we were ilalsmaknersound.ml A group of four friends—the Liars—whose friendship turns destructive. A revolution. An accident. A secret. Lies upon lies. True love. The truth. We Were Liars is a modern, sophisticated suspense novel from New York Times. We Were Liars by E. Lockhart - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File WE WERE LIARS is a modern, sophisticated suspense novel from National Book. Praise for we were liars “You're going to want to remember the title. gripping, heartrending, and terrifyingly smart, this book grabs you from the rst page—and.
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National Awards (4)
Or their father? There is yelling. There is negotiation. He insists. He will not lose the whole summer with me or there will be lawyers involved. Mummy rings the aunts. She has long, private conversations with them on the porch of our house. Only four weeks, not the whole summer.
Nothing should disturb her, the healing is very gradual. Also, pinot grigio, Sancerre, maybe some Riesling; definitely no chardonnay. There are sheets and a comforter on my bed. A laptop on my desk, a few pens. A chair.
I own a couple pairs of jeans and shorts. I have T-shirts and flannel shirts, some warm sweaters; a bathing suit, a pair of sneakers, a pair of Crocs, and a pair of boots. Two dresses and some heels. Warm coat, hunting jacket, and canvas duffel. The shelves are bare. No pictures, no posters. No old toys. I already have a toothbrush. That woman downloads things just to download things. I walk over to the library and find the girl who took my pillow. I set the toothbrush kit in her cup.
PART ONE Welcome
The one I wore that night we held hands and looked at the stars and talked about God. I never returned it. I should have given it away first of everything. I know that. It was all I had left of him. But that was weak and foolish. Mummy is in the shower. I pick up. Yes, said Johnny. And Im to say, nice to see you again. Good boy.
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Can I go now? Tipper kissed his freckled cheek. Go on, then. Ed followed Johnny, having stopped to help the staff unload the luggage from the motorboat. He was tall and slim. His skin was very dark: Indian heritage, wed later learn. He wore black- framed glasses and was dressed in dapper city clothes: a linen suit and striped shirt.
The pants were wrinkled from traveling. Granddad set me down. Granny Tippers mouth made a straight line. Then she showed all her teeth and went forward. You must be Ed. What a lovely surprise. He shook hands. Didnt Carrie tell you we were coming? Of course she did.
Ed looked around at our white, white family. Turned to Carrie.
Wheres Gat? They called for him, and he climbed from the inside of the boat, taking off his life vest, looking down to undo the buckles.
Mother, Dad, said Carrie, we brought Eds nephew to play with Johnny. This is Gat Patil. Granddad reached out and patted Gats head. Hello, young man. He and Johnny are the best of friends. Its a big help to Eds sister if we take him for a few weeks. And, Gat? Youll get to have cookouts and go swimming like we talked about. But Gat didnt answer. He was looking at me. His nose was dramatic, his mouth sweet. Skin deep brown, hair black and waving.
Body wired with energy. Gat seemed spring- loaded. Like he was searching for something. He was contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at him forever. Our eyes locked. I turned and ran away. Gat followed. I could hear his feet behind me on the wooden walkways that cross the island. I kept running.
We Were Liars
He kept following. Johnny chased Gat. And Mirren chased Johnny. The adults remained talking on the dock, circling politely around Ed, cooing over baby Will.
The littles did whatever littles do. We four stopped running at the tiny beach down by Cuddle down House. Its a small stretch of sand with high rocks on either side. No one used it much, back then. The big beach had softer sand and less seaweed. Mirren took off her shoes and the rest of us followed. We tossed stones into the water. We just existed. I wrote our names in the sand. Cadence, Mirren, Johnny, and Gat. Gat, Johnny, Mirren, and Cadence. That was the beginning of us.
He got what he wanted. The next year he begged to have him come for the entire summer. Gat came. Johnny was the rst grandson. My grandparents almost never said no to Johnny.
It was just after breakfast. Bess made Mirren play tennis with the twins and Taft. Johnny had started running that year and was doing loops around the perimeter path.
Gat found me in the Clairmont kitchen and asked, did I want to take the boat out? Not really. I wanted to go back to bed with a book. Gat almost never said please.
Take it out yourself. I cant borrow it, he said. I dont feel right. Of course you can borrow it. Not without one of you. He was being ridiculous. Where do you want to go? I asked. I just want to get off- island.
