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Zusatztext "Entertaining, thought-provoking, and unsettling—in a good way." — Kirkus " Creedle’s debut novel is rich and thoughtful..." — Booklist " Readers will be moved by the sacrifices the teens make for each other, and the open-ended conclusion invites speculation while providing reassurance that the bonds formed between these characters won’t easily be broken." — Publishers Weekly "A thought-provoking story to fill that empty space on YA shelves for tales of realistic fiction, romance, and humor."-- School Library Journal "Creedle crafts Lily and Abelard’s story with canny insight...Readers will fall in love with their love."-- BCCB Informationen zum Autor Laura Creedle is the author of The Love Letters of Abelard and Lily , which Kirkus Reviews described as “entertaining, thought-provoking, and unsettling—in a good way.” When she’s not writing, Laura can usually be found playing pinball or watching indie horror. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband and a feral cat named Hellman who was found with her head stuck in a mayonnaise jar. Klappentext When Lily Michaels-Ryan ditches her ADHD meds and lands in detention with Abelard, she's intrigued-he seems thirty seconds behind, while she feels thirty seconds ahead. It doesn't hurt that he's brilliant and beautiful. When Abelard posts a quote from The Letters of Abelard and Heloise online, their mutual affinity for ancient love letters connects them. The two fall for each other. Hard. But is it enough to bridge their differences in person? This hilarious, heartbreaking story of human connection between two neurodivergent teens is perfect for fans of Eleanor and Park and creates characters that will stay with you long after you finish reading. CHAPTER 1 The day Abelard and I broke the wall, we had a four-hour English test. Seriously. Every tenth grade student in the State of Texas had to take a four-hour English test, which is too long to sit still even if you are a normal person. And I’m not a normal person. After the test, I told my feet to take me to geography. If I didn’t tell myself where to go, if I let my mind drift, I’d find myself in the quiet calm of the art wing, where the fluorescent lights flickered an appealingly low cycle of semipermanent gloom. Or I’d stand in the empty girls’ room just to be alone. Sometimes I think I’m not attention deficient but attention abundant. Too much everything. When I got to geography, Coach Neuwirth handed out a boring article about the importance of corn as a primary crop in the early Americas. Then he left the room. He did this a lot. Ever since basketball season had ended, Coach Neuwirth seemed like someone who was counting the minutes until the school year was over. To be fair, he wasn’t the only one running out the clock. Thirty seconds after Coach Neuwirth left, the low murmur of voices turned into a conversational deluge. I sat in the back of the room because that’s where the two left-handed desks were—in the row reserved for stoner boys who do not like to make eye contact with teachers. Two seats in front sat Rogelio, turned sideways in his chair, talking fast and casting glances in my direction. “Cosababa, pelicular camisa,” Rogelio said, and the boys around him all laughed. Okay, this is probably not what Rogelio said. I’m not a great listener. Also, my Spanish is terrible. “Camisa,” he repeated. At the word camisa, Emma K. turned to look at me, and whispered something to the blond girl next to her. I instantly wondered if I’d been talking to myself, which is a thing I do. It attracts attention. Then it sank in. Camisa. Spanish for “shirt.” Maybe there was something wrong with my shirt. Maybe the snap-button cowboy shirt I got at a thrift store was not ch...
