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Summary
Summary
A fifteen-year-old creates an alter ego to woo his dream girl. Compulsively readable. "The New York Times"
This quirky, flirty, and smart story will appeal to fans of Frank Portman s "King Dork, " John Green s "An Abundance of Katherines, " and Rainbow Rowell s "Eleanor and Park." It s not exactly a love story . . . but it s pretty close.
It s 1977. Fifteen-year-old Vinnie is recovering from the worst case of acne his dermatologist s ever seen. His girl moved to California without saying good-bye. And the ink on his parents divorce papers is barely dry when his mom announces they re moving from Queens to Long Island. The silver lining? Moving next door to Patsy, everyone s dream girl. Not that she d ever notice him. But when Vinnie calls Patsy one night, it leads to a chain of anonymous midnight conversations, and the two develop a surprisingly strong connection despite the lies it s built on. But as Vinnie gets to know Patsy in real life, it s clear that both identities can t survive. . . .
"From the Hardcover edition.""
Reviews (6)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Fifteen-year-old Vinnie is not excited to move from Queens to Long Island with his newly remarried mother, but his attitude softens a bit after he glimpses the beautiful girl next door from his bedroom window. Unfortunately, when he calls Patsy, he loses his nerve and his voice, and Patsy pegs him as a "breather." Rather than explain himself, Vinnie impulsively plays the role of a mystery man/obscene caller, piquing Patsy's interest during the series of calls that follow. Soon, midnight phone conversations with Patsy are part of Vinnie's regular routine; the two establish an intimate relationship of sorts, speaking openly about matters they'd never discuss in public. When Patsy expresses her desire to meet in person, Vinnie, fearing rejection, is at a loss. Set in the 1970s, this offbeat love story humorously portrays the moments of vulnerability and bravado that change the course of these two teenagers' fates. Couloumbis (Lexie) steadily builds tension (the romance between Patsy and Vinnie never feels like a foregone conclusion) in a story with superb comedic repartees and a twisty-turvy plot. Ages 12-up. Agent: Jill Grinberg, Grinberg Literary Management. (Dec.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Horn Book Review
Its 1977, and fifteen-year-old Vinnie is still coping with his parents (amicable) divorce when his mother gets remarried (to his gym teacher), moving the family from Queens to Long Island. Vinnie develops a crush on his next-door neighbor, Patsy, but he doesnt even have the courage to pursue a friendship with her, let alone a date. When an obnoxious jock, who proves to be a rival for Patsys affections, drops her unlisted number on the ground, Vinnie seizes upon his chance. Things dont start out well; during his first nervous call, the mild-mannered Vinnie engages in heavy breathing and obscenity-spewing. Things improve when he calls her again the next night -- and every night after that, always around midnight. On the phone Vinnie and Patsy enjoy a flirty chemistry, and their in-person relationship also gradually develops. The story moves to a satisfying conclusion as Vinnies identity is revealed shortly after the junior prom. The books 1970s setting, with its lack of cell phones, allows for a sense of anticipation to build around Vinnie and Patsys nightly calls and moves their burgeoning relationship front and center. Couloumbiss novel, refreshingly sweet and nostalgic, is a solid choice for teenage romantics. jonathan hunt (c) Copyright 2012. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Booklist Review
Just as the title promises, this is a romance sort of. Fifteen-year-old Vinnie happens upon the phone number of his crush, Patsy, and calls her at midnight only to blurt out the kind of vulgar statement that would make an obscene phone caller proud. He calls again, once more at midnight, to apologize. So begins a strange dial-a-relationship between two teens who come to realize their similarity: If I'm screwed up it's okay, because we both are. Vinnie keeps his identity secret he thinks of his confident phone persona as Vincenzo but Patsy is angling to meet at the masked Valentine's Day dance. If you've seen your share of teen movies, you know what's afoot: Patsy develops an interest in the real Vinnie and begins discussing him with Vincenzo. What to do?! There are a number of plot and character stretches here, and Patsy's interest in her phone stalker never quite washes. However, the general lack of serious incident and sprinkling of family drama mark this for what it is: a light, diverting read that goes down easy.--Kraus, Daniel Copyright 2010 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
