Read Download We Were Liars |PDF books PDF Free Download Here: http:// caite.info?book= We Were Liars by E. Lockhart. Issuu is a digital publishing platform that makes it simple to publish magazines, catalogs, newspapers, books, and more online. Easily share. Cadence is the eldest granddaughter of the beautiful and privileged. Sinclair family who spend every summer together on their private island. The Liars of the .
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We Were Liars by E. Lockhart - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. A beautiful and distinguished family. A private island. Praise for we were liars “You're going to want to remember the title. —Robin Wasserman, author of The Waking Dark Also by e. lockhart The Ruby Oliver. PDF | On Jan 11, , Nancy Virna and others published Read Ebook [PDF] We Were Liars By E. Lockhart.
Carrie steers the boat around the tip and I can see Cuddledown there at the lowest point of the land, with its chubby, boxlike structure. The littles did whatever littles do. Gat hardly ever talked about his mother. He was never fond of my grandparents, either, and it was a sign of how much he loved both me and Mummy that he spent every summer in Windemere House on Beechwood Island, writing articles on wars fought long ago and putting on a smile for the relatives at every meal. I own a well- used library card and not much else, though it is true I live in a grand house full of expensive, useless objects.
And if anyone asks you how it ends, just LIE. Lockhart that everyone will be reading, and re-reading, this summer. And the ending? Not telling. At the center of it is a girl who learns the hardest way of all what family means, and what it means to lose the one that really mattered to you. The ending will shock the mose jaded of readers, we promise! Could I have seen this coming? Did I miss any clues? Lockhart has truly outdone herself with this masterful, darkly mesmerizing portrait of a fractured family ruined by the excess of wealth.
Humming with rich descriptions and razor-sharp intelligence, the story of Cadence Sinclair Eastman will both inspire and haunt readers for years to come. Pitch perfect in both plotting and character development. Sad, wonderful, and real. Dark, gripping, heartrending, and terrifyingly smart, this book grabs you from the first page—and will never let go. This is E. Lockhart at her mind-blowing best.
And the ending is utterly spooky. Lockhart is a book as tragic as it is interesting. Lockhart is quite simply amazing. I felt run over by it. Emily has done something incredible here. Read An Excerpt. We Were Liars By E. Lockhart By E. Lockhart Read by Ariadne Meyers Category: Paperback 2 —. Buy the Audiobook Download: Apple Audible downpour eMusic audiobooks. Also by E. About E. Lockhart E. She told me to breathe and sit up. And I did what she asked. Mummy was worried about Granddad.
He was shaky on his feet with Gran gone, holding on to chairs and tables to keep his balance. He was the head of the family. She wanted him to know his children and grandchildren were still around him, strong and merry as ever.
It was important, she said; it was kind; it was best. Silence is a protective coating over pain. Not happily, but thoroughly. At meals with the aunts, on the boat with Granddad, even alone with Mummy—I behaved as if those two critical people had never existed.
The rest of the Sinclairs did the same. When we were all together, people kept their smiles wide. Gat never got it, though. Or to Mummy: Every time Gat said these things, so casual and truthful, so oblivious —my veins opened.
My wrists split. I bled down my palms. I went light-headed. Especially not Mummy. Gat almost always saw, though. When blood dripped on my bare feet or poured over the book I was reading, he was kind. He asked about Dad and about Gran—as if talking about something could make it better.
As if wounds needed attention. He was a stranger in our family, even after all those years.
Some days he wrote me notes and left them with small presents under my pillow. Someone once wrote that a novel should deliver a series of small astonishments. I get the same thing spending an hour with you. It expresses my feelings inadequately. Better than chocolate, being with you last night. Silly me, I thought that nothing was better than chocolate. In a profound, symbolic gesture, I am giving you this bar of Vosges I got when we all went to Edgartown.
You can eat it, or just sit next to it and feel superior. He stuck them up over his bed. He touched me whenever he could. Beneath the table at dinner, in the kitchen the moment it was empty. I felt no barrier between us. I reached for his hand, pressed my thumb against his wrist, and felt the blood going through his veins. Where were Gat, Johnny, and Mirren? We had been playing a lot of Scrabble at Red Gate.
They were probably there. Or they could have been at Clairmont, listening to the aunts argue and eating beach plum jam on water crackers. In any case, I went into the water wearing a camisole, bra, and underwear.
