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  • Maybe
  • Written by Brent Runyon
  • Format: eBook | ISBN: 9780375849930
  • Our Price: $7.99
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Maybe

Written by Brent RunyonAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Brent Runyon

eBook

List Price: $7.99

eBook

On Sale: June 10, 2008
Pages: | ISBN: 978-0-375-84993-0
Published by : Knopf Books for Young Readers RH Childrens Books
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ABOUT THE BOOK ABOUT THE BOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE PRAISE
Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Maybe everything will be different here. Maybe I should drive away and never come back. Maybe my brother didn't mean to. Maybe my brother was right. Maybe I can get someone to have sex with me. Maybe no one will ever love me. Maybe I should be an actor. Maybe I shouldn't pretend to be deaf.

Maybe if I mouth the words no one will know I'm not singing. But maybe someone, somehow, will hear me anyway.

Brent Runyon offers a raw, wrenching novel of a boy on the edge. It's a powerful story about love and loss and death and anger and the near impossibility for a sixteen-year-old boy to both understand how he feels and to make himself heard.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpt

This sucks. We’re moving. The truck just left with all our stuff and my mom and dad are waiting for me in the car. We’re about to leave. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe we’re moving away from the only place I’ve lived in my whole life.

I lean into the car and say, “Wait, I think I forgot something.”

I go back into the house one last time. It’s so weird to be in here with everything empty. The couch used to be right there. There’s an impression in the carpet where it used to be—the ghost of a couch.

I walk down the hall to my room. There’s nothing left. The posters are off the walls—all that’s left are a few pieces of tape and the hole from when I tried to do a flip and put my foot right through the drywall.

My brother’s room is right across the hall. The door is closed and I don’t want to open it. When we were little we used to barricade ourselves into his room with those cardboard bricks and then bust through like we were the Incredible Hulk. I know it’s empty, but I just can’t stand to open the door and look in. I don’t want to see it empty. I want to remember it full.

There is a sign on his door that he made in Shop class. The word Maybe carved into the wood. It’s stuck on the door with some heavy-duty adhesive. Mom told me to leave it because she didn’t want to ruin the door. Fuck that. I tear it off, and some of the paint with it. I just want to have something.

I run out the front door and slam it behind me one last time. My parents are still waiting in the car. They’re sitting in the front seats being totally quiet. My dad is driving, my mom is crying, and I’m sitting in the back by myself.

ONE

Mom drives me to my new high school. Classes start in three days, and I’m supposed to meet my new guidance counselor and choose my schedule. Jesus, why do I have to do this? Why can’t someone else do this for me?

I’m sure my guidance counselor is going to be some old guy in a terrible suit and a tie that’s about six inches too short and just lie on his belly. He’s going to have this terrible breath and probably be mixing whiskey in with his coffee.

Mom drops me off out front and says she’s going to do some errands. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.” An hour? Why do I need a whole hour?

I walk through the front doors and stand in the lobby.

The school is totally empty. When a place that is usually full of people is totally empty, it’s really weird. The floors are all waxed and shiny, and it smells like heavy-duty toxic lemon cleaner.

The only place that even has lights on is the main office right in front of me.

The lady behind the desk is old but has jet-black hair and one eye that is looking at the door I just came through. The other eye is looking at me.

She says, “Hello, son. Can I help you?” Her voice is unbelievably high—like a fire-engine siren.

I say, “I’m here to meet my guidance counselor.”

The lady is wearing a muumuu—like the thing that people from Hawaii wear, except I don’t think she is from Hawaii. She asks my last name and I tell her, and she searches for a while in this really ancient computer and then looks up at me and at the door and smiles.

She says, “You’re with Mr. Scott.”

“Okay, how do I find him?”

“Follow the drumming.”

I walk out of the office and stand in the hall for a second. Was she saying that Mr. Scott was like the band director or something? There isn’t any drumming that I can hear.

Wait, now I hear the drumming. It just started. It’s not, like, crappy jazz drumming or marching-band drumming, it’s straight up rock-and-roll drumming. Real kick-ass—bass-snare-ba-bass-bass-snare—drumming.

I walk down the hall toward the sound. I get so close I feel the bass drum in my chest.

