<div>This fall, the film festival circuit will be introduced to the indomitable Luli McMullen in Hick, the new film made from the acclaimed novel by Andrea Portes, who also adapted the screenplay. The film&#151;directed by Derick Martini&#151;stars Chlo&#235; Grace Moretz, Blake Lively and Eddie Redmayne and features Rory Culkin, Anson Mount, Juliette Lewis and Alec Baldwin in supporting roles.<br><br>Hick is the story of Luli (Moretz), a bright kid from a hick town who&#8217;s had enough and strikes out on her own with some &#147;borrowed&#8221; cash, a .45 and her wits. On the road, Luli is taken under the wing of a glamorous young grifter named Glenda (Lively), who has experienced worlds barely imaginable to Luli. As the two make their way across the American landscape, they encounter a captivating and dangerous young man named Eddie Kreezer (Redmayne), a disturbing criminal subculture, and some hard truths about what it means to be a young woman on the run, grasping at a future.<br><br>Hick the movie is produced by Lighthouse Entertainment and Taylor Lane Productions, with Stone River Productions serving as executive producer.<br><br>Though its first-person narrating voice is fast-paced, powerful and unquestionably authentic, Hick is a debut novel.<br><br>Beyond this voice, what makes the book so extraordinary is that, although all of the worst things imaginable do befall this 13-year-old girl, she is never defeated by them. Luli always fights back; she always resurfaces.<br><br>Set as a coming-of-age novel, Hick tracks the real perils that modern teenagers so often face. And it does so with bright wit, energy, and an indomitable spirit.<br><br>This is a book that will grab the reader from the first page and not let go.<br><br>And it is written by a woman who is becoming a cultural force in the hippest parts of Los Angeles.</div>

Hick

By Andrea Portes

Unbridled Books

Copyright © 2007 Andrea Portes
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-932961-32-4

Chapter One

You know why you keep losing, cause, guess what, you're a fucking loser."

If I could grab you out your seat and make you fly past yourself and set you down in the middle of this red wooden shoebox, you'd be staring at my mama. You can see her now, ruddy-faced and getting a little too loud, some kind of aging Brigitte Bardot, ten years later and twenty pounds past what might have been, sitting there in a yellow tank, pink nails and blond flip-up hair. And the shoes, the shoes are the crowning glory, the angel on top of the tinsel tree, yellow plastic mules with a flower etched on the strap, just above her chipped pink toe-berries. My mama's littlest toe looks like a shrimp. She's half in the bag and not caring about bra strap showing or big brass laughing or acting slutty.

That's my dad, there in the corner, hunched over the bar like some kind of beaten question mark. He's staring fixed into his 7 & 7. Seven for give up. Seven for make do. Not much left over. There's no doubt in my mind that if he could dive headfirst into the ice-cube clinking whiskey pool dangling at the end of his fingertips, he would.

If you threw Elvis and a scarecrow in a blender, topped the whole thing off with Seagram's 7 and pressed dice, you would make my dad. He's got tar black hair and shoulder blades that cut through his undershirt like clipped wings. He looks like a gray-skinned, skinny-rat cowboy and I would be lying if I didn't say that I am, maybe sorta kinda, keep it secret, in love with him.

And you would be, too, you would, if you met him before drink number five or six. Just meet him then. Get lost before things get ugly.

His name is Nick, but call him Nicholas, like that Russian royal from my yard-sale World Book, cause if anybody in Lancaster County looks like some displaced king, it's my dad, shot through time like a diamond in a dirtbox.

My mama's name is Tammy, last name Cutter. And the worst part about it is, my dad can't stop being in love with her. Even as she sharpens her knife on the bones sticking out his back, even as she slurs her words, even as she makes goo-goo eyes at strangers, even then, he tilts his glass and shrugs and jiggles the change in his pocket and waits for her to love him back.

"I mean, they never win. They never win. Tom Osborne is just not a winning coach."

She lowers her voice to a loud and confidential whisper.

"I mean, if you ask me, he's just a dud. Just an old dud. He's not hungry enough to win."