Apparently I walked down to the beach wearing nothing more. We never found any of my clothes on the sand. No towel, either. I must have swum out far. There are big rocks in o the shore, craggy and black; they always look villainous in the dark of the evening.
I must have had my face in the water and then hit my head on one of these rocks. I remember only this: I plunged down into this ocean, down to rocky rocky bottom, and I could see the base of Beechwood Island and my arms and legs felt numb but my ngers were cold. Slices of seaweed went past as I fell. Mummy found me on the sand, curled into a ball and half underwater.
I was shivering uncontrollably. Adults wrapped me in blankets. They tried to get me warm at Cuddledown. Hypothermia, respiratory problems, and most likely some kind of head injury, though the brain scans turned up nothing.
Mummy stayed by my side, got a hotel room. I remember my lungs felt full of something, long after the doctors judged them clear. My hands hurt. My feet hurt. Mummy took me home to Vermont to recuperate. I lay in bed in the dark and felt desperately sorry for myself. Because I was sick, and even more because Gat never called. I wrote to Johnny, two or three stupid, lovesick emails asking him to find out about Gat. Johnny had the good sense to ignore them.
We are Sinclairs, after all, and Sinclairs do not behave like I was behaving. They were weak and stupid. The bottom line is, Gat bailed when I got hurt. The bottom line is, it was only a summer fling. The bottom line is, he might have loved Raquel. We lived too far apart, anyway. Our families were too close, anyway. I never got an explanation. I just know he left me. A truck is rolling over the bones of my neck and head.
The vertebrae break, the brains pop and ooze. A thousand ashlights shine in my eyes. The world tilts. I throw up. I black out. This happens all the time. The pain started six weeks after my accident. Needles, machines. More needles, more machines. They tested me for brain tumors, meningitis, you name it.
They gave me prescription after prescription without even knowing what was wrong. Just trying to quell the pain. Cadence, said the doctors, watch for signs of addiction. And still, Cadence, be sure to take your meds. Eventually the doctors came through with a diagnosis.
Cadence Sinclair Eastman: Migraine headaches caused by traumatic brain injury. My head hurt. And you know he takes looking after. I lay prone on the bathroom oors of several museums, feeling the cold tile underneath my cheek as my brain lique ed and seeped out my ear, bubbling. Migraines left my blood spreading across unfamiliar hotel sheets, dripping on the oors, oozing into carpets, soaking through leftover croissants and Italian lace cookies.
I could hear Dad calling me, but I never answered until my medicine took effect. I missed the Liars that summer. We never kept in touch over the school year. But the year after my accident, I missed days and even weeks of school.
I failed my classes, and the principal informed me I would have to repeat junior year. I stopped soccer and tennis. I texted Mirren a few times. Called and left her messages that later I was ashamed of, they were so lonely and needy.
I called Johnny, too, but his voice mail was full. I decided not to call again. When Dad took me to Europe, I knew the Liars were on-island. Di erent from my pitiful voice messages, these were charming, darling notes from a person without headaches.
Waving at you from Barcelona, where my father ate snails in broth. Our hotel has gold everything. Even saltshakers. Write and tell me how the littles are misbehaving and where you are applying to college and whether you have found true love. Bonjour from Paris, where my father ate a frog.
I saw the Winged Victory. Phenomenal body. No arms. Miss you guys. How is Gat? Hello from a castle in Scotland, where my father ate a haggis. That is, my father ate the heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep mixed with oatmeal and boiled in a sheep stomach. So, you know, he is the sort of person who eats hearts. Snorkel for me. Eat blueberry pie. Play tennis. Build a bonfire. Then report back. I am desperately bored and will devise creative punishments if you do not comply.
Besides the fact that to get online you have to go to the Vineyard, Beechwood is very much its own world. Once you are there, the rest of the universe seems nothing but an unpleasant dream. Europe might not even exist. We believe in outdoor exercise. We believe that time heals.
We believe, although we will not say so explicitly, in prescription drugs and the cocktail hour. We do not discuss our problems in restaurants. We do not believe in displays of distress. It is possible that we enjoy the way people are curious about us.
Mummy and I are two of a kind, in the big house with the porch at the top of the hill. The willowy mother and the sickly daughter. We are high of cheekbone, broad of shoulder.
People who know her at school tend to keep away. She was quiet even then. Now she misses school half the time. Sometimes she falls down at school, crying. She frightens the other students. Still, she has an aura of mystery that stops her from being teased or singled out for typical high school unpleasantness.
