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  • Gimme a Call
  • Written by Sarah Mlynowski
  • Format: Trade Paperback | ISBN: 9780385735896
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  • Gimme a Call
  • Written by Sarah Mlynowski
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Gimme A Call

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Written by Sarah MlynowskiAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Sarah Mlynowski



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List Price: $9.99

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On Sale: April 27, 2010
Pages: 256 | ISBN: 978-0-375-89651-4
Published by : Delacorte Press RH Childrens Books

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Read by Cassandra Campbell
On Sale: April 27, 2010
ISBN: 978-0-307-71151-9
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ABOUT THE BOOK ABOUT THE BOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EVENTS EVENTS
Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

A new life is just a phone call away!

Devi's life isn't turning out at all like she wanted. She wasted the past three years going out with Bryan—cute, adorable, break-your-heart Bryan. Devi let her friendships fade, blew off studying, didn't join any clubs . . . and now that Bryan has broken up with her, she has nothing left.

Not even her stupid cell phone—she dropped it in the mall fountain. Now it only calls one number . . . hers. At age fourteen, three years ago!

Once Devi gets over the shock—and convinces her younger self that she isn't some wacko—she realizes that she's been given an awesome gift. She can tell herself all the right things to do . . . because she's already done all the wrong ones! Who better to take advice from than your future self?

Except . . .what if getting what you think you want changes everything?

Fans of Sarah Mlynowski's Magic in Manhattan series will love this hilarious novel with a high-concept premise .


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt

I should just return Bryan’s watch to Nordstrom and go home. Instead, I’m sitting by the circular fountain in the Stonybrook Mall, staring at the window of the Sunrise Skin Spa. It features a poster of a wrinkle- free woman and the slogan Go Back in Time.
Sounds good to me. If I could go back in time, there’s lots I’d tell my younger self.

Including:
In third grade, do not let Karin Ferris cut your bangs. Your best friend is no stylist. She’s going to accidentally cut them too short. And too crooked. And she won’t always be your best friend either.

In fifth grade, do not put marshmallows in the toaster oven, even though it seems like a good idea. Toasty! Gooey! Yummy! No. When they expand, the tip of one of the marshmallows kisses the burner, and the toaster catches fire, and your entire family will forever bring up the story about how you almost burnt the house down.

Sophomore year: don’t leave your retainer in a napkin in the cafeteria—unless you want to wade through three spaghetti- and- meatball- filled garbage bins to find it.
This December: do not buy the Dolly jeans you like in a size 4 because you believe they’ll stretch. They will not.

May twenty- first: do not buy Him a silver watch for a surprise graduation present, because then you will spend senior skip day at the mall returning it. Which brings me to the most important tip.

About Him. Bryan.

If I could go back in time, the most important thing I would tell myself would be this: never ever fall for Bryan. I would warn  fourteen- year- old me never even to go out with Him in the first place. Or even better—the party where we officially met when I was a freshman never would have happened. Okay, the party could have happened, but when he called me later and asked me out, I would have said no. Nice of you to ask but I am just not interested. Thanks but no thanks. Have a nice life. Maybe I’d tell my­self to stay home instead and organize my closet.

Imagine that. Talking to my  fourteen-year-old self. I wish.

I spot Veronica at Bella Boutique, right beside the Sun­rise Skin Spa. She waves. I wave back. “Devi! Come see my new stock!” she calls. “It’s stunning!” As if I’d listen to her. She’s the one who swore up and down that my jeans would stretch. “I’ll give you the employee discount!” she of­fers, even though I haven’t worked a shift since the winter holidays.

“I’ll come look in a minute,” I call back to her. I rum­mage through my purse, find my phone, and dial for my messages. I want to hear the one he left this morning. Again. I’ve only listened to it once. Fine, seven times. I know: pathetic. But I keep hoping each time that it’ll be different.

“Hi, Devi. It’s me.” Bryan’s voice is low and raspy, like a smoker’s. We tried cigarettes once, together, at the Morgan Lookout on Mount Woodrove when we were sophomores. But when we kissed, he tasted like a dirty sock, so that was the end of our smoking.
Until our relationship went up in smoke.

