To Tell You the Truth - Beth Vrabel

Author: Beth Vrabel

Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers; Reprint edition

Cover Type: Paperback

Pages: 288 pages

Language: English

Genre: Childrens Growing Up & Facts of Life

Genre Class: Children's, Fiction, Humorous, Stories

An utterly charming, gorgeous (Booklist) Southern-voiced middle grade novel about a young girl and the adventure she embarks upon to prove her Grans stories were true. Perfect for fans of The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair and Three Times Lucky.Trixy needs a story, fast, or shes going to fail the fourth gradethats a fact. But every time she sits down to write, her mind is a blank. The only stories she can think of are Grans, the ones no one else ever believed but Trixy gulped down like sweet tea. Gran is gone now, buried under the lilac bush in the family plot, so its not like Trixys hurting anybody to claim one of those stories as her own, is she? That stolen story turns out to be a huge success, and soon everybody in town wants Trixy to tell them a tale. Before long, the only one left is the story she vowed never to share, the one that made Grans face cloud up with sadness. Trying to find a way out of this tangled mess, Trixy and her friend Raymond hit the road to follow the twists and turns of Grans past. Maybe then Trixy can write a story thats all her own, one thats the straight-up truth.

P> Review Connecticut Book Award Winner* "This cathartic narrative nimbly explores love, grief, revival, and what makes a tale true." -- Publishers Weekly, Starred Review* This is an outstanding book . . . a page turner. Disparate story lines weave a multidimensional tale that ties together perfectly. Trixys and her grandmothers voices will remind readers of Louisiana from Kate DiCamillos Louisianas Way Home, echoing a similarly fearless, independent, and spunky attitude. -- School Library Journal, Starred Review* "As the richly drawn characters, past and present, are introduced, their storylines and their lives become interwoven. . . Difficult topics and dramatic revelations are softened by the leisurely pace and the humorous interactions . . . Poignant and uplifting. -- Kirkus Reviews, Starred Review"Told in beautiful, dreamy prose accented with Southern drawls . . . The book imparts a gentle wisdom on friendship and family, grief and grace, but it shines in how it stresses the beauty and importance of stories, both spoken and silent. A gorgeous reminder of the power of stories to shape our worlds and each other." -- Booklist About the Author: Beth Vrabel is the award-winning author of A Blind Guide to Stinkville, A Blind Guide to Normal, and the Pack of Dorks series. She cant clap to the beat or be trusted around Nutella, but indulges in both often, much to the dismay of her family. She lives in the Dallas, Texas area. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Chapter One Gran loves me. This is the truth, heavy as the air this late August night. Its stronger than the throw-away thoughts that will keep my eyes open when I crawl back into bed. Its brighter than the lilacs that grow in tangles by the white stone marking Grans eternal rest: Dolcie B. Jacobs, beloved grandmother and mother. But much as she loves me, Gran hates me too. This is the new truth thats tickling me from the inside out and twisting down, down, down to where I lock away her best stories. Including the one she told me when the sky was the blue of a newborn babys eyes. Ill keep that one just for me, no matter what. Because if theres one thing Gran couldnt ever stand, its a liar. I dont have room in this old heart for hate, Trixy, I can hear her say even now. Except for liars and thieves. And heres one last for-sure truth: Thats just what I am. A selfish liar and a thief. Ive been lying to Mama, stealing my grans stories, and, worst of all, Im about to break my daddys heart. Im going to run away with Raymond Crickett. Only Raymond doesnt know it yet. When kids at school found out that Raymond Cricketts dad was a famous musician who went on tours, everyone thought he must be super rich. Rumors put his house at three stories tall, contended that celebrities could be spotted on the rocking chairs on his porch, and that his dad did nothing but sing and strum his fiddle all the day long. People whispered that the only reason Raymond had lunch tickets for the cafeteria and patches on the knees of his jeans was that he wanted to blend in with everyone else. But the truth was that Raymonds house was a lot like mineonly my ranch house was yellow and his was blue. We both had big front porches and tiny living rooms. Both of our dads had pushed their old trucks into the yard when the engines refused to turn the last time. There were differences too. While Mama had planted flowers around my house, Raymonds house had plain grass right up until the porch. The paint around the trim was flaky, and a couple of railings on the porch had splintered or broken fully off. The house was a bit like Raymondpleasant but not quite taken care of enough. Raymonds dad spent a lot of time playing the fiddle, but he also had a bunch of side jobs, mostly landscaping and carpentry. Like Raymond, Mr. Crickett had big brown eyes. He also had a beard like my dads, only Mr. Cricketts beard stretched into a point under his chin and his mustache curled up at the ends. Raymond told me once that his dad used product for that to happen. Tattoos ran along his arms and stretched to the sides of his neck. They were of eagles, trees, and words too swirly for me to read. When Mr. Crickett sang, my heart paused. Once, Mama and I went into the city and ate at a gourmet restaurant in the middle of winter. I wore a scratchy dress with silver ruffles and Mama had her hair twisted into a bun atop her head like a ballerina. Snow fell outside the windows, and all around us people rushed and slid on sidewalks. Inside the caf, it was warm enough to fog the windows. Mama nibbled on a layered cookie that had cost seven dollars. I ordered a hot chocolate, and it arrived in a gold-rimmed red mug with a huge pile of twisting whipped cream on top. I remembered that first sip, how it seemed to pour straight down to the tips of my toes, filling me with sweetness, making every silly thing I had worried aboutwhat the other diners thought of me, whether I was wearing the right dress or saying the right thingsmelt away. Mr. Cricketts voice was like that first sip of cocoa. I couldnt be scared when he sang. But unfortunately, he wasnt singing when I crept down the street to their house in the dark of night. I was sure I was about to be in a world of trouble. Mr. Crickett was loading the bed of the truck with bags and equipment while talking into a cell phone tucked in the crook of his neck. Sara, Raymonds sister, leaned against the passenger side, scowling at him. I sneaked past them, moving silent as could be, toward the house. I found Raymond sitting on the front porch stoop. He jumped when he saw me pop up beside the railing. Trixy, what are you doing here? he gasped. I whispered, I told you I was coming along with you on your daddys tour, didnt I? You most certainly did not. Raymonds head swiveled from side to side, making sure no one saw us. You said you wanted to come along. Thats different. And then today you assaulted Catrina and got kicked out of school! he said. Dad saw a bunch of police cars and an ambulance going to your house too! What happened to you? I thought maybe you done lost your mind! You been saying such wild things lately! I scrunched my face and crossed my arms. Raymond Crickett, my mind is right where I left it inside my head. Nows the time to use yours. How can I get into your truck without your dad or sister seeing me?

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