Her mother is a Sinclair.
It is hardly glamorous the way Mummy and I quarrel now that Dad is gone. I wake to nd her standing in my bedroom doorway, staring. But I cannot stand up. Too much ginger ale.
It is not mysterious to be home on a Saturday night, reading a novel in a pile of smelly golden retrievers. My mother is not immune to it, either. This is who we have been brought up to be. They came with colored covers: Inside were tales from all over the world, variations on variations of familiar stories.
Read them and you hear echoes of one story inside another, then echoes of another inside that. Three of something: Three princesses. Since I got back from Europe, I have been writing some of my own.
I have time on my hands, so let me tell you a story. A variation, I am saying, of a story you have heard before.
As he grew old, he began to wonder which should inherit the kingdom, since none had married and he had no heir. The king decided to ask his daughters to demonstrate their love for him.
Finally she said she loved him as meat loves salt. He threw his daughter from the castle and had the bridge drawn up behind her so that she could not return. Now, this youngest princess goes into the forest with not so much as a coat or a loaf of bread.
She wanders through a hard winter, taking shelter beneath trees. She arrives at an inn and gets hired as assistant to the cook. Eventually she surpasses her employer in skill and her food is known throughout the land. Years pass, and the eldest princess comes to be married. For the festivities, the cook from the inn makes the wedding meal. Finally a large roast pig is served.
The king tastes it. Tastes it again. And what then? The eldest daughter and the middle sister have been living with the king all this time. One has been in favor one week, the other the next. She is not to be queen after all.
The elder sisters rage. At rst, the youngest basks in fatherly love. Before long, however, she realizes the king is demented and power-mad. She is to be queen, but she is also stuck tending to a crazy old tyrant for the rest of her days. She will not leave him, no matter how sick he becomes. Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt? Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom?
It is hard for her to tell the difference. I give away something of mine every day. I mailed Mirren an old Barbie with extra-long hair, one we used to ght over when we were kids. I mailed Johnny a striped scarf I used to wear a lot. Johnny likes stripes. Whoever dies with the most stu wins. W in s what? I used to be a person who liked pretty things. Like Mummy does, like all the Sinclairs do. Mummy has our Burlington house lled with silver and crystal, co ee-table books and cashmere blankets.
Thick rugs cover every oor, and paintings from several local artists she patronizes line our walls. She likes antique china and displays it in the dining room. Not one of these symbols of prosperity and taste has any use at all. Pleasure, even, Cadence. Have you ever heard of pleasure? The jolt of a new purchase makes Mummy feel powerful, if only for a moment. MY BED pillow. I carry it while I run errands. There is a girl leaning against the wall outside the library.
She has a cardboard cup by her ankles for spare change. She is not much older than I am. Donated to the public library. I stop by Goodwill on my way home. You could donate just the frame. Bosh, Grendel, and Poppy greet me with soft, indoor woofs. Purebred goldens. I whisper how I love them into their soft doggy ears. She will be unable to piece together a coherent story of the trauma. Still like this, after all the appointments and scans and medicines.
What I remember, from the summer of the accident: Falling in love with Gat at the Red Gate kitchen door. His beach rose for Raquel and my wine-soaked night, spinning in anger. Acting normal. Making ice cream. Playing tennis. Night swimming. Kissing Gat in the attic. Hearing the Cracker Jack story and helping Granddad down the stairs. The tire swing, the basement, the perimeter.
Gat seeing me bleed. Asking me questions. Dressing my wounds. Granddad, holding on to a tree, his face lit by the glow of a bonfire.
And all four of us Liars, laughing so hard we felt dizzy and sick. But what was so funny? What was it and where were we? I do not know. My forgetfulness frightened me.
You never remember what I say. What happened? I knew they must have happened, because of course they happened— and here I am with a diagnosis and medications—but nearly all my medical treatment is a blank. I looked at Mummy. At her infuriatingly concerned face, her leaking eyes, the tipsy slackness of her mouth. I never asked her anything again. I want to return to Beechwood. I want to see Mirren and lie in the sun, planning our futures. I want to argue with Johnny and go snorkeling and make ice cream.
I want to build bon res on the shore of the tiny beach. I want to remember my accident. I want to know why Gat disappeared.