“I wish you’d answer,” his voice continues. “You always answer.” A pause as though he’s waiting for me to answer. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m really, really sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

The message is still playing in my ear, but I can barely hear, because now I’m crying, and my cheeks are all wet and my hand is all wet and how could he have told me he loves me when he obviously doesn’t and—

Splash!


Like a bar of soap in the shower, my cell phone has slipped through my fingers and landed in the fountain.

Superb. One more thing to tell my younger (by two sec­onds) self: don’t drop your cell phone into a  house-size saucer of green chlorine. I peer into the water. A flash of sil­ver twinkles up at me. Is that it? Nope. It’s a nickel. The pond is filled with coins in addition to my phone. Are there really people out there who believe that throwing a nickel into the water can make a wish come true?

Aha! I see it, I see it! I stretch out to reach it, but it’s a bit too far away. I lie down on my stomach and reach again. A little more... almost there...

The cell phone gets pulled further out of my reach by the swirling water jets within the fountain. Ah, crapola— I’m going to need to get in there.

Luckily, I’m wearing  flip- flops. I look around to make sure no security people are watching, then stand on the bench, roll up the bottoms of my oxygen- depriving Dolly jeans, and step in.

Cold. Slimy. When I look down, my toes are bloated and tinted green. Maybe the water is radioactive and I’m turning into the Hulk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Harry Travis and Kellerman marching through the mall like they own the place. Harry—definitely one of the best-looking guys in our class—has dark hair, a muscular build, intense blue eyes, and the rosiest skin. He also has this sexy stubble going on— very rugged and hot. And Kellerman—everyone just calls him Kellerman—looks like he’s already part of a frat. He’s always wearing his older brother’s Pi Lambda Phi hat, and sweatpants.

I duck down so that the coolio senior duo won’t see me. That would just make today perfect, wouldn’t it? The water soaks through the knees of my jeans. Crap, crap, crap! When the guys turn in to the food court, I find my footing and try to relocate my phone. And there it is again! Yahoo! Balanced on top of a pyramid of nickels. Got it.
Yes!

Now all I have to do is safely make it back to the side...

Splat.
The swirls of water push me over, and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my butt. Great. Just great. My eyes start to prickle.

I heave myself up and back to the safety of the fountain’s edge, leaving a trail of shiny green droplets. I ignore my sop­ping wet jeans—maybe the chemicals will help them stretch?—and wipe my phone against my shirt, as if that’s gonna help. Please don’t be broken, please, please, please. I press the power button.

No sound. No connection. No nothing.

I spot Veronica staring at me. “You okay?” she hollers.

Um, no? “I’m fine!” I wave, then turn back to the phone. I press power again. Still nothing. I press the one but­ton. Nothing. The two. Nothing. Three, four, five, all noth­ing. Six, seven, eight, nine, the pound button, the volume button. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I kick the floor. My  flip-flop makes a squishy sound.

I hit the power button. Again. Nothing.

I hit the nine, the eight, the seven, the six, the five, four, three, two, one, the pound button, the volume button. All nothing.

I press the send button. The phone comes alive.

