Lost Between Houses
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Lost Between Houses is about a turbulent year in the life of Simon Albright, a fifteen-year-old private school boy struggling to be his sophisticated mother's best friend, the rebel his girlfriend adores and the son his father respects. Which is a hard act to pull off when your mother is distracted, your girlfriend too beautiful and your father in and out of a mental institution. Lost Between Houses unfolds with mingled sarcasm, grief and awe, and grips the reader until its startling climax.
before. Eric the Poet. Bucktoothed, glasses with fishbowl lenses, he was about the ugliest son of a bitch you ever laid eyes on. But people liked him, they thought he was the real article, you know, a real live bohemian selling his wares in the street. Sometimes they’d invite him to sit at their table in an outdoor café and after a minute or two he’d be wailing away at them, telling them what bourgeois, brainless assholes they were and they’d sit there like children, sucking it in, thinking they
Mitch buy me an ice cream cone, like they were a steady couple or something, I just couldn’t stop hearing it. It made me ill. “I got to get kicking,” I said. Get kicking? Like where the fuck did that come from? We chit-chatted for a bit longer, me feeling like my head was going to explode. And then they took off, walking real slowly, looking at this and that, no hurry at all. Unbe-fucking-lievable. CHAPTER EIGHT ILIKE SAYING GOODBYE to places. I would have liked to wander around our
they wished they could go to a school like that, where they dressed you up like soldiers and marched you around for the whole world to look at, four hundred kids marching down the street in time. All belonging. Belonging to something. You had the feeling that if you took a wrong step anywhere, down came the fly swatter and next thing you knew you were standing by the side of the road with a dirty face watching these kids walk by. Thinking, God what assholes, but secretly wishing you were one.
machine, that guy, just the worst sort of fellow to come across. After awhile he came out of his office. Handed me a form, told me to sign it. “What’s happening?” I said. “You’re going home. And if you try to sneak back across this border, you’ll be arrested.” We went outside in the dark and got in a bus. Half-full of sleeping people. Stuffy smelling. And then we started out. The Indian guys had run out of gas; they leaned against each other like busted deckchairs. I looked at my watch; it
is a crime. Breaking and entering. I want you to appreciate this, Scarlet.” “I do.” “Well, did you at least know he was coming?” “No, Miss Jenkins.” “I have to say to the both of you that I find this all rather unconvincing.” I didn’t say anything. Scarlet was biting the inside of her lip and squeezing the tip of her index finger into her thumb. “How did you know which room was Scarlet’s?” “She told me the number one time. I just remembered.” “There was a red card on your door, Scarlet.