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by Chris Lynch

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Two best friends are caught in a love triangle with fatal consequencesPauly and Oakley have been best friends since they were kids. When newcomer Lilly moves to their small New England town, both boys fall in love with her immediately. Unbalanced Pauly becomes Lilly’s boyfriend, and Oakley becomes the one she confides in—the one who always puts


Two best friends are caught in a love triangle with fatal consequencesPauly and Oakley have been best friends since they were kids. When newcomer Lilly moves to their small New England town, both boys fall in love with her immediately. Unbalanced Pauly becomes Lilly’s boyfriend, and Oakley becomes the one she confides in—the one who always puts things right. But a love triangle can’t stay peaceful for long, and erratic, obsessive Pauly can’t be trusted. How can Oakley keep making things right when things are so very wrong? 

Editorial Reviews

Cathy Young
If your view of small-town American teenage life has been colored by too many episodes of "Dawson's Creek," read Whitechurch . If you long for an honest exploration of the sort of relationship triangles for which teenagers are famous, read Whitechurch W . If you love gritty realism, odd poetry, and teenage characters so real that you can hear their hearts stirring in your own chest and their confusions rippling in your own mind, read Whitechurch .

After you devour the first, mysterious chapter of this book, please join me at the altar for writer Chris Lynch. I worship him. His range astounds me. Fans of wisecracking Elvin from Slot Machine and Extreme Elvin might be surprised by the dusky, needy tones expressed here. Lynch's latest will satisfy readers who yearn for stories that plumb the depths of friendship, stories that refuse to simplify the decisions we make in our lives.

Oakley lives in the small town of Whitechurch and has his hands full. He's in love with Lilly, but Lilly is in love with Pauley, who is Oakley's best friend. Well, Lilly is Oakley's best friend, too, and in fact, Lilly may be more in love with Oakley than with Pauley, but she doesn't want to mess up her friendship with Oakley, so.... Get the picture? Complicating things further is Pauley, a live wire with more than a few strange currents flowing through him. Pauley is so odd that the rest of Whitechurch can't stand to be around him. Lilly and Oakley understand him, though, and they take turns "watching out" for him, too. You never know what will happen if Pauley is left to pursue his own schemes for too long. He's a reckless poet. A trickster. A fool.

Pauley is so self-involved that, in a way, he comes across as eerily benevolent or self-sacrificing. Oakley and Lilly spend most of their creative energy trying to keep up with Pauley's mind so he doesn't hurt himself. It's obvious from the first couple of chapters that Oakley has put his own life on hold for the sake of this friendship. Why? Why would even-tempered, generous, reliable Oakley sabotage himself in this friendship tangle, this triangle with Lilly and Pauley? Soon we learn that Lilly has plans to escape to an out-of-town college. If she goes, keeping track of Pauley will fall on Oakley's shoulders completely. Pauley can't fathom life without Lilly, and he plots ways to force her to stay. Carefully Oakley tries to introduce the truth into Pauley's world, but Pauley can't hear it. When Pauley hatches a plan to go to Boston for the weekend to spy on Lilly while she checks out a college, Oakley explodes:

Christ, Paul. Spying. You're spying on Lilly. This is not about Lilly's happiness, it's about your freakishness.... You're not the victim here, you're the troublemaker.... I think you should just leave it alone. Let her go, Paul. In the end, Oakley takes the train to Boston with Pauley. It's unclear to Oakley whether he's going to protect Lilly from Pauley or Pauley from himself. And somewhere on this heady train ride, Oakley's own needs begin to make themselves known. Who would Oakley be if he wasn't the facilitator between Lilly and Pauley? What parts of his own world has he buried to be involved in their world?

Whitechurch W isn't a novel in the proper sense. Here Chris Lynch has strung together a collection of interwoven short stories involving these complicated characters, and there's moody poetry sprinkled in, too. Frankly, this treatment's effect on the reader is powerful. Whitechurch has all of the plot movement and character development of a novel, but there also are poignant, mystery-filled gaps in the linear flow of the story. These pauses deepen the characters, revealing their rough edges, showing them in motion -- changing as real teenagers do.

If you are in the mood to read a book for teenagers unlike any other, read Whitechurch . Lynch has a gift for shedding light on life's complexities without oversimplifying them. This is a moving, challenging read. I don't think teenage friendship has ever been explored like this.