IN the 1970s, most Americans still had rotary phones. CB radios were a new craze. Students iearned math using slide rules. Mark Zuckerberg had not yet arrived on the planet, and teenagers didn't obsessively fashion aspirational online identities. But long before the advent of the digital age, adolescence was about trying on new personalities, about building - as much as being - someone, then presenting that self to the world. When "Not Exactly a Love Story" opens in 1977, Vinnie Gold, 15, is struggling to revise himself into something better. He has a litany of woes that read like the 10 plagues of young adulthood: Parental divorce. Acne attacks. Dead dog. Gym flunked. A mugging. Mom remarrying. New house. New town. New school. Leather pants that chafe. "I couldn't seem to recover from one blow before another followed," he reflects. It doesn't help that Vinnie's mother is muddling through her own identity crisis. She tells him: "I want to live my life, not just work my way through it. There's mystery out there, romance. I want to feel taken care of." (Her attitude often mirrors the self-absorption of adolescence, which, unfortunately, is less becoming in an adult.) Trying to shrug off his parents' divorce, Vinnie asks, "What good is it to be 15 with everyone calling you a young man if you can't handle something?" But the challenges keep coming, relentlessly. They pile to dizzying heights. As Vinnie's old life gets erased, he starts using the tumult to test-drive new personas. Slowly, and with much wheezing, he transforms himself into a cross-country runner. He stands up to - and gets knocked down by - a boorish football star. But his biggest experiment in identity creation is "Vincenzo," who functions as a kind of analog-era avatar, helping him get close to Patsy, the popular blonde next door. After calling her one night and blurting an absurd proposition, Vinnie fears Patsy will think he's an obscene caller. So he calls back to explain, on two separate nights, disguising his voice by draping a T-shirt over the receiver. "I never heard of a creep who had this need to apologize," Patsy says dismissively before hanging up. "If you need me to forgive you, it's probably a sign that you're neurotic." Vinnie keeps up the phone calls but refuses to identify himself, telling her only that he has an Italian name. ("Are you serious?" she says. "It just doesn't fit the picture I have of you." Asked to explain, she adds, "I guess . . . it's romantic. Italian. You know." ) And so Vinnie's alter ego - the mysterious midnight dialer to whom he assigns his seldom-used full name - starts taking shape. "It wasn't really me she was talking to. No. It was Vincenzo," he muses. "I couldn't be held responsible for anything Vincenzo said. And Vincenzo could say - well, anything. Besides, he only existed for 10 or 15 minutes a day." In the nights that follow, Patsy goes from immediately hanging up on her oddball suitor to bantering back, trying to guess his identity. Under rules they improvise together, she offers names starting with a new letter for each call; her attempts progress from Andreo to Umberto. It's a bit of Cyrano-meets-Rumpelstiltskin, and the slow march through the alphabet toward "V" keeps the pressure going. How long can he keep this up? "Not Exactly a Love Story" is the first young adult novel by Audrey Couloumbis, a prolific author best known for her intimate depictions of family life geared to middle-grade readers, including the 2000 Newbery Honor book "Getting Near to Baby." She doesn't disappoint here, even if Vinnie's narration feels stilted early on. (It's hard to imagine a 15-year-old rejecting his mother's boyfriend with the exaggeration: "She still has a tan line where her wedding band used to be." ) Readers who hang on past the claustrophobic initial chapters will be rewarded with a richly realized character. Vinnie's narration evolves beyond wise-cracks, keeping pace with his emotional growth. Once he endears himself to readers by revealing an internal life, however, he starts coming apart. "Had I developed a genuine split personality?" he wonders. "Will the real Vinnie Gold please stand up?" The problem is this: Both Vinnie and Vincenzo are now interacting with Patsy, but neither is the genuine article. By day, Vinnie contorts himself to look suave around Patsy. By night, Vincenzo is detached and confident, and slightly mean. But slowly, the characters converge into something more honest - and a bit scarier - than either. As the emotional stakes rise, Vinnie's story becomes compulsively readable. The more he clings to the masks he's made, the more his vulnerability comes through. There's a bit of slapstick, a collision of identities at the high school dance. By then, his personality has been rendered in enough warm, honest detail to drive a sequence of events that, left to a lesser writer, might feel cartoonish. Vinnie Gold ultimately learns to hear what Patsy's been telling his midnight twin for a while: that she talks to him because she can be honest. Not because she thinks he's some contrived teenage idol. "I pick up because we're not faking it with each other," she says. "I don't have to be perfect with you. If I'm screwed up, it's O.K., because we both are. I don't have that with anyone else." And isn't that just what a teenager still figuring himself out wants to hear? Jessica Bruder teaches at the Columbia School of Journalism and is the author of "Burning Book: A Visual History of Burning Man."
