K.A. Tremblay

Sometimes I ask myself:

Did Angie really exist?

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It’s 1974, and David Judson is in his first year at Veterans’ High. Despite his mother’s extreme mood swings and never having known his father, David has it together: he’s an honor roll student, his paper route job gives him steady income, and he plays trumpet in the marching band. He doesn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, or party. He’s a serious guy.

Then he meets Angie Brulotti.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful, though David’s stomach does flip-flops every time he catches sight of her curly hair and dark brown eyes. She’s also fierce and free-spirited, occasionally melancholy, plays the flute like an angel straight from heaven, and to David’s surprise, seems to like him as much as he likes her.

The only dark spot on David’s horizon, besides keeping Angie away from his mom for as long as possible, is the way Angie’s always going off with Charlie Seldon – who would have graduated years ago if he weren’t such a pothead – to smoke and “take the edge off.” David doesn’t want to be bothered by this but he is, especially when it seems Charlie is getting Angie into harder stuff than weed.

But David has a plan: he’s going to love her so much she won’t need drugs anymore, because love can fix everything.


"Lyrical and haunting."

— Jane Ryder

“…Emotion-filled tale of mid-adolescent romance.”

- Michelle, Amazon

“It was so heartbreaking.”

- Tracy Wicker Pierce, Amazon

“Solid plot and great writing…”

- MrSnuggleSquish, Amazon

About the Author

K. A. Tremblay started writing fiction at the age of ten, when she scribbled out an adventure novel on sheets of loose-leaf paper. She was quietly proud of that first manuscript, and re-read it so often that by the time it was tucked away in an attic, the paper was worn soft as linen.

Though born in the South, she moved a lot, both before and after her parents split up. She finally moved out West in 2013, searching for sunshine but also wanting to put certain life events behind her. 

She thought she could shake off provincial, small-town Rhode Island – the tiny corner of New England she had lived in long enough to reluctantly call “home” – as easily as shaking the snow off her boots, getting in her car, and driving away.  But she found she’d been steeped in New England, and it lingers on her like the wood-scented, cold, faintly musty, yet strangely comforting aroma of that attic back east.

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