--Cathy Young

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
With this unsettling, coolly polished novel, Lynch (Gypsy Davey; the Blue-Eyed Sons series) demonstrates once again his profound understanding of society's casualties, misfits and losers. Whitechurch, where 16-year-old narrator Oakley resides alone (except when his alcoholic father shows up), is a dilapidated old New England town with no industry save for a newly built state prison; the prison serves also as a metaphor for the characters' inability to escape their problems. Passive and ambitionless, Oakley allows himself to drift in the wake of his sociopathic best friend, Pauly, who has a girlfriend in "good girl" Lilly. Oakley is tacitly understood to be in love with her, too, and the three form a triangle that nothing, Pauly insists, will change. But Lilly plans to leave for college in Boston and, in the denouement, Pauly, thinking in his delusional state to maintain the status quo, commits a horrifying crime that finally forces Oakley to act for himself. Lynch's writing is spare, both when setting forth the action and when incorporating free verse by Oakley and Pauly. While the publisher describes this work as short stories, the progression of events and the deterioration of the triangle depend on a sequential reading, and the mood darkens incrementally. The bleak, detached handling of disturbing, often violent material reserves this work for mature readers. Ages 12-up. (May)
Children's Literature - Lois Rubin Gross
A prison is the metaphor Lynch uses to establish how his teenage characters feel about their small, New England town. Erratic Pauly and down-to earth Oakley are best friends and rivals for the affections of desirable Lilly, who is the only one of this eccentric triangle with any hope of leaving Whitechurch for college. In a series of vignettes--some in poetry, others in prose--the boys connive to keep Lilly from leaving and participate in their own peculiar and deeply emotional coming-of-age.
To quote KLIATT's May 1999 review of the hardcover edition: Three high school students hang out together in the small, "petrified," northeastern town of Whitechurch, noted mainly for its prison. Pauly likes to recite bad poetry he's written, dream up wild schemes, and talk nonstop; Lilly is his long-suffering girlfriend, hoping to get out of Whitechurch; and Oakley, who narrates, is the solid, dependable one who has a crush on Lilly and tries to keep Pauly in line. That's not easy, as Pauly is the type who, when Oakley wins a small amount in the lottery, spends Oakley's money on a racing rat, yet another disastrous scheme. Oakley has problems aside from Pauly, however; he's mourning the death of his mother and living with an alcoholic father. Whitechurch may be like a prison to Oakley, but he can't imagine leaving, either. The novel opens with a long prose poem (which mystifies until the end), one of a number in the book, and ambles along at a relatively slow pace for a long time. We meet town characters like the kindly librarian, the stuttering laundromat manager, and the young woman who tries to make over her parents' restaurant into "Café Cinema." The climax comes right at the very end, in another poem, as Pauly's misplaced jealousy leads to murder, and the lives of all three protagonists are changed forever. This feels like Cormier territory, in some ways—the depressing small town, the sense of doom—but it's lightened somewhat by Lynch's witty, often profane dialogue. It's a haunting book, in many ways, but starting with a poem that only makes sense later may discourage some readers. KLIATT Codes: SA—Recommended for senior high school students, advancedstudents, and adults. 1999, HarperCollins, 248p, 21cm, 98-54799, $7.95. Ages 16 to adult. Reviewer: Paula Rohrlick; July 2000 (Vol. 34 No. 4)
School Library Journal
Gr 9 Up-This series of interconnected short stories leaves readers with more questions than answers. Oakley, the narrator who lives in a seedy apartment with an alcoholic father on disability, and compulsive, violent Pauly have been friends since childhood. Lilly, a recent transplant to Whitechurch, unites and divides the boys, since both love her. Pauly is her boyfriend and Oakley, her best friend and confidant. Tensions caused by the love triangle simmer throughout the stories. Lilly plans to leave town and attend college, while Pauly, angry and possessive, hatches futile plots to keep her home. Then, in a life-defining moment, his jealousy erupts when Lilly doesn't come home all night (she and Oakley have been together in the church), and he bludgeons to death a young man with whom he thinks she's been. The first-person narration is interspersed with poems-soulful and playful, recited by both boys-a technique used to advance and expand the story, but one causing more confusion than illumination. Though certain scenes and characters are memorable, even humorous, most vignettes are either disturbing or pathetic. In one, Pauly insists that Oakley insert a Colt .45 into his mouth. In another, Oakley stands by as his father has a fistfight outside a local tavern over innuendos about his son's possible homosexuality. Unlike Lynch's previous fine work, whether dark in mood like Iceman (1994) or comic like Slot Machine (1995, both HarperCollins), this novel told in stories never coalesces. Readers are left bereft of characters with whom they can empathize and will be glad to leave Whitechurch.-Alice Casey Smith, Sayreville War Memorial High School, NJ Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