School Library Journal Review
Gr 9 Up-A story set on Long Island, New York, in 1977. Vinnie Gold has just turned 15, his dog dies soon thereafter, his crush moves away, and his parents announce they are getting a divorce. A good deal of this book is spent exploring with family dynamics after the breakup. Vinnie's mom ends up marrying Mr. Buonofuco, Vinnie's gym teacher. His dad, on the other hand, never wanted a divorce, but eventually begins to create a new life for himself. While Vinnie's family life is changing, so is his personal life. He moves to the suburbs with his mom and Mr. B and develops a crush on his next-door neighbor, Patsy, who, as luck would have it, is incredibly attractive and goes to his school. He accidentally acquires her unlisted phone number and decides to call her-night after night after night. At first she is angry, but as time goes by, they develop a relationship. A third of the way through the book readers may become tired of Vinnie's calls and disturbed at his stalkerish behavior. However, if they continue, they will find that he grows up and turns out to be a decent guy. This novel deals with many hard topics surrounding divorce, insecurity, and relationhips.-Jesse L. Ray, Seattle Public Library, WA (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
A late-night phone call turned badturns good. After his parents' quick divorce and his mother's even quicker remarriage to his gym teacher, Mr. Buonofuoco, in 1977, 15-year-old, half-Italian/half-Jewish Vinnie Gold relocates from New York City to Long Island with his mother and Mr. B. The loner teen knows that Patsy, the "foxy blonde" next door, is out of his league, but after discovering her private number, he musters the courage to call her at midnight. His nervousness and bumbling, however, leave Patsy thinking he's an obscene caller. The potential creepiness of the situation is not lost on Vinnie, and it fuels his desire to right his wrong and prove himself. So he calls back, and this time Patsy keeps listening--and even talking. With a shield of partial anonymity, their midnight repartee continues night after night, developing into an unusual romance that keeps Patsy guessing at Vinnie's identity and Vinnie watching the school's football star abuse her. In a first-person narration that ranges from humor and quirkiness to insecurity and anger, Vinnie struggles between two personas. Can he ever reconcile both selves and still keep Patsy's interest? Even if Patsy doesn't fall for Vinnie, readers will grow to love his vulnerability and sincerity. His parents' evolving relationships echo his own maturation. Not exactly a perfect story. But it comes pretty close. (Fiction. 13 up)]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
One On my fifteenth birthday, January 16, 1977, I slogged through a New York City rainstorm of hurricane proportions to buy the Sunday paper. Actually, several newspapers, including those from Chicago and Houston. I didn't get the California papers. If I'd been born at the same moment on the West Coast, with the three-hour time difference, I'd have been born yesterday. Plus, the rain had already reduced the California paper to papier-mache. I'm a Capricorn, the sign represented by a goat with a fish's tail. Altogether, five horoscopes told me these things: --I would suffer a disaster that would lead to a major discovery about myself. Good, with reservations. --I would make a career move. We-ell. --I would have an opportunity to see more of the country. Um, good. --I would find romance. Good, but at the time, I felt I had romance. I decided this meant my interest would be reciprocated. --I would learn that some kinds of long-term relationships are irreplaceable. My God. My mom. Or my dad? Maybe just a grandparent. Just? Two My dog died. I grant you, she was a pretty old dog. Her health had been poor for some time, and it came as no surprise when she just didn't wake up one morning. It's what old dogs do, after all. But that didn't make it any easier to accept. Dad called the vet so we'd have someplace to take her. Mom went to work, worrying she'd be late, but Dad and I sort of took the day. We sat with my dog curled up between us on the couch, right where she'd died, and remembered all her best stuff. On the way back home, Dad asked if I wanted another dog. I said no. She'd been my dog for fourteen years, she was irreplaceable. A few days later, I bought a Valentine's Day card for my girl--or at least the girl I'd been very fond of for two years--and slipped it into the vent in her locker. I signed it "Anonymous Admirer." I had an idea that would be more interesting than getting a signed card. I'd planned to ask her to the movies or maybe a museum, and I'd say something witty about anonymous admirers so she'd know that card came from me. Mainly, I wanted to stand out a little from the crowd. I'd take her to a school dance for our second date, where I figured I would really shine. She didn't show up for math class, and then she didn't show up in the cafeteria. Somebody told me she'd moved away over the weekend. Without saying a word to me. Not even good-bye. Of course, it's true that I never told her that I thought of her as my girl. And she did leave several other admirers behind. I could see that she might not feel obligated. Only a week later, my parents called me to the dining room table for a family conference. Not an unusual occurrence in itself. I'd been neglecting to take the garbage out. I had a pile of laundry in one