Summary

In 1997, at the distinguished Siddons School on Manhattan's Upper East Side, the school year opens with distressing news: Astra Dell is suffering from a rare disease. Astra's friends try to reconcile the sick girl's suffering with their own fierce longings and impetuous attachments. Car writes unsparing letters, which the dirty Marlene, in her devotion, then steals. Other classmates carry on: The silly team of Suki and Alex pursue Will Bliss while the subversive Lisa Van de Ven makes dates with Miss Wilkes. The world of private schools and privilege in New York City is funny, poignant, cruel, and at its heart is a sick girl, Astra Dell, "that pale girl from the senior class, the dancer with all the hair, the red hair, knotted or braided or let to fall to her waist, a fever and she consumed." National Book Award Finalist Christine Schutt has created a wickedly original tale of innocence, daring and illness.

Author Biography

CHRISTINE SCHUTT is the author of the short-story collections A Day, a Night, Another Day, Summer and Nightwork—named by the poet John Ashbery as the 1996 Times Literary Supplement (London) Best Book of the Year—as well as the novel Florida, a 2004 National Book Award Finalist. Schutt lives and teaches in New York City.

The Girl No One Knows	p. 1
Fa La Lah	p. 53
January	p. 79
Romance	p. 103
Numbers	p. 133
Dance	p. 145
Fools	p. 169
Hives	p. 187
Prizes	p. 201
Acknowledgments	p. 225
Table of Contents provided by Publisher. All Rights Reserved.

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Excerpts

The Girl No One KnowsFathersMr. Dell, in his daughters room, stuck his face into the horn of a stargazer lily, one of a . . . one of a . . . must have been a dozen, and he breathed in and said wasnt that something. And wasnt it: the pileup of cards, a stuffed bear, a bouquet of balloons, a banner, a bed jacket, books on tape. We love you, Astra! The chorus to his daughter was always the same, and he, too, said the same, but he did not look at her famished face, did not meet her eye, did not take her hand; he wheezed out only so much cheer. That party at the Mortons was how he started. Mr. Dell stood between his daughters bed and the window and described what he could of the Mortons party. Ive been to Sukis before, Dad. Okay, he had forgotten, so other things, then. Not far into the kickoff fund-raiser, the host had stood on a piano bench to say he was not sorry to be so poorly acquainted with the parents gathered, but he expected to know a lot about everyone by the end of the school year when the money for the senior gift was raised. Then Mr. Morton expected he would never see any of us again. That sounds like Sukis dad. Sukis mother is funny. The room Sukis father had spoken in was a very big, cream-colored box of a room, a cake box, a hatbox, something large and expensive. Mr. Dell described the party to his daughter in the way Grace would have described it: how things looked and sounded, the gurgle of civility among designing adults. He described what it felt like to be known as the parent of such a child, his own, his only, his best, bright addition. Dear, dear Astra, how are you feeling? he asked now. Daddy, Astra said, and she smiled when she told him how corny he was. He told his daughter who had come to the Mortons. Mrs. Forestal was there, so Mr. Forestal was not. Mr. and Mrs. Van de Ven, Mrs. Abiola, the Cohens, and Mr. Fratini were there. I talked a lot to Alexs motheris that woman crazy? The Johnsons were not in attendance. The headmistress, Miss Brigham, was there for a short speech, and she asked after youeveryone there asked after you, darling. Everyone sends love. Then he remembered that the Johnsons were in Europe meeting somebody royal. Astra said, The Johnsons have expensive fights that end with new jewels. The Mortons apartment was all bloody mahogany and damask. Crystal chandeliers, those plinking rainbows, were hanging everywhere. Double sconces, elaborate molding, herringbone floors. The caterers were using monogrammed family silver. The word expansive came to mind, or a three-tiered cake on a crystal stand, a monument in buttercream frosting, swags of sugar violets, silver dots. That was the equivalent dessert to the Mortons apartment as far as Mr. Dell was concerned. He looked at Astra again and saw how tired she was; her eyelids looked swollen as if she had been crying, and perhaps she had cried. He hadnt been here for all the tests; he was at work. I wish I could be hungry, Astra said.

Excerpted from All Souls by Christine Schutt
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