Breakfast Served Anytime by Sarah Combs EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Sarah Combs
- Language: English
- Genre:Historical Romance
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- Size: 2 MB
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THE BUTTERFLIES started showing up the night before I left for Geek
Camp. The first one came as a surprise: an otherworldly blue messenger,
lifting and settling its wings on the windshield of the wheezy Chrysler
LeBaron I had inherited from my grandmother just months before. Carol
was riding shotgun, and when I whacked her knee and pointed, she just slid
her sunglasses down her nose, peered at the butterfly like it might be
contagious, and said, “They’re everywhere, Glo. A plague of them.” After
that, just like when you learn a new word and suddenly it’s all over the
place, I started seeing the blue butterflies everywhere I looked.
But then, I can’t remember a time when I haven’t looked for signs. It was
not unusual for me, at age twelve, to tiptoe outside to our moonlit mailbox
and fully expect to find within it (at midnight, on a random Tuesday!) a
love note composed in Egyptian hieroglyphics or a grocery list scrawled in
the shaky hand of the ghost of Boo Radley. Give me a fortune cookie, a
Magic 8 Ball, a plague of blue butterflies, and I’ll be sure to find in them
some urgent message from the universe. Ask Carol: According to her, I’m a
master of the Art of Arcane Communication but a complete idiot when it
comes to the Writing on the Wall. What happened at Geek Camp? It was
like that. I never saw it coming, not even for half a second.
That first magic blue butterfly stayed on the windshield of the Munch all
the way to Dairy Queen. Carol’s the one who came up with that: the
Munch, as in LeBaron von Münchhausen. Carol’s dad is a psychologist, so
she’s always talking about stuff like Münchausen syndrome. Carol has
diagnosed half our class, and Münchausen syndrome is apparently what
Sophie Allen has, because she’s always feigning illness to get out of gym
class. Carol says I’m pretty normal, but that I’m prone to hyperbole and
should work on impulse control. Impulse control? Seriously? We’d been in
the car for ten minutes and Carol had already texted her boyfriend, Oscar
(pronounced “OH-scar” because he is, in Carol’s words — and inarguably
— a Cuban Demigod) at least four thousand times.
That’s half the reason I couldn’t wait to go to Geek Camp: I was under
obligation to check my technoparaphernalia at the door. According to the
glossy brochure, the idea behind Geek Camp is to provide Kentucky’s “best
and brightest” rising high-school seniors with an early taste of collegiate
life. So you have to pick a major and everything. I flirted with the idea of
Forensic Science (too gross) and briefly considered Theater Arts (too
obvious), but in the end I listed as my first choice the cryptically named
Secrets of the Written Word. The teacher — some guy who called himself
Dr. Weston A. Xavier — didn’t even provide a blurb for his class in the
glossy brochure. Just a title and a name, check the box here.
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