corner of my room. "Your dad and I--we have something sad to tell you. We've decided to divorce." "Divorce?" Dad's eyes looked like deep wounds in a quivering heart. Pleading for its life. "We've grown apart," Mom said. "We're still very fond of each other, of course." Tears filled Dad's eyes and shimmered there on the brink of his eyelashes, but he never let them trickle pathetically down his face. "We know you're old enough to understand how this could happen," Mom said. Dad nodded. "The divorce will be amicable," Mom said. "We'll try to work things out so that your life changes as little as possible. In those interests, your dad will find another place to live as soon as he is able." Dad nodded amicably. Mom mumbled something about work to do and retired to the bedroom. Dad looked at me and I shrugged. A shrug that said I found all of this pretty awful but I was handling it. What good is it to be fifteen with everyone calling you a young man if you can't handle something? I woke up the next morning to a case of galloping acne. Yeah, yeah, I know. Everybody has a few pimples. A few pimples is what I went to bed with. By morning the number of blotches had doubled, and by the time I got home from school I had weeping pustular eruptions. That's what the dermatologist called them. "Gold! What's happened to you?" I shrugged. He wore goggles and a surgical mask during the appointment. If not for the rubber gloves, I'd've thought he was going snorkeling. "Worst case I've ever seen," he said, looking like I might be contagious. He said he'd leave a prescription at the front desk and quickly left the exam room. Three Cultural differences. My mother told me this was the reason for the divorce. That's not to be read as religious differences. My dad grew up with a Hanukkah bush twinkling in the corner of the living room while the menorah was being lit, and baskets of chocolate from the Passover Bunny. As for Mom, the more candles, the better. It can't be read as a personality conflict either. Having an insider's view of both a Jewish and an Italian family, I can reliably state that in the face of overwhelming happiness or unbearable sorrow, their reactions are clinically identical. Further, my mother and father agree on all the important issues: which political candidate deserves their vote, child-rearing, women's rights, and whether the toilet paper sheets should come from under or over the top of the roll. And they agreed on my name: Vincenzo. So what, you ask, would they find to fight about? The root of all differences. Money. Dad is an actor, and consequently doesn't make it very regularly. He took on the role of househusband. He's like Mary Poppins with a strong dose of that dog from Peter Pan, all wrapped up into one tall, thin, neurotic-looking individual in glasses that are too large for his face. But he doesn't have a neurotic bone in his body. He doesn't even have a lot of anger that his talent hasn't been recognized. Mom breadwinningly brings home the bacon as a stock market consultant. She saw to it that I took swimming lessons Saturday mornings at the Lexington Avenue Y. That I wore braces when my front teeth wanted to overlap. That we all took ballroom dancing when the trend swept New York City, for Pete's sake! Mom was behind this, I just knew it. She dragged me along on a weekend shopping trip. My role: to carry the bags. "I've been thinking about you and Dad," I said as we crossed the street. "I can't hear you over the traffic, Vinnie." She stepped up her pace, and I matched my stride to hers. "Dad doesn't seem to be into this divorce thing, Mom!" I shouted as she whipped through a revolving door. Mom shopped at the speed of light. "It's upsetting him," I said a little too loudly as I saved our bags from the accelerating door, then hurried to catch up to her. It's embarrassing to lose track of your mother in a store at my age. "Of course he's upset," she said, climbing the escalator like a flight of stairs. "I'm upset." I saw that I was going about this all wrong. When I was a little kid, I got my finger pinched in a car door and the tip of it swelled to the size of a Ping-Pong ball. I was still blubbering about it when we got home an hour later, and when Dad asked what was wrong, Mom said I was "upset." It's better to appeal to Mom's softer side with logic. "I know divorce is upsetting, Mom," I said. "My point is, Dad seems to be upset because he doesn't want one." "I'm not asking for a divorce the way I'd ask for a microwave oven, Vinnie," Mom said, stepping up her speed a couple of notches as she headed across the floor. I hitched up the shopping bags and followed her at a dogtrot as she said, "I need to move on." "Move on?" I figured she was trying to sound hip. "You want to live in Paris or Rome?" "I'm saying I need to improve my life." "We'll get you a Jacuzzi. How does divorce improve your life?" She said, "I want to live my life, not just work my way through it. There's mystery out there, romance. I want to feel taken care of--" Romance? "Taken care of?" I cried as we hurtled through the cruisewear department. "You mean by a man?" I said. "Not kept, Vinnie," my mother said to me and to whomever else might be listening as she snatched outfits off the clearance rack. "Taken care of. There's a lot I've been missing." "You're not going to get married to somebody else, right?" "Being married is not my problem--" This was good news. "I think you ought to talk this over with Dad. You don't need a divorce--" "Let me decide what