Do you know who you are? Easy question? Well, think again. Robert Hunt is one teenager who knows that there are a whole lot of people inside you, like a collection of masks. You change your mask according to the situation you find yourself in. A year ago Robert found himself in one pretty weird situation. He lost it for a while, and almost thought he was a psycho. So he wrote it all out in order to understand what happened to him and why. Believe it, don’t believe it–it’s up to you. Just remember this–whoever you choose to be, there is always a flip side.
From the Hardcover edition.
"Sinopsis" puede pertenecer a otra edición de este libro.
Andrew Matthews is the author of many books for young readers in his native England.
From the Hardcover edition.
Life’s really weird, you know? You have to live it forward, but it only makes sense when you look back on it, and even then you can’t be certain exactly why you did what you did. You might have been influenced by all kinds of things: the weather, dreams, genes, hormones, other people. The trickiest part is working out who you were at the time, and I’m here to tell you that the more you analyze yourself, the more you’re not there.
OK, I know what you’re thinking—This guy must be some kind of psycho!—right?
Let me give you a for instance. Say you’re mucking about in school one lunchtime, and a window gets broken, and you’re caught. Imagine you’re explaining to a teacher what happened. Now you go home and tell your parents about it. You don’t talk to them in the same way, do you? Later on, one of your best mates drops by and you give them Version Three, using words you wouldn’t dare use to your parents or to a teacher. Each time, you’re a slightly different person.
So which one is you?
In fact there’s a whole load of different people inside you, like a collection of masks. You change your mask according to the situation you find yourself in. Sorting out which one is really you is practically impossible, because the person it’s hardest to be honest with is yourself. And here’s the spooky bit: maybe when you take all the masks off you’re not anybody; maybe you’re as blank as the white stuff inside a glue stick.
I’m writing this because I’m sorted now, but I lost it for a while and I want to understand why. To do it properly I have to put in everything—daydreams, fantasies, nightmares, the lot—or it won’t be real. Actually, it wasn’t real, that’s the whole point; but the way it was unreal was pretty awesome.
The only reason I’m willing to tell you about it is that you don’t know me. This is like getting online with someone in Australia: you can tell them things about yourself that you wouldn’t tell anybody else, because they can’t spread them around to anyone who matters. In fact, if you like, you can make out that you’re the person you’d like to be, instead of the person you are. This isn’t lying, exactly—more like a game of Let’s Pretend—but it’s not exactly telling the truth, either.
Of course I could be doing that—pretending that all this happened to me when it didn’t. You’ll never know and it doesn’t matter. Reality is like beauty and ugliness, it all depends on how you look at things, and how you look at things depends on the person you are.
Whoever that might be.
The whining schoolboy
It was sunset, one of those blazing red jobs with magenta clouds that were orange underneath. I was riding a black stallion along a beach. The tide was out and the beach was deserted, miles of white sand curving out to a rocky headland. The wind was whipping through my hair and whistling in my ears. I was totally free—no stress, no hang-ups, nowhere I had to be, nothing else I ought to be doing—and it was brilliant. . . .
Then the alarm clock woke me up.
The feeling of freedom went—ZAPPO!— and I was me again: fifteen, in Year Ten, with a load of course work like you wouldn’t believe. It was the start of another thrill-packed school day and I had French first lesson. What kind of sadist designs a timetable that has French for first lesson? Most kids are still having trouble speaking English at that time of the morning.
So, did I leap out of bed, do twenty push-ups, look at myself in the wardrobe mirror and say, “Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better,” or did I pull the covers over my head to try to get back to the beach?
Eventually Dad shouted up the stairs, “Robert, it’s nearly half past! Shift yourself!”
This is what he always shouts; at least it’s better than “Rise and shine!”
Twenty minutes later I was showered, dressed, downstairs and raring to crawl back into bed.
Dad was mixing American biscuits—you know, the ones that are like scones with no sugar in them? He was wearing a butcher’s apron, and the bits of dough stuck to his hands made him look as though he had a skin dis-ease.
I went to the fridge, grabbed the orange juice and was just raising it to my lips when Dad said, “Don’t even think of drinking it straight from the carton. Get a glass.”
“She left early. She has a meeting in London at nine. A Dutch company wants to . . .”
I turned off my ears. I didn’t want to know all the details, and neither do you. It goes: Mum runs a software design business, Dad is one of her employees. Mum swans off all over the place wheeler-dealing, Dad mainly works from home. They’re supposed to split the housework between them, but Dad cops most of it—like, my old man is a New Man.
When Dad had been through it down to the last megabyte, I said, “Sounds good!”
Dad was rolling out dough by this time. He said, “Anything you need?”
“A passionate affair, a million pounds and a life would be nice.”
Dad sighed. He has this way of sighing that says, “Communicating with other people is incredibly time-consuming and tedious and I wish, just once, that I could be given a straightforward answer.” Which is pretty good for a sigh, you have to admit.
“I meant that I have to go shopping this morning, so is there anything you’d like me to get?”
“I could use some mouthwash—but don’t buy that blue stuff again, it sucks. I prefer the regular brand.”
Dad gave me a look. “Sucks? Regular? Are you turning into an American, Robert?”
“I’m just your regular teenager, Pops,” I said. “Blame the media and peer pressure.”
From the Hardcover edition.
"Sobre este título" puede pertenecer a otra edición de este libro.
Descripción Delacorte Books for Young Reader, 2003. Library Binding. Estado de conservación: New. Hardbound, BRAND NEW. Nº de ref. de la librería mon0000079181
Descripción Delacorte Books for Young Reader, 2003. Library Binding. Estado de conservación: New. Hardbound, AS NEW. Nº de ref. de la librería mon0000151432