Sometimes I cant stand it here. I couldnt imagine, then, what it was he couldnt stand, but I said all right. After a bit, Gat cut the engine. We sat eating pisb tachios and breathing salt air. The sunlight shone on the water.
Lets go in, I said. Gat jumped and I followed, but the water was so much colder than off the beach, it snatched our breath. The sun went behind a cloud. We laughed panicky laughs and shouted that it was the stupidest idea to get in the water. What had we been thinking? There were sharks off the coast, everybody knew that. Dont talk about sharks, God! We scrambled and pushed each other, struggling to be the rst one up the ladder at the back of the boat.
After a minute, Gat leaned back and let me go rst. Not because youre a girl but because Im a good person, he told me. I stuck out my tongue. But when a shark bites my legs off, promise to write a speech about how awesome I was.
Done, I said. Gatwick Matthew Patil made a delicious meal. It seemed hysterically funny to be so cold. We didnt have towels. We huddled together under a eece blanket we found under the seats, our bare shoulders touching each other. Cold feet, on top of one another. This is only so we dont get hypothermia, said Gat. Dont think I nd you pretty or anything. I know you dont. Youre hogging the blanket. A pause. Gat said, I do nd you pretty, Cady. I didnt mean that the 12 way it came out.
In fact, when did you get so pretty? Its distracting. I look the same as always. You changed over the school year. Its putting me off my game.
You have a game? He nodded solemnly. That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. What is your game? Nothing penetrates my armor. Hadnt you noticed? That made me laugh. I thought it was working. We changed the subject. Talked about bringing the littles to Edgartown to see a movie in the afternoon, about sharks and whether they really ate people, about Plants Versus Zombies. Then we drove back to the island. Not long after that, Gat started lending me his books and nding me at the tiny beach in the early evenings.
Hed search me out when I was lying on the Windemere lawn with the goldens. We started walking together on the path that circles the island, Gat in front and me behind. Wed talk about books or invent imaginary worlds. Sometimes wed end up walking several times around the edge before we got hungry or bored. Beach roses lined the path, deep pink.
Their smell was faint and sweet. One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he was my particular person.
I got in the hammock next to him, silently. I took the pen 13 out of his hand he always read with a pen and wrote Gat on the back of his left, and Cadence on the back of his right.
He took the pen from me.
Wrote Gat on the back of my left, and Cadence on the back of my right. I am not talking about fate. I dont believe in destiny or soul mates or the supernatural. I just mean we understood each other. All the way. But we were only fourteen. I had never kissed a boy, though I would kiss a few the next school year, and somehow we didnt label it love. Dad had left us, and Mummy and I had all that shopping to do, consulting the decorator and everything.
Johnny and Mirren met us at the dock, pink in the cheeks and full of summer plans. They were staging a family tennis tournament and had bookmarked ice cream recipes. We would go sailing, build bonres. The littles swarmed and yelled like always.
The aunts smiled chilly smiles. After the bustle of arrival, everyone went to Clairmont for cocktail hour.
I went to Red Gate, looking for Gat. Red Gate is a much smaller house than Clairmont, but it still has four bedrooms up top. I walked to the kitchen door and looked through the screen. He was standing at the counter wearing a worn gray T- shirt and jeans. His shoulders were broader than I remembered.
He untied a dried ower from where it hung upside down on a ribbon in the window over the sink. The ower was a beach rose, pink and loosely constructed, the kind that grows along the Beechwood perimeter. Gat, my Gat. He had picked me a rose from our favorite walking place. He had hung it to dry and waited for me to arrive on the island so he could give it to me. I had kissed an unimportant boy or three by now. I had lost my dad.
I had come here to this island from a house of tears and falsehood and I saw Gat, and I saw that rose in his hand, and in that one moment, with the sunlight from the window shining in on him, the apples on the kitchen counter, the smell of wood and ocean in the air, I did call it love. It was love, and it hit me so hard I leaned against the screen door that still stood between us, just to stay vertical.
I wanted to touch him like he was a bunny, a kitten, something so special and soft your ngertips cant leave it alone.
The universe was good because he was in it. I loved the hole in his jeans and the dirt on his bare feet and the scab on his elbow and the scar that laced through one eyebrow. As I stood there, staring, he put the rose in an envelope. He searched for a pen, banging drawers open and shut, found one in his own pocket, and wrote. Gat stamped the envelope. Wrote a return address. It wasnt for me. I left the Red Gate door before he saw me and ran down to the perimeter.
