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Overview
Dillon is living with the painful memory of his brother's suicide -- and the role he played in it. To keep his mind and body occupied, he trains intensely for the Ironman triathlon. But outside of practice, his life seems to be falling apart.
Then Dillon finds a confidante in Jennifer, a star high school basketball player who's hiding her own set of destructive secrets. Together, they must find the courage to confront their demons -- before it's too late.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780062657466 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 06/28/2016 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Lexile: | 980L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 14 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Chris Crutcher has written nine critically acclaimed novels, an autobiography, and two collections of short stories. Drawing on his experience as a family therapist and child protection specialist, Crutcher writes honestly about real issues facing teenagers today: making it through school, competing in sports, handling rejection and failure, and dealing with parents. He has won three lifetime achievement awards for the body of his work: the Margaret A. Edwards Award, the ALAN Award, and the NCTE National Intellectual Freedom Award. Chris Crutcher lives in Spokane, Washington.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Dear Preston,
Gotta tell you this feels weird. I got the idea from a book called The Color Purple, by a lady named Alice Walker. It's a good book -- a really good book -- but that's not the point. The main character didn't have anyone in the real world to talk to, no one she could trust, so she started writing letters to God, because It (that's the pronoun she used for God because she wasn't all that sure of His or Her gender) was about the only thing left she believed in. Since you've been gone, I've been running around so full of that day and everything that probably led up to it that if I don't tell somebody about it, I might just explode. Only there's no one to tell. I can't burden Dad with it; he certainly has enough other things to worry about, what with Mom and Christy having left and working his ass off like he's always done. And Stacy's got her own stuff to deal with about you. Anyway, as you probably know, I have a pretty splotchy history with God, so that leaves you. And why not? You're about the only thing I can think of that I believe in. I mean, man, you are real to me now. I can let down with you now because I know I won't have to take any shit back like I did all the time when you were alive.
When people ask, I tell them that you escaped back into the universe by your own hand. Pretty poetic characterization for blasting your brains out, don't you think? Hey, I always was a man of letters. I've decided I want to be a writer someday, and Coach says (she's still the best teacher I ever had) that to pull that off, I have to write. That is the ulterior motive for writing you, considering thechances of your actually ever reading any of this.
I think everyone thought I'd come back to school after your funeral all quiet and humble and keep my smart mouth shut and just graduate. People treat death funny, like they think after someone's had a close brush with it, all the humor is supposed to go out of their lives and they're supposed to get real serious about things. That's not what happened to me, though. In some ways I felt even more alive after you were gone, and whatever it is in me that doesn't like to get pushed around or take things for granted just because adults say them got bigger.
Anyway, at the end of this year, when I graduate summa cum desperate from this jive time educational wasteland, there'll be some major backslapping and cap throwing by Mr. Caldwell and some faculty members, who -- looking back -- would just as soon have seen me graduate the same day I walked in. Caldwell is the vice-principal in charge of discipline now -- worked his way up from coach, through counselor, and he claims his position was created the day you and I enrolled. Man's got no better manners than to speak ill of the dead. It's flattering, but I know it's not true. I haven't had it any tougher academically than I ever had -- hell, since I've been here, I've pulled down more As than an aardvark in an Appalachian avalanche -- it's just that they've had to spend so many would-be educational man-hours trying to keep me under control. I have to say I sympathize to some extent; I have a pretty hard time keeping myself under control sometimes. But boy, they haven't made it easy. I might say that your having preceded me by two years as a drug-crazed biker hasn't exactly made my road any easier. But that was your choice.
I haven't turned into a jerk or anything, at least not by my standards, but it's been real hard getting the powers around here -- especially Caldwell -- to understand my meaning, which has become important to me. There isn't much time. You taught me that. He's been so busy finding different ways to tell me what is and isn't good for me he never hears me. The message is pretty simple actually: Everything I am doing isn't good for me and everything I'm not doing is. Caldwell could certainly have saved a lot of energy by saying it only once. Hell, I've always heard him; I just never agreed.
"Comedy is tragedy standing on its head with its pants down." Remember that? Somebody famous said it first, but I think you and I heard it from Dad, back when I was too young to know what it meant. I know what it means now though because I gotta say, Preston, I've seen about enough tragedy in my life to last me the rest of it, and sometimes when I can't find the humor anywhere, well, that's when I get pretty close to the edge. I guess that's where you were.
I got your note. Real creative. "That time with the cat. Don't ever forget." You really went out of your way with the details. I guess you were talking about Charlie, right? I got it. When I showed the note to Dad, I didn't tell all, only "It's just about this cat we killed when we were little." I couldn't stand for him to know more. I tell you, Preston, even eight years after the fact, Charlie's memory still brings me to my knees. I've never been able to write him off as merely the victim of a vicious, senseless childhood prank. I guess you couldn't either.
Chinese Handcuffs. Copyright © by Chris Crutcher. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.