Horn Book Magazine
Lynch puts the lighter comedy (Political Timber, Slot Machine) aside here and once again focuses on the shadowy places (Iceman, Blue-Eyed Son Trilogy) around us and within. The jacket copy calls Whitechurch a "collection of short stories," but with a couple of exceptions (the first chapter previously appeared in Harry Mazer's anthology Twelve Shots; another, "Caf, Society," stands well on its own but seems extraneous to the book as a whole), the pieces work more as integral parts of a progressive narrative. Each chapter depicts some unflattering aspect of small-town life, intimating an intent to expose the seedy underside of the place, but more is hinted at than revealed. The real story, and the one that will engage readers, is the triangular friendship of three teens, trapped in part by how the town has defined them and in part by how they define themselves through one another. The opening chapter sets the stage with the overt metaphor of Whitechurch prison looming large; Pauly has even had sweatshirts made for himself and his devoted friend Oakley declaring "Property of Whitechurch." Only Lilly, the girl they both love, seems to have the power to leave. This chapter also reveals Lynch's talent as a writer. In these few pages he draws a clear picture of the town as viewed from both inside and out by relating the conflict over the construction of the prison: popular while being built and making money for the town workers, less popular when the actual prisoners arrived and spoiled the tourist image of a "picturesque and tranquil village." Lynch quickly and accurately sketches Pauly as a loaded gun by having him dangerously handle a real one, and he maps out the relationship between all three characters in a few lines of dialogue. By chapter's end, we know that Lilly's impending departure is sure to bring about cataclysmic change, and, like the gun without its safety-"cocked and unlocked"-Pauly is primed to explode. What we don't know for sure is who he'll take down with him, and therein lies the tension of the novel. The sharply evoked characters and their complex relationship are the novel's greatest strengths; other facets of their personal histories and of town life are less clear and sometimes puzzling. Poems between the chapters are varyingly successful. Some, like the first, effectively convey Oakley's take on things and foreshadow events; others are less poetry than fragmented prose. But Lynch's exceptional characterization and his deft staging of the precarious threesome will keep readers turning pages to see how it all plays out and who, if anyone, gets the girl.
Kirkus Reviews
A lingering suggestion of inevitability and stomach-knotting doom inform this novel from Lynch (Extreme Elvin, 1999, etc.), from the opening scene overlooking the town prison to the final dreaded murder and departures. The lives of Pauly, Oakley, and Lilly are as entwined as a the braid of a whip. Poetry-spouting Pauly is the dangerous one, whether holding a cocked gun in best friend Oakley's mouth, or stalking girlfriend Lilly. Third-wheel Oakley is primarily a follower and onlooker, in love with Lilly and a one-man audience to Pauly's stunts. A less well-developed Lilly is the church-cleaning, babysitting good girl who dances around the edges of Pauly's madness and flirts with Oakley. Whitechurch is the stage for this tense tragedy; it's a square patch of town and a step back in time where the drugstore still sells fountain drinks. Pauly, headed for trouble from the first page, is afraid of all change and Lilly is leaving for college; her pending departure is the main source of tension in the novel. Lynch's writing is taut and disturbing, a mix of poems and prose passages, as linked and lurching as the train to Boston. There's intentionally no background here, no explanation of what has happened to these three in the past, no real speculation as to whether they will have futures or remain three smart-talking, desolate people attempting to fill an emptiness. Clever but cryptic, Lynch's device of pushing boundaries and testing limits draws readers in to a landscape that is just as bleak up close as it is from a distance. (Fiction. 13-15)