I watched the darkening sky, alone. I tore all the roses off a single sad bush and threw them, one after the other, into the angry sea. Her name was Raquel. Johnny had even met her. Johnny said Raquel was a modern dancer and wore black clothes. Mirrens brother, Taft, told me Raquel had sent Gat a package of homemade brownies. Liberty and Bonnie told me Gat had pictures of her on his phone. Gat didnt mention her at all, but he had trouble meeting my eyes.
That rst night, I cried and bit my ngers and drank wine I snuck from the Clairmont pantry. I spun violently into the sky, raging and banging stars from their moorings, swirling and vomiting. I hit my st into the wall of the shower. I washed off the shame and anger in cold, cold water. Then I shivered in my bed like the abandoned dog that I was, my skin shaking over my bones. I tilted my square chin high.
We sailed and made bonres. I won the tennis tournament. We made vats of ice cream and in thesun. One night, the four of us ate a picnic down on the tiny beach. Steamed clams, potatoes, and sweet corn. The staff made it. I didnt know their names. Johnny and Mirren carried the food down in metal roasting pans. We ate around the ames of our bonre, dripping butter onto the sand.
Then Gat made triple- decker smores for all of us. I looked at his hands in the relight, sliding marshmallows onto a long stick. Where once hed had our names written, now he had taken to writing the titles of books he wanted to read. That night, on the left: Being and.
On the right: Nothingness. I had writing on my hands, too. A quotation I liked. On the left: Live in.
On the right: today. Want to know what Im thinking about? Gat asked. Yes, I said. No, said Johnny. Im wondering how we can say your granddad owns this island. Not legally but actually. Please dont get started on the evils of the Pilgrims, moaned Johnny. Im asking, how can we say land belongs to anyone?
Gat waved at the sand, the ocean, the sky. Mirren shrugged. People download and sell land all the time. Cant we talk about sex or murder? Gat ignored him. Maybe land shouldnt belong to people at all.
Or maybe there should be limits on what they can own. He leaned forward. When I went to India this winter, on that 17 volunteer trip, we were building toilets.
Building them because people there, in this one village, didnt have them. We all know you went to India, said Johnny. You told us like forty- seven times.
Here is something I love about Gat: he is so enthusiastic, so relentlessly interested in the world, that he has trouble imagining the possibility that other people will be bored by what hes saying. Even when they tell him outright. But also, he doesnt like to let us off easy.
He wants to make us thinkeven when we dont feel like thinking. He poked a stick into the embers. Im saying we should talk about it. Not everyone has private islands. Some people work on them. Some work in factories. Some dont have work. Some dont have food. Stop talking, now, said Mirren. Stop talking, forever, said Johnny. We have a warped view of humanity on Beechwood, Gat said. I dont think you see that. Shut up, I said. Ill give you more chocolate if you shutup.
And Gat did shut up, but his face contorted. He stood abruptly, picked up a rock from the sand, and threw it with all his force. He pulled off his sweatshirt and kicked off his shoes.
Then he walked into the sea in his jeans. I watched the muscles of his shoulders in the moonlight, the spray kicking up as he splashed in. He dove and I thought: If I dont follow him now, that girl Raquels got him. If I dont follow him now, hell go away. From the Liars, from the island, from our family, from me. I threw off my sweater and followed Gat into the sea in my dress.
I crashed into the water, swimming out to where he lay 18 on his back. His wet hair was slicked off his face, showing the thin scar through one eyebrow.
I reached for his arm. He startled. Stood in the waist- high sea. Sorry, I whispered. I dont tell you to shut up, Cady, he said. I dont ever say that to you. I know. He was silent. Please dont shut up, I said. I felt his eyes go over my body in my wet dress. I talk too much, he said. I politicize everything.
I like it when you talk, I said, because it was true. When I stopped to listen, I did like it. Its that everything makes meLike he was my particular person. When I lay down next to him, our arms touched, mine bare and his in an olive- green hunting jacket. Adults wrapped me in blankets. I need something to hold on to.
That June, summer fteen, Dad announced he was leaving and departed two days later. But we were only fourteen. Plus the blurb told me to lie, so maybe this review is full of crock and this book is just a bunch of dancing elephants. Blood gushed rhythmically from my open wound, then from my eyes, my ears, my mouth. He was in a babys yellow life vest, and was really no more than a shock of white- blond hair sticking up over it.
No cookbooks left open on the counter, no classical music on the kitchen sound system.