Why I swam in my underwear and left no clothes on the sand. And why he bailed when I got hurt. I wonder if he loved me. I wonder if he loved Raquel. Dad and I are supposed to leave for Australia in five days. I should never have agreed to go. I make myself wretched, sobbing. I need to see family. I miss Granddad. What if we lose my medication? Stop arguing. The trip is paid for. I walk the dogs in the early morning.
I load the dishwasher and later unload it. I put on a dress and rub blusher into my cheeks. I eat everything on my plate. I tell her I want to spend the summer with her, not Dad.
The next day, Granddad comes to Burlington to stay in the guest room. Mummy picks him up at the airport while I stay home and set the table for supper. Granddad has lost weight since I saw him last. His white hair stands out in pu s around his ears, tufty; he looks like a baby bird. He always seemed invincible, with rm, broad shoulders and lots of teeth.
Granddad is the sort of person who has mottos. Winners sit up front. Granddad is wearing madras shorts and loafers. His legs are spindly old-man legs. He pats my back and demands a scotch and soda. We eat and he talks about some friends of his in Boston.
The new kitchen in his Beechwood house. Nothing important. Afterward, Mummy cleans up while I show him the backyard garden. The evening sun is still out. Granddad picks a peony and hands it to me. She was dressed in a pink romper suit and her hair stuck up straight o her head.
I would give her everything. Just like a grandson. She was the future of our family. It was the chin, the tiny hands. All of us were tall until Bess married that short fellow, and Carrie made the same mistake. To make this life in America. Or blond. That is why I dyed my hair: Heiress to the island, the fortune, and the expectations.
But then again, perhaps I do. Granddad has had too much to drink after a long travel day. He picks a third peony, sharply, de antly. Hands it to me. The first. You should have three. He looks powerful. I take his hand and lead him inside. He loved each of them dearly. One day, when the young ladies were of age to be married, a terrible, three- headed dragon laid siege to the kingdom, burning villages with ery breath. It spoiled crops and burned churches.
It killed babies, old people, and everyone in between. Heroes and warriors came in suits of armor, riding brave horses and bearing swords and arrows. One by one, these men were slaughtered and eaten. He sent his eldest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon listened to not a word of her pleas.
It swallowed her whole. Then the king sent his second daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon did the same. The king then sent his youngest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, and she was so lovely and clever that he was sure she would succeed where the others had perished.
No indeed. The dragon simply ate her. The king was left aching with regret. He was now alone in the world. Now, let me ask you this. Who killed the girls? The dragon? 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. Cadence is so fragile, needs lots of rest.
Only four weeks, not the whole summer. Also, pinot grigio, Sancerre, maybe some Riesling; de nitely 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 annel 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 buys things just to buy things. I walk over to the library and nd the girl who took my pillow.
I set the toothbrush kit in her cup. 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 rst 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. Heavy breathing. Then a laugh. He has no manners. I make my voice bright. Is it nice? Did you go swimming yet? She says I should watch out for you. Though possibly I am lying. The windows rattle. Later he was convinced there was a sea monster under the dock.
Carrie gives Mummy a long hug before she helps us load our bags and the dogs into the big motorboat. She is the tallest of my aunts, and the eldest Sinclair daughter.
Her sweater is long and cashmere. The lines on the sides of her mouth are deep. She gives Mummy another hug. She smells of expensive, lemony perfume.
The drive out of the harbor is cold and sparkly. I sit at the back of the boat while Mummy stands next to Aunt Carrie behind the wheel. I trail my hand in the water. It sprays the arm of my du el coat, soaking the canvas. I will see Gat soon. Gat, my Gat, who is not my Gat. The houses. The littles, the aunts, the Liars. I will hear the sound of seagulls, taste slumps and pie and homemade ice cream.
Will I still be at home? Before long, Beechwood is ahead of us, the familiar outline looming. The rst house I see is Windemere with its multitude of peaked roofs. My own window looks to the inside of the island.
Carrie steers the boat around the tip and I can see Cuddledown there at the lowest point of the land, with its chubby, boxlike structure. A bitty, sandy cove—the tiny beach —is tucked in at the bottom of a long wooden staircase.
The view changes as we circle to the eastern side of the island. Then the big beach, accessed by another wooden staircase.
Clairmont sits at the highest point, with water views in three directions. The house is glass and iron. Carrie cuts the engine down, which makes it easier to talk. The walls are bare, and when we got here yesterday, he had nothing in the fridge but some apples and a wedge of Havarti. But I made a huge list and they went to the Edgartown market. We have enough for a few days now. I knew Granddad renovated, of course. He and Mummy talked about the new kitchen when he visited just a few days ago.