I pull open the doors to the auditorium and stand in the back and watch the guy play. He has his drum kit set up in the orchestra pit, and he’s just going crazy on the drums.

He has long hair and he’s wearing some sort of cutoff shirt, and his arms are a total blur.

I move closer to get a better look at how fast his arms are moving from drum to drum, and then he sees me and stops. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

I say, “You didn’t have to stop.” I mean, he’s a pretty damn good drummer.

“No. No. I’m almost done.” He’s out of breath. “Do you need me for something?”

“Well, I don’t know. I guess you’re supposed to be my guidance counselor.”

“Whoa. Okay. Cool. Let’s do it.”

He takes me back to his office and fills out a bunch of forms for me. He signs me up for all my required classes: Latin II, Chemistry, English, Algebra II, and U.S. History. I sign up for an elective called Visual Language, because it sounds cool and I like movies.

He says, “Okay, Brian, you’ve got one elective left. Third period. And the only classes that are open are Shop and Chorus.” He looks at me like the choice is pretty obvious. Take Shop and get your fingers cut off, or take Chorus and learn something about music.

My brother took Shop, so I sign up for Chorus.


From the Hardcover edition.
Brent Runyon

About Brent Runyon

Brent Runyon - Maybe

Photo © Judith Haut

"The second hardest thing to do in life is to change from a child into an adult. There are so many ways to mess up. So many ways to get lost. It's like crossing the ocean in a rowboat."--Brent Runyon

FROM THE AUTHOR
I took a job as a newspaper reporter a few months ago to help pay the bills. The other reason I took the job is that I get to do the police briefs, the section of the paper that details all of the crime and arrests in the small town I live in.

I’ve always loved that section of the paper. Especially here in this town. For years, I’ve been opening up to that section first, because there’s always something special in there.

A tan work glove was reported stolen from a 55-year-old man's unlocked car on Spinnaker Lane, at 9:32 AM. The man told police his GPS was moved but not stolen. A neighbor said his unlocked car was also rifled through, some change had been stolen, and a tan work glove was left on his seat.


Or:

An Alderberry Lane, man was arrested at 7:10 PM after neighbors reported he was threatening to kill them with a phone book.


Or:

Police were dispatched to Lakeview Avenue for a report of an uncontrollable teenage boy at 9:42 PM. The teen was reportedly refusing to follow directions, yelling, and screaming at his mother.

Maybe it’s just me, but I love the idea of the teenage boy who is so uncontrollable his parents have to call the cops to get him to calm down.

Not because it would be fun to be in that situation, but because I think we’ve probably all been in that situation–at least on one side of it. Most of us, I’m guessing, don’t get to the point where we call the cops.

Imagine if we did?

Dispatcher: 911, what is your emergency?
Parent: Yeah, hi, I have an uncontrollable teenage boy on my hands out here on Lakeview.
Dispatcher: What is the teenager doing?
Parent: Not following directions. Yelling and screaming. Acting in a generally uncontrollable ways.
Dispatcher: I’ve already dispatched a unit. Hold tight.


I mean, I get calling the cops if your car has been stolen or someone breaks into your house, but for a missing work glove? A phone book? An uncontrollable teenager?

But people do it all the time. And I mean, all the time. In a big city, probably, that stuff never gets into the police briefs because there are cars being stolen and homes broken into and worse.

And that’s part of the reason I took this job in this town for this newspaper. I love that I get to write about this stuff, because in a way, it makes the town seem small and quiet and normal.

There are still houses getting broken into, and the occasional car stolen, and every once in awhile there’s a murder.

But it’s still the kind of place where a tan work glove is stolen from an unlocked car, the police show up to write a report, and it makes it into the local newspaper.
Praise

Praise

“Sensitively-wrought novel . . . will quickly draw teens into the story and entice them to read between the lines to understand Brian’s underlying sorrow.”—Publishers Weekly, Starred

“Destined in this reviewer’s eyes to become a young adult classic. . . . If one has ever looked at a male youth and wondered what was going on inside his head, this book will go a long way toward answering some of those questions.”—VOYA

“This is a superb exploration of sudden loss, romantic disappointment, and general adolescent angst.”—School Library Journal


From the Trade Paperback edition.

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