There we go. I have no idea who I called, but it’s  ringing.
Sarah Mlynowski

About Sarah Mlynowski

Sarah Mlynowski - Gimme A Call

Photo © Heather Waraksa

Sarah from A to Z

A is for Aviva, my little sister, the inspiration for the Magic in Manhattan series. No, unfortunately, not the witchcraft part. What inspired the story was the always-complicated love, jealousy, and pride involved in a sister relationship. (Is it fair that my younger sister sports a larger bra size than I do? I think not.)
B is for biting my nails, an incredibly disgusting habit I’ve been trying to break since I was 10. Yes, I’ve tried that bad tasting “you’ll-never-bite-your-nails-again” polish, and yes, I did bite them again.
C is for Canada, the wonderful and very cold country I was born in.
D is for divorce. Most of my main characters have divorced parents. I’m thinking this has to do with my own parents separating when I was 12. Just a hunch.
E is for 11, the number of times I’ve moved in the last 15 years. These days I break into hives at the scent of packing tape.
F is for first person, the voice I use to write all my books. I’ve always preferred the confessional, intimate tone. You feel as if you’re reading someone’s diary. Not that I’ve ever read anyone else’s diary. OK, just once, but Aviva, you left it lying around under your mattress. Obviously, you meant for me to read it.
G is for Gimme a Call, the title of my new novel. The book is about Devi Banks, a 17-year-old who accidentally calls her 14-year-old self. If I could call my high school self, I’d tell her to keep more diaries and stop over-plucking her eyebrows. (I’m pretty sure I didn’t want to look surprised in all my prom pictures.)
H is for headgear, the orthodontic contraption I was forced to wear in the name of straight teeth when I was 12. Divorce and headgear? Poor 12-year-old me.
I is for the Internet, a.k.a. a writer’s best tool for procrastination. Facebook! You’ve got mail! Amazon! Why haven’t I written anything in three hours?
J is for Judy. As in Judy Blume. Hers were the first books I read that made me laugh out loud and want to become a writer.
K is for karma. Like right after I read my sister’s diary, I dropped an encyclopedia on my big toe. OK, that didn’t really happen. But it could have.
L is for Lizzie Forshort, the novella I wrote when I was in grade three (that’s how we say it in Canada, not third grade. We also say “write tests” instead of “take tests,” use the washroom instead of the restroom, and enjoy a mix of fries, gravy, and cheese curds, which is known as poutine, and deep-fried sugar coated donut-like dessert called a beavertail. Anyway back to poor Lizzie.) My mom typed up my manuscript and sent it to Bantam Books. That is the (longer than I intended) story of my very first rejection letter.
M is for my mom, who no longer types up my stories, but is still the very first person to read everything I write.
N is for newcomball, the only sport I know how to play. It’s like volleyball, except you catch the ball before throwing it over the net. Now that I think about it, newcomball might not be a real sport, just a game taught to the unathletic girls at sleepaway camp.
O is for orange chicken, which is what my parents called carrots to trick me into eating them. I was planning on using the same trick on my daughter, but she loves carrots. And broccoli. And peas. Weird, eh?
P is for pet. At the moment I have no pets, although I’d love to have a dog. I would name the dog Paige so that if I ever own a bookstore, I can call it Paige’s. The first pet I had was a turtle. My aunt and uncle bought it for me as a bat mitzvah gift. I was enamored. My parents were not. They took it for a walk and claimed it ran away. I believed them.
Q is for Queenstown, New Zealand, where my husband proposed in 2003. We’d started dating in 1994 when we were 17, so in my opinion it was about time.
R is for Ramona and Her Father, the first chapter book I ever read. I remember being disappointed that there weren’t balloons and smiley pages when I got to page 100. I mean, hello? Page 100? That’s cause for celebration.
S is for scuba diving, an awesome activity. S is also for the sharks I saw when I was scuba diving. Less awesome.
T is for 24, the age I was when my first novel, Milkrun, was published.
U is for unpronounceable, which is what you probably thought when you first saw my last name. Don’t worry, I can’t pronounce it either.
V is for very lucky, which is how I feel that I’m a novelist. Not only do I get to make up stories all day, but also I get to wear my pajamas to work.
W is for wishes. Here are my top three wishes if I were a witch like in Bras & Broomsticks: World peace, a cure for cancer, and naturally straight hair.
X is for xxx, which is how I sign most of my e-mails. Though sometimes I use “All best” when I’m trying to appear professional.
Y is for Yew Nork, which was how I referred to New York until I was seven. On top of that, I pronounced my Rs as Ws. Good thing I had speech therapy, or these days I’d be calling Yew Nawk, Yew Nawk, home.
Z is for zed, which is how I was taught to say the last letter of the alphabet in the country I’m from. If you’ve already forgotten where that is, no beavertail for you, missy.
Sarah Mlynowski

Sarah Mlynowski Events>

Sarah Mlynowski - Gimme A Call

Photo © Heather Waraksa

11/14/2014 Inspire: Toronto International Book Fair. Metro Toronto Convention Centre, North Building.
torontobookfair.ca
Toronto, ON
3:00pm
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11/16/2014 Jewish Public Library, Girl's Night Out.
jewishpubliclibrary.ca
Montreal, QC

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11/17/2014 Ottawa Public Library, Teen Author Fest.
biblioottawalibrary.ca
Ottawa, ON

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