True Story: A Novel - Softcover

Reed Petty, Kate

 
9781984877703: True Story: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1984877704 ISBN 13: 9781984877703
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2021

Inhaltsangabe

“A gripping, ripped-from-headlines tale.” —People 

“Spellbinding.” —Megan Abbott, The New York Times Book Review 

Tracing the fifteen-year fallout of a toxic high school rumor, a riveting, astonishingly original debut novel about the power of stories—and who gets to tell them

2015. A gifted and reclusive ghostwriter, Alice Lovett makes a living helping other people tell their stories. But she is haunted by the one story she can't tell: the story of, as she puts it, "the things that happened while I was asleep."

1999. Nick Brothers and his lacrosse teammates return for their senior year at their wealthy Maryland high school as the reigning state champions. They're on top of the world—until two of his friends drive a passed-out girl home from of the team's "legendary" parties, and a rumor about what happened in the backseat spreads through the town like wildfire.

The boys deny the allegations, and, eventually, the town moves on. But not everyone can. Nick descends into alcoholism, and Alice builds a life in fits and starts, underestimating herself and placing her trust in the wrong people. When she finally gets the opportunity to confront the past she can't remember—but which has nevertheless shaped her life—will she take it?

An inventive and breathtaking exploration of a woman finding her voice in the wake of trauma, True Story is part psychological thriller, part fever dream, and part timely comment on sexual assault, power, and the very nature of truth. Ingeniously constructed and full of twists and turns that will keep you guessing until the final pages, it marks the debut of a singular and daring new voice in fiction.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Kate Reed Petty has been recognized with a Narrative magazine 30 Below Award, as well as grants and scholarships from the Robert Deutsch Foundation, The Mount, Bloedel Reserve, and the Sewanee Writers Conference. Her short fiction has been published in Electric Literature, American Short Fiction, Blackbird, Ambit, Nat. Brut, and Los Angeles Review of Books, and she has a master of letters from the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. She lives in Baltimore.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

When you last came to ask for this story, I'd already been hiding out in Barcelona for years. I live in an airy studio on the top floor of a five-story building, with tile floors and a big sliding glass door that opens onto a patio; the patio is lined with terra-cotta pots too heavy to move, left by the previous tenants and overflowing with succulents. The apartment is inexpensive and private; the neighbors keep to themselves, and the landlord likes her checks in the mail. It took a little while, but now I feel safe enough here that on hot nights I don't close the patio door, leaving my bedroom open to the breeze whispering up from the city streets and to the phantom intruders that used to haunt my dreams.

I love this apartment the way astronauts love their ships. My only complaint is the display in the window of the pharmacy downstairs, which I pass every day on my morning run. It features three female mannequins with rounded onyx surfaces where their faces should be, their arms and legs cut off at the biceps and thighs. They've been arranged in come-hither poses, hips torqued out as though they were modeling bikinis-but instead, they model first-aid equipment. The one closest to my apartment door has a black lumbar support belt strapped around her waist like a corset and a blue sling for a broken arm draped around her neck. Perched in a wheelchair to her left, another has a knee brace attached at the thigh. The third leans stiffly against the far wall, a sleep mask covering the place where her eyes should be.


For months and months now, this display hasn't changed. Try as I might to look away, I can't help glancing at it as I pass, the way a woman in a horror movie can't resist going upstairs. Don't take this the wrong way, but whenever I look at the mannequins I think of you. My oldest friend, you have always stood by me in the face of casual misogyny and bad taste.

When you came to Barcelona, I really did intend to meet you at your hotel, as IÕd said I would. But then I got to the street and found myself walking in the opposite direction. I needed time to think. It was one of those abundant late-summer days, and I walked in a wide arc, under orange trees ruffling their leaves in the sun. I passed old women walking arm in arm, families pushing children on swings in clean public playgrounds. I walked all the way to the Parc de la Ciutadella, where green parrots bobbled around, mingling with pigeons on the paving stones.

I didn't mean to stand you up. I told myself I was circling around to approach your hotel from the opposite side, but then I just kept circling.

Eventually I walked back to my apartment. I turned off my phone, then went out and sat on my wide patio in the afternoon sun and finished a mystery novel whose ending I'd guessed from the start. I fell asleep for a while, and when I woke up I cooked a more complicated dinner than I usually bother to-pasta with olives and artichoke hearts, an endive salad on the side. It was delicious. Only when the dishes were clean did I finally call your hotel.

