Octopus Summer: A Novel

by Malcolm Dorson

Overview

Callum Littlefield walks a fine line between arrogant overconfidence and self-deprecating insecurity. After being ostracized by his peers and getting thrown out of his New England boarding school, Callum's parents exile him to his aging grandmother's Gold Coast estate on Long Island. He is promptly put to work with her smattering of servants, and is forced to interact with his old Macumba-practicing Brazilian nanny.

Though Callum reunites with old friends and tries his hand at the prep school party scene, he soon tires of his duties and escapes back to his family's empty Manhattan townhouse. There he meets a young girl named Layla, who changes his life in more ways than even he can understand.

In one summer, Callum finds love, adventure, death, and heartbreak, all the while offering us a detailed social commentary on his blue blood, eastern surroundings.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781619022980
Publisher:	Catapult
Publication date:	06/17/2014
Pages:	256
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.50(d)
Age Range:	14 Years

About the Author

Malcolm Dorson was born in New York City and spent his childhood in Sao Paulo before returning to New York with his family. He earned a bachelors degree from the University of Pennsylvania and an MBA from Wharton, as well as his MA from the Lauder Institute. He currently lives in Washington D.C.

Read an Excerpt

Back to the bartender. I was furious. No chance in hell was I going to be defeated, so I just stood there and stared him down. Who the hell was this middle aged, balding, overweight, no class, assclown to not serve ME a drink. Look around, ass. Sure I was on the younger side, but LOTS of these kids were still in school and underage! I was about to explode. Layla was going to think I was a complete joke. I had to put this embarrassing bar scene behind me and go introduce myself. I looked for her back in the crowd when suddenly another hand tapped me on my shoulder. This one with long red nails.

“Soooorry, I don’t ussuwally dew this honey, but you are just too adooowrable for me to NOT set you up with my dawda” said the tipsy forty-something-year-old trespasser in a burgundy dress. Her voice was a torturous blend of Queens and New Jersey. I wanted to turn away and find Layla, but I was not ready, and this woman was at least a distraction from my enemy behind the counter. “Pam” chatted my ear off for a solid half-hour. Not that I really minded, though. Schmoozing with adults had always been an effective way to build up my ego, and at that moment I needed it. Besides, I was totally eating up the idea of Layla wondering what was going on between this mysterious older woman and me. Who am I kidding? She probably hadn’t even noticed. After ten minutes of listening, I had had enough of her banter and began to dominate the conversation. I looked over and made brief eye contact with Layla. Yes! Mather, future in college, Long Island, traveling, her daughter, blah blah blah. I was back. I said good-bye and was through with her, feeling like a young “master of the universe” once again. Layla was nowhere in sight.

She had vanished. I walked around from table to table polishing off other people’s drinks until I saw Collin, who was talking to a tiny little firecracker I knew from tennis camp. Her black thong showed through her zebra print dress. I started to go over to say hello, but I heard the bell signaling that it was time for dinner. Everyone was already seated by the time I reached Mrs. Carson across the room, and I began to feel a little bit like a moron. When I got to the table, Mrs. Carson signaled that the younger generation of the Carson party was at table sixty-eight. She pointed across the stiff, silent room, and I almost died. I was sticking out like a sore thumb. Layla was sure to see me. What a goof. I power walked to through the crowded room, hopping over chairs, trying not to trip and throwing out “pardons” and “excuse mes” every five seconds. Halfway to the table, Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me” began and an Anglo-Saxon Chinese dragon of white dresses started marching towards me. The ladies of the Junior Committee, all dressed in white like the swans they were saving, shuffled toward the podium at the front of the tent. A porky little blonde who was probably twenty-eight and too old for this type of thing led the way. She paused as she saw me in her path, and the sheep behind her piled on like a nightmare on I-95. I waved, put my head down, and darted out of the way.

Editorial Reviews

"Best debut novel of romantic privilege and perils since This Side of Paradise, and best ironic novel of the North Shore--the gilded one, Long Island--since The Great Gatsby. Like his Octopus, Dorson's tale will grab you; you won't escape, but you will expire with a smile."--Charles Scribner III, author of The Shadow of God

"Dorson boasts the perspective and talent to chronicle the elite of New York, from their sanctums on the Upper East Side--think Dorrian's and JG Melon--to their enclaves on Long Island. The book offers an irreverent, snappy portrayal of a world where black-tie is more common than blue jeans, and people care about where you prepped." --Elizabeth Brown, Quest Magazine

"The Catcher in the Rye meets Bright Lights, Big City."--Christopher Beha, author of Arts & Entertainments

From the Publisher

2014-05-07
An immature and spoiled prep school student vacillates between the Manhattan club scene and the cocktail soirees of the Long Island elite during one long, bad summer.This odd duck of a teenage dramedy by banking analyst/debut novelist Dorson draws on his own experience at a similarly preppy academy. The novel's protagonist is Callum Littlefield, a preening little snot who believes he's a big fish in the small pond of his boarding school in the Berkshires. We meet him in the midst of his fall from grace, as he's first reprimanded for underage drinking and then expelled for dealing ditch weed to his smarmy classmates. Virtually abandoned by his emotionally distant father and Xanax-addled mother, Callum is sentenced to spend the summer working at the estate of his equally bizarre grandmother, whom everyone calls "Octopus" for her various leisure activities. There are strange interludes about a mentally ill servant who believes Callum has brought a curse down upon his family, and they don't really interface well with the drug- and alcohol-fueled adventures that form the core narrative. To create an excuse to get back to the city, Callum joins a creative writing group to which he actually starts applying himself. However, the majority of the book concerns his roving internal monologue in the timeless teenage pursuit of getting high and/or laid. The story tries to give Callum an arc of reversal—there is of course a girl, Layla Semmering, who inspires him to try to be a better guy. Unfortunately, Layla doesn't have much personality, and a startling denouement is manipulative—a naïve and simultaneously callous trick to pull the rug out from under readers in a novel that doesn't have that much to recommend it in the first place.An unnecessary contribution to the growing genre of douche-bag lit.

Kirkus Reviews