That the lawn was gone. And the trees, especially the huge old maple with the tire swing beneath it. That tree must have been a hundred years old. A wave surges up, dark blue, leaping from the sea like a whale. It arches over me. The muscles of my neck spasm, my throat catches.
I fold beneath the weight of it. The blood rushes to my head. I am drowning. We never told the tree how much we loved it.
We never gave it a name, never did anything for it. It could have lived so much longer. I am so, so cold. I reach and clutch her hand. It was just a tree. Just a tree with a tire swing that I loved a lot.
Aunt Carrie provides distraction, speaking brightly. Taft and Will are finding special rocks. She is sugar. She is curiosity and rain. Johnny jumps up and down, every now and then doing a cartwheel. He is bounce. He is effort and snark. Gat, my Gat, once upon a time my Gat—he has come out to see me, too.
He stands back from the slats of the fence, on the rocky hill that now leads to Clairmont. He is contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. Welcome home, they are saying. Welcome home. Instead, it is only the littles: Will and Taft, Liberty and Bonnie. The boys, both ten, kick one another and wrestle around. Taft runs over and grabs my arm. I pick him up and spin him. He is surprisingly light, like his freckled body is made of bird parts.
You were a mess on the phone last night. Then I went to sleep. No big whup. We took our stuff already. And Will caught three jelly sh at the big beach and also a dead crab. Will you come see them? The twins help with our suitcases. Granddad and Aunt Bess are in the kitchen. Bess is softer than her sisters, and blonder, but still the same mold. She takes o rubber gloves and then kisses Mummy and hugs me too long and too hard, like she is trying to hug some deep and secret message.
She smells of bleach and wine. The adults talk amongst themselves, and I am left with the twins. They look awkward in Crocs and summer dresses. They must be almost fourteen now. I ditch my bag and look for the Liars.
Suddenly they are on me like puppies. Mirren grabs me and spins me. Johnny grabs Mirren, Gat grabs Johnny, we are all grabbing each other and jumping. Then we are apart again, going into Cuddledown. Mirren chatters about how glad she is that Bess and the littles will live with Granddad this summer.
He needs somebody with him now. Plus Bess with her obsessive cleaning is impossible to be around. Plus again and even more important, we Liars will have Cuddledown to ourselves. Gat says he is going to make hot tea and hot tea is his new vice. Johnny calls him a pretentious assface. We follow Gat into the kitchen. He puts water on to boil. It is a whirlwind, all of them talking over each other, arguing happily, exactly like old times.
He is so beautiful. So Gat. I know the arc of his lower lip, the strength in his shoulders. I am so angry. And so happy to see him. Probably he has moved on, like any well-adjusted person would.
Now we are about even. He is. Gat in a worn green T-shirt from two summers ago. His ready smile, his way of leaning forward, his dramatic nose. Johnny broad-shouldered, in jeans and a pink plaid button- down so old its edges are frayed; nails bitten, hair cropped.
Mirren, like a pre-Raphaelite painting, that square Sinclair chin. It is reassuring. I love them so. I wonder if the aunts have been talking about me. He is sitting on the kitchen counter.
I missed too much school after the accident. We have had sexual intercourse quite a number of times, but always with protection. He brings me yellow roses every week and has nice muscles. Gat and I laugh. I am happy she has someone to be in love with.
Take our shoes o and wiggle our toes in the sand. There are tiny, sharp shells. Not this year. The littles. I realize they discussed this idea before I arrived. They kick around looking for lobsters. Probably there are only jelly sh and tiny crabs, but even with those slim pickings we have snorkeled at the tiny beach, always.
Gat sits with me on a batik blanket. We watch the others in silence. I love him. I have to forget about it. Maybe he still thinks I am pretty.
Even with my hair and the hollows beneath my eyes. The muscles of his back shift beneath his T-shirt. The curve of his neck, the soft arch of his ear. A little brown mole on the side of his neck. The moons of his ngernails. I drink him up after so long apart. They look ne. Have you got weapons? We are silent for a moment. I turn my face to look in his eyes. I want to say. He touches my face.
He is such an ass. I am not sure I want to. But then of course I do want to. His skin is warm and sandy.
We intertwine our ngers and close our eyes against the sun. We just lie there.