Huntley Fitzpatrick - The Boy Most Likely To

First published in the USA by Dial Books 2015

This edition published 2015 by Electric Monkey,

an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © Huntley Fitzpatrick 2015.

Published by arrangement with Dial, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

First e-book edition 2016

ISBN 978 1 4052 8039 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1739 7

www.egmont.co.uk

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties.

Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

To my mother, who knew how to love. And had a weakness for troublemakers with hearts of gold.

To my father, who has always loved and admired strong women.

And to Georgia Funsten and Patricia Young, the smartest and strongest women I know.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright First published in the USA by Dial Books 2015 This edition published 2015 by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN Text copyright © Huntley Fitzpatrick 2015. Published by arrangement with Dial, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. The moral rights of the author have been asserted. First e-book edition 2016 ISBN 978 1 4052 8039 6 Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1739 7 www.egmont.co.uk All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner. Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

Dedication To my mother, who knew how to love. And had a weakness for troublemakers with hearts of gold. To my father, who has always loved and admired strong women. And to Georgia Funsten and Patricia Young, the smartest and strongest women I know.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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Chapter One

I’ve been summoned to see the Nowhere Man.

He’s at his desk when I step inside the gray cave of his office, his back turned.

“Uh, Pop?”

He holds up his hand, keeps scribbling on a blue-lined pad.

Standard operating procedure.

I flick my eyes around the room: the mantel, the carpet, the bookshelves, the window; try to find a comfortable place to land.

No dice.

Ma’s fond of “cute” – teddy bears in seasonal outfits and pillows with little sayings and shit she gets on QVC. They’re everywhere. Except here, a room spliced out of John Grisham, all leather-bound, only muted light through the shades. August heat outdoors, but no hint of that allowed here. I face the rear of Pop’s neck, hunch further into the gray, granite-hard sofa, rub my eyes, sink back on my elbows.

On his desk, three pictures of Nan, my twin, at various ages – poofy red curls, missing teeth, then baring them in braces. Always worried eyes. Two more of her on the wall, straightened hair, expensive white smile, plus a framed newspaper clipping of her after delivering a speech at this summer’s Stony Bay Fourth of July thing.

No pics of me.

Were there ever? Can’t remember. In the bad old days, I always got high before a father/son office visit.

Clear my throat.

Crack my knuckles.

“Pop? You asked to see me?”

He actually startles. “Tim?”

“Yep.”

Swiveling the chair, he looks at me. His eyes, like Nan’s and my own, are gray. Match his hair. Match his office.

“So,” he says.

I wait. Try not to scope out the bottle of Macallan on the . . . what do you call it. Sidebar? Sideboard? Generally, Ma brings in the ice in the little silver bucket thing ten minutes after he gets home from work, six p.m., synched up like those weird-ass cuckoo clock people who pop out of their tiny wooden doors, dead on schedule when the clock strikes, so Pop can have the first of his two scotches ready to go.

Today must be special. It’s only three o’clock and there’s the bucket, oozing cool sweat like I am. Even when I was little I knew he’d leave the second drink half-finished. So I could slurp down the last of the scotchy ice water without him knowing while he was washing his hands before dinner. Can’t remember when I started doing that, but it was well before my balls dropped.

“Ma said you wanted to talk.”

He brushes some invisible whatever from his knee, like his attention’s already gone. “Did she say why?”

I clear my throat again. “Because I’m moving out? Planning to do that. Today.” Ten minutes ago, ideally.

His eyes return to mine. “Do you think this is the best choice for you?”

Classic Nowhere Man. Moving out was hardly my choice. His ultimatum, in fact. The only “best choice” I’ve made lately was to stop drinking. Etc.

But Pop likes to tack and turn, and no matter that this was his order, he can shove that rudder over without even looking and make me feel like shit.

“I asked you a question, Tim.”

“It’s fine. It’s a good idea.”

Pop steeples his fingers, sets his chin on them, my chin, cleft and all. “How long has it been since you got kicked out of Ellery Prep?”

“Uh. Eight months.” Early December. Hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase from Thanksgiving break.