I need, please." "All I'm saying--" "Don't say any more." Mom disappeared into the fitting room. Four I thought when a marriage was over it caused a kind of explosion. I expected a lot of yelling and door-slamming. Tears and recriminations. But all that really happened was, I stopped bringing friends home. I hung out a lot in front of the TV. Dad started looking for a regular job and an apartment. Even as the days grew longer, the sunshine warmer, and everyone I looked at appeared to be walking with a lighter step, a sense of things coming to an end hung over us at home. We spoke in sober, hushed tones and acted way too considerate. Divorce was just the next step this family was taking. I got home from school at the end of March to find Dad in the kitchen. This was usual enough--Mom wasn't much of a cook. Dad and I love cooking, and I always helped with dinner. But there weren't any onions frying, and there was no smell of meat browning. No vegetables laid out on the counter. Not a good sign. "Hi, Dad." " 'Lo, Vinnie." He was sort of hanging out in front of the refrigerator, whistling a shaky rendition of "Bridge Over Troubled Water." I got the feeling he was hiding. My stomach started tying itself up in knots. "You always tell me not to stand in the refrigerator." He shut the fridge. He'd been crying. "Dad--" "It just hit me, I guess. Really hit me. I found a place." I swallowed hard. He'd be living someplace else. I couldn't even imagine what that would be like for him. He said, "It won't be so bad. I have roommates. And I got a job." Roommates. Well, okay, at least he wouldn't be living alone. "What kind of job?" "Taxi driver. I can work late afternoons and in the evenings, leave myself time to do rounds in the morning. A lot of actors drive taxis." "I didn't know you could drive." "Sure I can. But who needs to drive in New York?" In a weird way, I could see this could be a good move for Dad. Not that I was enthusiastic about it. We ate cereal and left the bowls in the sink. I helped Dad pack his stuff and saw him off. Mom was late getting home, and when she did, she seemed to have lost her footing. As if her new status loomed larger and somewhat too free for her tastes. Her discomfort was something I felt compelled to test. "So what kind of guy have you got in mind, Mom?" "Don't start," she said. She was cleaning up the kitchen, something that was usually not on her radar. "The professorial type," I suggested as she put an open box of uncooked rice into the fridge. "No, not enough income. An advertising executive, a little older, maybe, and moving in faster circles--" "Vinnie, leave me alone." She wedged a tall cereal box into a cabinet full of pots and pans. "What time is it?" The batteries in the kitchen clock had been dead for days. "Do you have the time?" My mother took a plane to Haiti. She was back in three days with a light tan, a supply of grass place mats, and a piece of official-looking paper that ended my parents' marriage. Mom hooked up with a circle of girlfriends after she got home. Singles and divorcees. All of them compact--in build, in mannerism, in personality. No waste. Mom got stronger, sharper around the edges, humorless, even. It was scary. Schedules and chores were printed on a chart that hung in the dining room over Dad's place now that Dad wasn't present to act as a receptacle for appointments, plans, requests, etceteras. After a couple of failed tests and then a warning note from my guidance counselor, Mom made me hit the books hard. She was aiming for straight As. I was looking to pass. When third-quarter report cards came out, I stared at the print until it shimmered like water had spilled on the page. I had skated by with Bs and a C except for one real shocker. Failing gym had never even occurred to me. I couldn't seem to recover from one blow before another followed. No one tells you how things really are. Everything coming in waves, one rolling in after the other, and in case you're thinking that doesn't sound so bad, keep this in mind: that's how huge rocks, boulders, become sand on the beach. Five Mom did the required school conference. She could say Mr. Buonofuoco's name with a straight face, despite the fact that I'd already told her he'd been dubbed Mr. Goodfuck. No one claimed to have any firsthand experience. His nickname was the student body's revenge for enduring his boot camp-level gym classes. In class, I played it cool, saying to anyone who asked about it, "Good thing I don't plan to major in gym in college." Laughter all around. I didn't think it was funny. Or cool. I was flunking phys ed, flunking gym! I had to talk to Dad about this. It was his busy time, the weekend. But I couldn't wait for our regular Tuesday-night supper. I was sitting with him about two hours later. "Dad, can you afford this?" I asked as we parked ourselves in an Italian pastry shop. A waitress came up to stand at Dad's elbow. "Are you ready to order?" she asked. She was a knockout, and I noticed Dad noticed. Big dark sparkling eyes in a pretty face, lush in all the places that counted. Classy-looking, too. A guy could wonder what she was doing waiting tables when Hollywood was only a few thousand miles away. We ordered cannoli. "I can afford it, I just did a dog food commercial," Dad said when the waitress had gone. He looked a little embarrassed. "It's not a speaking part, the dog got that part." Excerpted from Not Exactly a Love Story by Audrey Couloumbis All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
