Amy Poeppel is the award-winning author of the novels The Sweet Spot, Musical Chairs, Limelight, and Small Admissions. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Rumpus, Literary Hub, and Working Mother. She and her husband have three sons and split their time between New York City, Germany, and Connecticut. She would love to hear from you on Twitter or Instagram: @AmyPoeppel or at AmyPoeppel.com.

Klappentext

In a smart and funny novel by the award-winning author of the critically acclaimed “big-hearted, charming” (The Washington Post) Small Admissions, a family’s move to New York City brings surprises and humor.

Allison Brinkley—wife, mother, and former unflappable optimist—discovers that her decision to pack up and move her family from suburban Dallas to the glittery chaos of Manhattan may have been more complicated than she and her husband initially thought. New York is more unruly and bewildering than she expected, defying the notions she developed from romantic movies and a memorable childhood visit. After a humiliating call from the principal’s office and the loss of the job she was counting on, Allison begins to accept that New York may not suit her after all.

When she has a fender-bender, witnessed by a flock of mothers at her son’s new school, she is led to the penthouse apartment of a luxurious Central Park West building and encounters a spoiled, hungover, unsupervised teenager who looks familiar. It doesn’t take long to recognize him as Carter Reid—a famous pop star who has been cast in a new Broadway musical. Through this brush with stardom, Allison embraces a unique and unexpected opportunity that helps her find her way in the heart of Manhattan.

“A tribute to Broadway, teen celebrity life, and a mother who has now seen it all, this work is tough love at its finest and a great read for those wanting a ride on the wild side” (Booklist, starred review).

Zusammenfassung
In a smart and funny novel by the author of the critically acclaimed “big-hearted, charming” (The Washington Post) Small Admissions, a family’s move to New York City brings surprises and humor.

Leseprobe
Limelight

one

OUR FIRST MORNING IN NEW York City, before anyone else in the family had shown signs of life, I was up, surveying the situation. In bare feet and pajamas, mug of coffee in hand, I stood in the open doorway of our new apartment, wondering if you even use a doormat in a carpeted hallway. When I heard a creak down the hall, I ducked back inside before a man heading out with a pug under one arm and a newspaper under the other could spot me in my sleepwear.

The left side of the small living room, opposite the north-facing windows that overlooked a beige brick building, was a wall of boxes. I found one that was especially well labeled (“OPEN FIRST”) and began unpacking towels, stuffed animals, lamps, school supplies, and toilet paper so we would have the essentials right from the start. Before going to bed the night before, I had unpacked the coffee maker, mugs, and cereal bowls. I had a hammer and nails handy so that I could hang pictures, along with a baggie of magnets to clutter up the refrigerator. The Jawbone speaker was on the kitchen counter, ready to play pop music to get my kids in a chipper mood for their first day as New Yorkers. Above all, I wanted everyone to feel at home, in spite of the upheaval. One needs a doormat, for example. Or so I thought. Standing in the living room that morning, with the doormat still rolled up, I had a suspicion that the universe was scoffing at me and my futile attempts to settle in. But I didn’t let that dampen my mood; I was finally getting the chance to live in Manhattan.

As soon as I heard voices coming from the kids’ rooms, I went old-school and turned on the Beastie Boys’ “Body Movin’.” But before we could get some action from the back section, the doorman called up with a noise complaint. The new refrigerator was wood-paneled and nonmagnetic, a barren expanse, and the box I’d carefully labeled “FRAGILE! WINEGLASSES!” made a sound like a package of Legos when I went to open it. Our furniture seemed confused and uneasy to be sitting thirteen stories in the air. I couldn’t shake the worry that it was all too heavy and eventually the floors would give way, sending couches, beds, book boxes, and the upright piano through the ceilings until finally all of our possessions landed in the lobby. Our cat, Jasper, was hiding in a closet behind our GE Spacemaker stacked washer/dryer, my children were cranky and nervous about starting school the next week, and my husband was stressed about his new job.

I took a deep breath and continued unpacking.

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We had been living in New York for less than two weeks when we had our first, full-blown crisis. I didn’t know how to handle it and almost called my mother for advice, but I stopped myself; she was still mad at me for moving away. I called Sara instead, my one and only friend in the city. As someone who had lived in New York for years, she was, in my mind, an expert.

“Is this bad?” I asked her.

“Honestly, I wasn’t listening.”

I closed the door to my bedroom and spoke clearly. “The principal says Jack offered a girl in his class a dollar to see her vagina.”

“Ooooh.”

“I know.”

“That seems like a low offer to me.”

“Not for a third grader.”

“He obviously hasn’t adjusted to Manhattan prices. Did he have a dollar?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. Why?”

“It speaks to intent. Maybe he was asking hypothetically.”

“But I’m asking—is this really bad? It’s only his first week at this school, so can they kick him out? And does this point to something seriously wrong with him? Like is my son a sexual deviant?”

“He’s four.”

“He’s eight.”

“Whatever,” she said.

“No—that’s why the school is so mad. He’s old enough to know better. Do you think he hates women?”

“To the contrary,” Sara said. &l…