Christa Comes Out of Her Shell

Informationen zum Autor Abbi Waxman Klappentext "After a tumultuous childhood, Christa Liddle has hidden away, both figuratively and literally. Happily studying sea snails in the middle of the Indian Ocean, Christa finds her tranquil existence thrown into chaos when her once-famous father--long thought dead after a plane crash--turns out to be alive, well, and ready to make amends. The world goes wild, fascinated by this real-life saga, pinning Christa and her family under the spotlight. As if that weren't enough, her reunion with an old childhood friend reveals an intense physical attraction neither was expecting and both want to act on--if they can just keep a lid on it. When her father's story starts to develop cracks, Christa fears she will lose herself, her potential relationship, and--most importantly--any chance of making it back to her snails before they forget her completely"-- Leseprobe 1 So, I'm going to kick off by making one thing very clear: None of this was my fault. I was part of it, sure, but only like a flea is part of a cat. I was carried along, contributing my own pain-in-the-ass factor, no argument there, but I was not, in any sense, driving the bus. Let's not forget that when this story starts, I was literally on an island in the middle of nowhere. Hands full, head busy, heart well guarded. Safe as houses, baby. Wait, that's not completely accurate. The island of Violetta isn't in the middle of nowhere; it's slightly to the right of Africa, many hundreds of miles into the Indian Ocean. It's a geographical, political and sociological anomaly. It's also home to a frozen vodka drink called the Barrier Island, beyond which no man may safely travel, but that's a sidenote. It lies two days' sail from a large French-speaking island more than five hundred miles off the east African coast, which is probably why the French didn't bother to claim it. It was ignored by the Mauritians, because they thought the French already nabbed it, and blithely disregarded by the British, who had no idea who owned it, but had no reason to think it was them. No one paid much attention to it at all until the 1950s, when an enterprising young Violettan by the name of Agnes Bottlebrush did a school project on the even younger United Nations and then quietly applied for membership for Violetta (Agnes was an overachiever with time on her hands). As the result of a series of fortunate and slightly comedic events, Violetta became the smallest member of the United Nations, and Agnes received a rapid promotion to Head Girl. Then she walked around to everyone's houses and handed them a copy of the UN Charter and gathered suggestions for what to put on the flag. Agnes's successful endeavors attracted the notice of the BBC, and they sent a camera crew, along with a reporter who'd been the quickest to raise his hand when asked, "Who wants to spend two weeks on a sunny island in the middle of nowhere?" (In a strange but not wholly unprecedented turn of events, that journalist's son married Agnes Bottlebrush's daughter several decades later, proving something about destiny, or karma, or the importance of follow-up when it comes to good journalism.) Bear with me; there may be a test later. The capital of Violetta, such as it is, is also called Violetta, and has a population of around two thousand, of which several hundred are visiting scientists of all kinds. Why, you may ask, are so many drawn so far for so little? Well, it all goes back to the island's anomalous nature and fortuitous location. Geographically, the island is too far from the coast to be readily reached by casual travelers, too inhospitable to be easily settled and too daunting from a distance (cliffs on most sides and a whacking great volcano in the middle). This peaceful lack of interruption for millennia gave rise to flora and fauna that aren't seen anywhere else, which in modern times brings a steady...

Autorentext

Abbi Waxman

Klappentext

"After a tumultuous childhood, Christa Liddle has hidden away, both figuratively and literally. Happily studying sea snails in the middle of the Indian Ocean, Christa finds her tranquil existence thrown into chaos when her once-famous father--long thought dead after a plane crash--turns out to be alive, well, and ready to make amends. The world goes wild, fascinated by this real-life saga, pinning Christa and her family under the spotlight. As if that weren't enough, her reunion with an old childhood friend reveals an intense physical attraction neither was expecting and both want to act on--if they can just keep a lid on it. When her father's story starts to develop cracks, Christa fears she will lose herself, her potential relationship, and--most importantly--any chance of making it back to her snails before they forget her completely"--

Zusammenfassung
Just when she thought she’d gotten far enough away . . . a life-changing phone call throws an antisocial scientist back into her least favorite place—the spotlight. A hilarious and insightful new novel from the USA Today bestselling author of The Bookish Life of Nina Hill.

After a tumultuous childhood, Christa Liddle has hidden away, both figuratively and literally. Happily studying sea snails in the middle of the Indian Ocean, Christa finds her tranquil existence thrown into chaos when her once-famous father—long thought dead after a plane crash—turns out to be alive, well, and ready to make amends. The world goes wild, fascinated by this real-life saga, pinning Christa and her family under the spotlight. As if that weren’t enough, her reunion with an old childhood friend reveals an intense physical attraction neither was expecting and both want to act on . . . if they can just keep a lid on it. When her father’s story starts to develop cracks, Christa fears she will lose herself, her potential relationship, and—most importantly—any chance of making it back to her snails before they forget her completely.

Leseprobe
1

So, I'm going to kick off by making one thing very clear: None of this was my fault. I was part of it, sure, but only like a flea is part of a cat. I was carried along, contributing my own pain-in-the-ass factor, no argument there, but I was not, in any sense, driving the bus. Let's not forget that when this story starts, I was literally on an island in the middle of nowhere. Hands full, head busy, heart well guarded. Safe as houses, baby.

Wait, that's not completely accurate. The island of Violetta isn't in the middle of nowhere; it's slightly to the right of Africa, many hundreds of miles into the Indian Ocean. It's a geographical, political and sociological anomaly. It's also home to a frozen vodka drink called the Barrier Island, beyond which no man may safely travel, but that's a sidenote. It lies two days' sail from a large French-speaking island more than five hundred miles off the east African coast, which is probably why the French didn't bother to claim it. It was ignored by the Mauritians, because they thought the French already nabbed it, and blithely disregarded by the British, who had no idea who owned it, but had no reason to think it was them.

No one paid much attention to it at all until the 1950s, when an enterprising young Violettan by the name of Agnes Bottlebrush did a school project on the even younger United Nations and then quietly applied for membership for Violetta (Agnes was an overachiever with time on her hands). As the result of a series of fortunate and slightly comedic events, Violetta became the smallest member of the United Nations, and Agnes received a rapid promotion to Head Girl. Then she walked around to everyone's houses and handed them a copy of the UN Charter and gathered suggestions for what to put on the flag.

Agnes's successful endeavors attracted the not…