newspaper, the Nenagh News or the Nationalist, because sometimes in a paper you 'd see a picture of a funeral. If she'd gone back to the house af terwards she could have asked Miss Connulty, but the artificial-i nsemination man was expected and she'd said she'd be there. She hurried in case she'd be late, although she had worked it out tha t she wouldn't be. She would have liked to go back to the house. She'd have liked to see the inside of it, which she never had, al though she'd been supplying Mrs Connulty with eggs for a long tim e. It could be the photographs were something the priests wanted , that maybe Father Balfe kept a parish book like she'd once been told by Sister Clare a priest might. Keeping a book would be mor e like Father Balfe than Father Millane, not that she knew what i t would contain. She wondered if she'd be in a photograph herself . When the camera was held up to take a picture she remembered sl ender, fragile-seeming hands. The white van was in the yard and Mr Brennock was getting out of it. She said she was sorry, and he said what for? She said she'd make him a cup of tea. * After h e had spent only a few minutes at the remains of the cinema, Flor ian Kilderry broke his journey at a roadside public house called the Dano Mahoney. He had been interrupted at the cinema by a man who had noticed his bicycle and came in to tell him he shouldn't be there. The man had pointed out that there was a notice and Flo rian said he hadn't seen it, although in fact he had. 'There's pe rmission needed,' the man crossly informed him, admitting when he snapped shut the two padlocks securing the place that they shoul dn't have been left open. 'See Miss O'Keeffe in the coal yards,' he advised. 'You'll get permission if she thinks fit.' But when F lorian asked about the whereabouts of the coal yards he was told they were closed today as a mark of respect. 'You'll have noticed a funeral,' the man said. In the bar Florian took a glass of wi ne to a corner and lit a cigarette. He had had a wasted journey, the unexpected funeral his only compensation, and from memory he tried to recall the images of it he had gathered. The mourners ha d conversed in twos and threes, a priest among them, several nuns . A few, alone, had begun to move away; others had stood awkwardl y, as if feeling they should stay longer. The scene had been a fa miliar one: he had photographed funerals before, had once or twic e been asked to desist. Sometimes there was a moment of drama, or a display of uncontrollable grief, but today there had been neit her. On the other hand, what he had been allowed to see of the c inema was promising. Through smashed glass a poster still adverti sed Idiot's Delight, the features of Norma Shearer cut about and distorted. He'd been scrutinizing them when the man shouted at hi m, but he never minded something like that. The Coliseum the cine ma had been called, Western Electric sound newly installed. A sm ell of frying bacon wafted into the bar, and voices on a radio. S porting heroes - wrestlers, boxers, jockeys, hurlers - decorated the walls, with greyhounds and steeple-chasers. The publican, a f ramed newspaper item declared, had been a pugilist himself, had g one five rounds with Jack Doyle, the gloves he'd worn hanging fro m a shelf behind the bar. 'Give a rap on the old counter if you'd want a refill,' he advise, Viking, 2010, 2.5, Random House. Good. 136 x 209 x 22mm. Paperback. 2005. 338 pages. Cover worn.<br>The Pants first came to us at the perfe ct moment - when we were heading our separate ways for the first time. It was two summers ago when they first worked their magic, and last summer when they shook up our lives once again. You see, we don't wear the Pants year-round. We let them rest so they are extra powerful when summer comes. Now we're facing our last summ er together. In September we go to college. And it's not like one of those TV shows where all of us magically turn up at the same college. We're going to four different colleges in four different cities. So this is really, really big. Our shared childhood is e nding. We're headed off to start our real lives. Tomorrow night w e'll launch the Pants on their third summer voyage. Tomorrow begi ns the time of our lives. It's when we'll need our Pants the most ., Random House, 2005, 2.5<

2005, ISBN: 1740519930

[EAN: 9781740519939], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Random House, Australia], TEENAGE FICTION CHILDREN & YOUNG ADULT BZDB5 ADULT; GIRLS IN PANTS: THE THIRD SUMMER OF SISTERHOOD, Med… Plus…

[EAN: 9781740519939], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Random House, Australia], TEENAGE FICTION CHILDREN & YOUNG ADULT BZDB5 ADULT; GIRLS IN PANTS: THE THIRD SUMMER OF SISTERHOOD, Medium Trade Paperback. 338 pages. *** PUBLISHING DETAILS: Random House, Australia, 2005. Reprint. *** CONDITION: Very Good . Covers have light creasing. Spine is uncreased. Pages are reasonably tanned and lightly creased. *** ABOUT THIS BOOK: The Pants first came to us at the perfect moment - when we were heading our separate ways for the first time. It was two summers ago when they first worked their magic, and last summer when they shook up our lives once again. You see, we don't wear the Pants year-round. We let them rest so they are extra powerful when summer comes. Now we're facing our last summer together. In September we go to college. And it's not like one of those TV shows where all of us magically turn up at the same college. We're going to four different colleges in four different cities. So this is really, really big. Our shared childhood is ending. We're headed off to start our real lives. Tomorrow night we'll launch the Pants on their third summer voyage. Tomorrow begins the time of our lives. It's when we'll need our Pants the most *** Quantity Available: 2. Category: Children & Young Adult; Teenage Fiction; ISBN: 1740519930. ISBN/EAN: 9781740519939. Inventory No: 16090256. The photo of this book is of the actual book for sale., Books<

2005, ISBN: 1740519930

[EAN: 9781740519939], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Random House], ROMANCE BOOKS FOR TEENAGERS, 338 pages. Cover worn.The Pants first came to us at the perfe ct moment - when we were hea… Plus…

[EAN: 9781740519939], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Random House], ROMANCE BOOKS FOR TEENAGERS, 338 pages. Cover worn.The Pants first came to us at the perfe ct moment - when we were heading our separate ways for the first time. It was two summers ago when they first worked their magic, and last summer when they shook up our lives once again. You see, we don't wear the Pants year-round. We let them rest so they are extra powerful when summer comes. Now we're facing our last summ er together. In September we go to college. And it's not like one of those TV shows where all of us magically turn up at the same college. We're going to four different colleges in four different cities. So this is really, really big. Our shared childhood is e nding. We're headed off to start our real lives. Tomorrow night w e'll launch the Pants on their third summer voyage. Tomorrow begi ns the time of our lives. It's when we'll need our Pants the most, Books<

2005, ISBN: 1740519930

[EAN: 9781740519939], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Random House Australia, Sydney], FICTION_YOUNG ADULT - OLDER READERS, 12th printing. Edge wear to cover with slight bumping to co… Plus…

[EAN: 9781740519939], Gebraucht, sehr guter Zustand, [PU: Random House Australia, Sydney], FICTION_YOUNG ADULT - OLDER READERS, 12th printing. Edge wear to cover with slight bumping to corners; age-related tanning to pages., Books<