And then, like she's gonna show you what true hunger looks like, she throws her head back, sucks down the rest of her berry-lime cooler and slams the empty glass on the bar like a drunk German, itching for a fight.

If you want to know how to reach us, you can call us here. Let's just say that's your best shot. So, here's the number, just ask for Nick. Let's just say the phone may or may not be working back home. Let's just say next to the line marked O for office, you can just put down the Alibi and Bob's your uncle. If you want to track us down on foot, it's that red neon sign three miles outside Lincoln, halfway down Highway 34 towards Palmyra. If you get to the water tower, you passed it.

"I hear they're gonna build a mall down on Route 5, cross from the slaughterhouse."

The bartender's trying to save me from hanging my head down and memorizing the floorboards. His name is Ray and he's known me since I was tall enough to put a quarter in the jukebox. The angels played a trick on him, giving him the body of a linebacker, then putting freckles all over him and topping the whole thing off with strawberry-blond hair. It's like if Strawberry Shortcake had a big brother that looked like he wanted to kick your ass.

Sometimes I call him Uncle Ray because sometimes he's the only one that makes sure I get home safe at night. He and I are in a secret club cause we both know the rest of the night by heart. We've watched this little drama played out, night after night, season by season, and Dad and Tammy are the stars of the show. That's the way it's gotta be, she wouldn't have it any other way. She's not stepping out of bed for just some two-line bit part.

Here's what's gonna happen. The little round glasses are gonna get filled and drained, filled and drained, over and over and over again. For about the first two drinks there's gonna be a nice breeze going through, simple, easy, light FM, lemonade by the side of the road.

Then around drink number three or four, everybody's gonna start having the time of their life. These guys are all gonna be best friends for good with everybody, that's for sure. Somebody is gonna play "That's Life" on the juke-box and everybody is gonna sing along and pat each other on the back and next thing you know, we're all moving in together.

Lord knows, "That's Life" is the anthem of drunks everywhere. If you want to make friends, just walk into any bar from here to Wahoo, find the juke-box, put in a quarter, play "That's Life" and watch the souses slur and sway. Before you know it those gin-blossom faces will be sidled-up, just a little too close, going on six ways till sundown, about the one that got away.

But wait till drink number three or four. That's when a fella could drop by from Timbuktu and be taken in as a brother, no matter what color or language or creed, we are all compadres here. He could be a Hatfield and the McCoys would sell him their sisters and offer him grits. Mi casa es tu casa. Mi bar es tu bar. Drinks are on me, amigos.

Then, around drink number five, everything is gonna get real quiet. I call this the calm before the storm. That is, when I call it anything, which is never, since the whole thing is so shamey, why talk about it in the first place? Why even mention it at all? Maybe let's just talk about the weather or the new mall down on Route 5.

Okay, now, here comes drink number six, that's a doozey. That's really the party crasher, that one. He comes in and you know there's gonna be trouble. You can hear the record scratch right when he walks through the door. Drink number six. Hold on to your hats.

Get out now, before drink number seven or eight come waltzing through the door, cause you can slice up the air with a butter knife. You can almost see the surliness rising up through the smoke, coming off the pool table. You could just tell drink number seven and eight to stay home, but they got invited with drink number one and they RSVP'd around drink number four. There is no way they are not coming to this party. They've been gussyed-up since happy hour.

So, here they are, drink number seven and eight, and here's Tammy, starting the show off with a bang.

"Luli, you're doomed, you know that. You are just fuckin doomed."

She's leaning in, serious, trying to get it through my head that this is the most important thing I ever heard ever. The words are dragging the side of her lip down, clumsy and falling slurred. She leers tipsy at my dad. If she could find a way to take back time by slicing up pieces off her husband, if she could turn his skin inside out and get a rebate, then she would cut and cut and not stop cutting until she's deep into the bone and even then. She would slice and dice with pleasure.

"I mean ... look at this drunk you got for a dad, Lull. Lookit him. Just lookit him."

My mama likes to call my dad a drunk but she's giving him a run for his money. He's gonna sit in silence for a little while. He's gonna sit there and...