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Read an Excerpt


By Chris Lynch


Copyright © 1999 Chris Lynch
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0459-5


    Kiss me.
    Kiss me good-bye.
    Plant the kiss like you plant
    the seed
    and something grows.
    You think you are a poet
    because you write poetry.
    You think you are not
    because you do not.
    John Donne thought
    death died
    and people didn't.
    Ecclesiastes' Preacher said
    find the good
    enjoy your stay
    but when your time comes
    be on your way.
    I knew a lady who loved them both
    to death.
    But not you. You and death
    don't mix.
    Rasputin, you are,
    while I think I tried to kill you
    every chance I got.
    Because you have
    a frightening will
    to live.
    That I don't share,
    cannot bear.
    To me
    you would be
    too needy
    to endure

    It was not you,
    but what you knew.
    That life
    and its accomplices
    are much more
    than we'd planned for.
    And we need help,
    so you held my hand
    never figuring
    the devil's clasp
    would be that warm.

    Spin the barrel
    pull the trigger
    kiss the wrong person.
    All hell breaks loose.
    Get thee behind me, Satan,
    and stay there.
    The only thing
    that never stops making sense
    Do unto others.
    Peach-colored girls
    and willowy bibliarians
    and raw-boned she
    who should be your sister.
    Flail around
    grabbing for embracing
    clutching air
    because it isn't there.

    be gone.
    He loved
    Do unto others.
    It was done unto him.
    His smile relieved
    and we received.
    He is not a gifted poet,
    he is a gift.
    Which we returned.
    Kiss me Pauly.
    We got it all wrong.


Cocked & Locked

"Tell me, Oakley," Pauly says.

"I will, Pauly," I say right back. "I'll tell you just as soon as you ask. But that's the way questions work, you have to ask me something first. Then I can tell you."

He'll do that if you don't stay on him. He'll float you a question without ever asking it, till you want to choke it out of him. He says he's a poet. Which, he says, explains everything.

I don't think it does. Nothing explains everything.

We are perched on the slope of a small green hill overlooking my buddy Pauly's most favorite of all favorite places in Whitechurch. The prison. There's some milling about going on in the yard, but since this is Thursday afternoon, it's not the prisoners doing the milling, but guards and police and prison officials practicing their fife-and-drum stuff.

They're god-awful. We never miss it.

"Okay," Pauly says. "Just a what-if. What if, if a guy wanted to pick one off. You think somebody could do that, and get away with it?"

"A cop? Pauly, you asking me if you could shoot a cop and nobody would mind?"

"Of course not," he says, sticking a sharp elbow into my side. "You think I'm a dope?"

A lot of times I do, I do think he's a dope. But I don't ever say it to him. He's heard it enough, I figure.

"No," Pauly continues. "I mean, a con. What if somebody got the idea to drop a prisoner, right down there in the yard? Would anybody really mind, do you think?"

I turn toward Pauly to see if he's joking, but there isn't a joke anywhere in him. He keeps staring down at the yard.

"Ya, Pauly. I think somebody'd mind. Probably, somebody'd mind a lot."

Pauly waits a long time, staring off, listening to the fife and drum—and bagpipe, actually—strangle some innocent song to death.

"I don't see why," Pauly says. "I really don't think people would care much."

In the yard below us, the leader of the police group is screaming and throwing his baton against the twenty-foot-high fence. Like he does every week.

"Of course you're bored," he yells at the pipers. "We only know the one goddamn song. Who the hell wants to play 'Loch Lomond' fifteen hundred times? Ya bunch a dopes."

Pauly's eyes narrow. "What about him?" he asks, pointing at the yeller.

"They might not care much," I sigh, "but they'd still notice."

"See, that's what I think about the criminals. I think maybe people would notice if you did one of them, you'd get noticed for it, but in the end, nobody'd get pissed off about it. Which would be kind of slick in the end, don't you think?"

Lilly #7

she's LEAving me red
VIolence is blue
WHITEchurch is brown
there's a fuckin ROCK in my shoe

by pauLY

Pauly was always fascinated with the prison, since the first cinder block was laid for it. Matter of fact, everybody was into it, when the building was going up and it seemed like every last person in the area was either working on it or selling donuts or Coors to those who were. At that time, it was a very popular prison.

Then they went and filled it all up with criminals. Spoiled everything.

Then they went and named it.

Whitechurch Prison. Made sense to me.

"An appallingly shortsighted and insensitive decision," was what they called it on the editorial page of the Whitechurch Spire.

People, apparently, are very sensitive to words and word use and they are far more sensitive to words when they are written down. Because it never bothered anybody during the building stage or the dedication stage or the opening-up stage when officials would refer to the place as Whitechurch Prison. It only finally bothered folks when it came down in the papers, and criminals started getting directed to come spend time in our jail, and the newspaper writers started shorthanding things.

"The murderer was sentenced to life in Whitechurch."

