Excerpt from The Lightness of Hands by Jeff Garvin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The Millers' front door opened, and the blonde who had pulled Liam inside earlier came stumbling down the front steps with her tall friend.

"Liiaaamm," she called.

He ignored her and held my gaze. "I'm heading back to school in a couple days. But I thought, if you're not busy tomorrow night ..."

I tried to look casual as I steadied myself against the door frame to counteract the dizziness that had suddenly come on. I'd been hit on a thousand times; I'd been asked out on a date precisely never.

"Are you asking me out?"

Cue the impossible dimple. "Yes, Ellie, I'm asking you out."

He kept saying my name—and I found that I didn't hate it.

"I don't really date," I said. "I'm never around."

"Are you around tomorrow night?"

"I don't know." It was the truth.

"Well, why don't you give me your phone number, and I can call you?"

I searched his face, trying to detect whether he was making fun of me, but my judgment was scrambled. I decided to play it safe.

"Your dad booked us," I said. "You can get the number from him."

Liam stood there with a stunned expression on his face—he was used to girls falling all over themselves for his attention. Case in point: the blond girl who was now slinking toward us, whispering and laughing with her friend. She was so pretty—professional tan, salon manicure, and an outfit worth more than my whole closet. How could I compete with that?

The two of them pulled Liam away. As they neared the girl's car, he looked back over his shoulder and gave me a quizzical look.

I turned and boarded the bus.

As the door closed, Dad looked over at me from the driver's seat.

"Say nothing," I warned. "Say absolutely nothing."

Dad mimed zipping his lips, then started the motor.

We pulled away, and I watched Liam Miller get smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.


It started raining as soon as we pulled onto the highway, fat, angry drops striking the windshield like suicidal wasps. I imagined Liam rushing around the Millers' backyard, rescuing centerpieces or carrying that cute blonde over a patch of mud. I closed my eyes and tried to picture anything else. The quickening that had struck me after my encounters with Liam and the prank caller slipped away fast, leaving my nerves raw and buzzing. Sometimes this happened after I performed; I felt as if I were standing at the top of a steep slope, waiting for something to run up from behind and push me over the edge. But tonight, I hadn't set foot onstage.

We got back to the glorious Cedarwood Mobile Estates just after ten p.m. I was looking forward to connecting to the Wi-Fi, cranking out my history exam, then hooking up the propane for a hot shower—but when Dad got out to enter his code at the entrance gate, something went wrong. I could see him through the rain-streaked driver's-side window, bent over the security keypad, coat stretched over his head in lieu of an umbrella. Ella. Ella. I moved over to his seat and cracked the window.

"What's wrong?" I yelled over the sound of the storm.

"It won't take my code," he replied, typing it in again. The LED indicator flashed red, and he grunted with frustration.

"Hang on," I said, trying to hide my irritation; the man was allergic to technology. I pulled up my hood, climbed out of the RV, and came around to the keypad. Dad stepped aside, clearly annoyed that I was doubting him. I punched in the numbers, my fingers trembling against the cold metal buttons, but the light still flashed red.

"You see?" Dad said.

I reached for my cell to call the manager, then remembered I didn't have any minutes left and pushed the Call button on the security gate's keypad instead. A low electronic burble issued from the crappy speaker. After four or five rings, Julius, the site supervisor, finally picked up.

Excerpted from The Lightness of Hands by Tim Garvin. Copyright © 2020 by Tim Garvin. Excerpted by permission of Balzer + Bray. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.