I'm sure you thought I was still angry. The truth is I was embarrassed. You've always been the one who was brave-no, the one who was sure. You've always been so sure of the story you want me to tell, the story you've been asking me for since we were seventeen: the story about the things that happened while I was asleep. "It's your story," you would say. "If you don't let it out, it will take over your life." But the story is mine only as the victim owns the prosecution, or the whale the harpoon. Telling it has always been the privilege of the perpetrators, who have the actual facts, and of the bystanders-like you-who believe they know.

Back then I wasn't ready to explain. So I told the receptionist not to call your room, just to give you the message that I'd been summoned to London on short notice by a demanding client. "Tell her not to wait for me," I said. "I'm not sure when I'll return." Then I turned off my phone again and went back out to the patio. I watched the lights blinking on across the city like eyes, a constellation of night watchmen. I hoped you would accept my excuse, though I knew it was obviously false.

Now I hope you'll accept this instead.



SATAN'S BRIDES

by Alice Lovett

& Haley Moreland

9/1/95



FADE IN:



INTERIOR. A ONE-ROOM CABIN IN THE WOODS - NIGHT



LISA is sitting alone with a bottle of RED WINE and a PINT OF ICE CREAM. She's been CRYING. Her makeup is all SMEARED.



LISA

I can't believe that bastard!

Lisa GULPS down an ENTIRE GLASS OF WINE.

She WIPES her mouth. She THROWS the glass across the room. The glass SHATTERS.



LISA

Fifteen years of marriage! And he leaves me for . . . Francesca!!!

Lisa flops forward facedown onto the table. She WAILS.



LISA

Why, Jim? Why? Why?

She reaches over and takes a big bite of ICE CREAM.



LISA

(wailing)

This ice cream isn't even that good!

Suddenly: There is a LOUD THUMP ON THE DOOR!

Lisa JUMPS. She stands up. She stares at the door.



LISA

(hesitantly)

Who . . . who is it?

Lisa slowly OPENS THE DOOR and sees: There is a LARGE KNIFE stuck point-first in the face of the door.

Lisa SCREAMS and SLAMS the door closed.

THEN: She hears the sound of A WOMAN LAUGHING EVILLY.

Lisa SPINS around.



LISA

Who's there?

There's no one else in the room.

But: The ICE CREAM PINT has been knocked over. There's a puddle of MELTED ICE CREAM on the table.



LISA

Oh my god.

Lisa sees that someone has DRAGGED A FINGER THROUGH THE MELTED ICE CREAM, spelling out:

SATAN STILL LOVES YOU

Lisa SCREAMS.

Lisa RUNS to the door and flings it open.

She GRABS the KNIFE.

Then she FLEES.



EXTERIOR. THE WOODS AT NIGHT - CONTINUOUS



Lisa RUNS through the WOODS, panicked. Looking back over her shoulder . . .

She TRIPS! She FALLS! The KNIFE flies out of her hand!



WOMAN (OFF-SCREEN)

(evil)

Hi, Lisa.

Lisa looks up. It's FRANCESCA. A beautiful woman with heavy red lipstick and thick blue eye shadow.



LISA

Francesca?!



FRANCESCA

Happy to see me?



LISA

No! You stole my husband!

Francesca is witheringly condescending.



FRANCESCA

I didn't "steal" your husband. I distracted him. I really want YOU.

Lisa scrambles backward. She's edging closer to THE KNIFE.



FRANCESCA

I stole Jim so that you would come to your vacation cabin alone.



LISA

Why did you do that?



FRANCESCA

Because I want you to join us!



LISA

Join who?



FRANCESCA

The brides of Satan!



LISA

What?!?!



FRANCESCA

Your husband is tied to a tree back there. All you have to do is sacrifice him with that knife, and then Satan will make us both all-powerful!

Lisa leans over and picks up the KNIFE, considers it.



LISA

So all I have to do is kill Jim . . .



FRANCESCA

Think of how easily he left you!



LISA

. . . Like this?

Lisa LUNGES forward and STABS Francesca in the heart.

Francesca SCREAMS and FALLS to her KNEES.



FRANCESCA

We could have been . . . all-powerful . . .

Francesca DIES.


Lisa stands, catching her breath. She looks up and off into the woods. She REALIZES.



LISA

Jim!!! I'm coming!



FADE TO BLACK.



Part I

Lax...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2021
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1984877704
ISBN 13 
9781984877703
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
336
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Purmerul LTD
https://strengholt.nl/en/

22 Liuleburgaz Str., floor 4, app. 9
Plovdiv
Bulgarien

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