"With time served and good behavior, the prisoner could be allowed to leave Whitechurch by the time he is ninety-seven years old."

And on like that. It was funny, really, if you could see it. Pauly went right out and had sweatshirts made up for the two of us, white stencil lettering on black: PROPERTY OF WHITECHURCH PRISON. Most locals didn't care for the humor.

"Whitechurch is, and has been for nearly three hundred years," the editorial read, "one of the most picturesque and tranquil villages in the entire Northeast. It is a fine and wonderful town, and no one has to be 'sentenced' to Whitechurch."

He was right about the picturesque part, as long as you didn't come during mud season, and as long as you didn't point your camera in the direction of the Gleasons' yard. But tranquil?

Tranquil. We'd have to chew on that one a little bit. We'd have to define our terms very specifically, wouldn't we, and make a clear distinction between what went on above the surface and what went on underneath.

"Don't you ever get angry, Oakley?"

This is Lilly, who is smiling and who is Pauly's girlfriend, even though she spends way more time with me than she does with him. She's big and dark and quite special if you pay close enough attention. She's possibly plain if you don't. We're together this March afternoon, hanging out and finding out, up on the faraway hill next to the cider-press building that wouldn't be pressing anything until the next leaf-peeping busload came by in the fall. This particular press is located on this particular hill because this is the best-looking spot for people to overspy our little kingdom while they sip their fresh juices. The view down Press Hill is what we want to look like. Cider is what we want to taste like.

Pauly hates apples so much, you'd think they were a disease. "Of course I get angry," I answer Lilly. "What kind of a question is that?"

"It's a regular question, is all. Because if you do get angry, it's angry in a way I can't see."

And Lilly likes to be able to see all. Lilly likes things in plain sight where she can see them.

"You mean, like Pauly gets angry?" I ask her. The question I'm not supposed to ask. That's why I'm special to her, because I don't usually ask.

"Don't, Oakley," she says, and starts down the hill. I start after her.

"Fine, then, I won't," I say. "Come on back up the hill with me. I'll behave and be quiet."

She comes back up the hill and sits beside me again. "I have to go in a few minutes anyway," she tells me. "Baby-sitting for the Rev."

I nod, which is my best thing. I sit, and I behave. Because there is nothing I like better than sitting on the hill doing nothing on a nice day while Lilly sits close beside me doing nothing too. Some guys—like Pauly, and a lot of the older guys at the high school—don't seem to appreciate this, doing nothing. But that's not me. I'm doing all the nothing I can while I can because I can feel it coming, the day when I have to do something.

But then, for no reason, I make the trouble again.

"So, what does he do, Lilly?" I ask. "You want to tell me what he does when he's angry with you?"

And that's that. Without speaking, she gets up, brushes old yellow grass off her seat, and heads down the hill, down straight toward the white church of Whitechurch, where the Reverend and his wife and their baby live in the shadow of the valley.

I know I've done it—exploded the good thing we have up on Press Hill—and I don't even try to make good. I just follow along behind Lilly as she breaks into a jog down the decline, and before we reach the Texaco at the foot, she will have let me catch up.

"Yo," comes the holler from back up where we just left.

Pauly, of course.

"Stop right there, you two," he yells, pointing down on us like Moses or somebody.

There has been, really, nothing between me and Lilly, and Pauly knows it. Nothing but being friends, anyway. It was just that if Pauly was your best friend like he is with me, or if he was your boyfriend like he is with her, then you'd find yourself needing somebody else to talk to on a regular basis.

I'm that for Lilly, and she's that for me. Pauly doesn't care at all, the way a lot of guys would if their best friends seemed to be bird-dogging their girls. In fact, he seems to enjoy the setup.

"You, and you, come over here to me right this minute," Pauly says, pointing at the piece of Press Hill right in front of him.

I'm staring at him, thinking of walking back up there, when Lilly grabs my hand and yanks me along, laughing like a mad thing. We speed, like a couple of boulders hurtling down the steep grade, until I'm sure I'm going to lose it and wind up with a mouth full of turf.

Pauly tries a little, screaming and chasing us a short ways, but he doesn't have a chance. Everybody is faster than Pauly.

At the Reverend's house, Lilly and I are sitting on the sofa across from the window seat in the curved alcove that looks out over the yard. The baby is sleeping. The baby is always sleeping. We are watching a movie on cable, but not really watching it. I do this thing—and I think Lilly does it too, but to ask would be to shatter it—where I watch the famous stars on the TV screen, but I don't listen to a thing they say, and I don't think at all about what's happening to them in the plot. For soundtrack, I listen to Lilly, and to myself, and we and the stars mesh all up together.

