By Brent Crawford
After an eventful freshman yr and disastrous summer season, fifteen-year-old Will Carter returns to Merrian excessive none the wiser. His sophomore yr will current a bunch of latest difficulties: the go back of frightening Terry from juvie, the pregnant presence of Amber Lee, friends-with-benefits negotiations with Abby, promenade evening expectancies, and the ever-constant harassment from his boys. while Abby declares that she should be shifting to a brand new York arts institution, Carter's international is grew to become the other way up and he'll be compelled to make the largest choice of his lifestyles. In his signature voice, writer Brent Crawford info younger Will Carter's highschool struggles, this time targeting Carter's discovery of his real ardour and the sacrifices he'll have the desire to make.
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Additional resources for Carter's Unfocused One-Track Mind (Carter Finally Gets It, Book 3)
You’re valid, for one hour,” 48 a. m. h o m e s she says, handing the ticket back. ” She leads him into a room, weighs him, takes his blood pressure and tempera ture, and tells him to hop up onto the table. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. ” “I’m OK,” he says. ” She winks. ” Dr. Lusardi asks, sweeping into the room, his white coat following him. “I was in pain, incredible pain. ” “Fine. I feel ﬁne, and then I remember the pain. ” Lusardi ﬂips through his chart. ” The doctor gestures for him to take off his shirt.
He takes out a ﬁve and a few ones and slaps them into the man’s hand. ” the dining-room hostess asks. ” the hostess asks again. He nods. “This way,” she says, leading him into the empty dining room. Someone hands him a menu, someone else pours him a glass of water, another puts a dinner roll on his bread plate and some butter beside it. He immediately eats the roll. He hasn’t been eating bread—it’s not part of his program. The roll is 52 a. m. h o m e s warm, yeasty sourdough. He eats it with cold butter—he closes his eyes—good.
M. h o m e s atmosphere, hinting at the day to come. He sat in the back, with the windows down, his head into the breeze like a dog. The driver babbled like a bad bartender, talking about everything, anything, nothing. ” He didn’t answer; the last thing he wanted was a confes sional conversation with the cab driver. “Fine, keep it a secret, see if I care. Everyone thinks they’re entitled to keep it to themselves. What do they know? That’s how you get sick, really sick—ulcers, colitis, cancer. I tell people everything, what do I need to keep secrets for?