"If your life was a movie, who would star in it?" Lilly asks me as she passes the tortilla chips.

I've only thought about this a hundred thousand times, but that doesn't make the answer come any quicker. The players keep changing, most of them.

"Sean Connery would play my father," I say as I pass her my Coke.

Lilly slaps me on the arm and says, "That's not a real answer," while she laughs.

"Well they're both bald, aren't they?" I say.

"All right, Connery plays your father. Who plays you, then?"

I nod confidently. "Pierce Brosnan," I say. "It's perfect, 'cause we're already like a father-son pair of double-oh-seven action types."

Lilly snatches the chips back from me. "Interesting, when you think about it, Oakley," she says. "Maybe we should explore your family dynamics a little more."

"Maybe not," I say. "So who's in your movie?"

"Audrey Hepburn," Lilly says. "But when she was alive, of course. Like in Wait Until Dark, where she was blind."

Lilly isn't blind. Unless she really believes she looks like Audrey Hepburn. She's more like two Audrey Hepburns, but that isn't important at all. The stuff that makes her someone you want to get next to is mostly invisible, Lilly stuff.

Lilly #31

If Violence is blue
and my lilly is pink
which Motion
would move her
which Potion should I drink?

"What about him?" I ask, pointing across the room, over the window seat, through the window and out into the backyard where our Pauly dances up and down for our amusement. Pauly's forbidden to enter the Reverend's house. He's got a good soul in there somewhere, the Rev says, but he's never going to cross this threshold. Whatever that means.

"So who plays him?" I ask again.

Pauly rushes up to the window, climbs up on the woodpile, and presses his face to the glass.

"Pauly's not going to be in my movie," Lilly says seriously.

I wave to him. "Hey, Pauly," I say.

"Go ahead," he calls, muffled, through the glass. "Go on and kiss her if you want to."

"I never said I wanted to," I reply, all indignant. I'm not fooling anyone, though.

"Hey," Lilly snaps. "What do you two think you're doing? Trading at the farmers' market or something? I'm a human, Pauly-the-Pig. Get out of here."

"No, wait," he says. "I want to show you something, Lilly. Come here."

"I don't want another poem. They make me ill."

"Hey, I said I was a poet. I never said I was a gifted poet. Anyway, it's not a poem. It's something better, even."

"I don't want that, either. I especially don't want that. And if you try to show it to me again, I'll call the Reverend."

"It's not that either," Pauly says, exasperated.

I'm starting to get a little embarrassed. "Maybe I should go."

"No, you absolutely shouldn't," she says to me.

Pauly. "Just come to the window, Lilly."

Lilly. "Ignore him, Oakley."

Me. "How can you ignore Pauly? How can anyone ignore Pauly?"

Lilly. "Easy."

Pauly. "Not anymore, it ain't. I'm going to be unignorable. C'mere."

Lilly sighs, turns up the sound on the TV with the remote.

"Well, I'm going to go look," I say. She shrugs.

When I'm almost to the window, and Pauly is reaching down into his pants, the sound of the Reverend's car on the gravel driveway pulls Pauly's attention like a scared deer listening on the wind. And like a deer, he is gone in an instant, into the trees and out of sight.

"He's been getting weirder and weirder since I told him about the college," Lilly says, shaking her head at the silent-again television.


Excerpted from Whitechurch by Chris Lynch. Copyright © 1999 Chris Lynch. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Chris Lynch (b. 1962), a Boston native, is an award-winning author of several acclaimed young adult novels, including Freewill (2001), which won the Michael L. Printz Honor, and National Book Award finalist Inexcusable (2005). Lynch holds an MA from the writing program at Emerson College, and teaches in the creative writing MFA program at Lesley University. He mentors aspiring writers and continues to work on new literary projects while splitting time between Boston and Scotland.    
Chris Lynch (b. 1962), a Boston native, is an award-winning author of several acclaimed young adult novels, including Freewill (2001), which won the Michael L. Printz Honor, and National Book Award finalist Inexcusable (2005). Lynch holds an MA from the writing program at Emerson College, and teaches in the creative writing MFA program at Lesley University. He mentors aspiring writers and continues to work on new literary projects while splitting time between Boston and Scotland.

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