A poignant novel about queer identity from National Book Award finalist Julie Anne Peters.   Mike (real name: Mary Elizabeth) is gay and likes to pump iron, play softball, and fix plumbing. In addition to her identity, Mike is struggling to come to terms with her father's suicide and her mother's detachment from the family. When a glamorous new girl, Xanadu, arrives in Mike's small Kansas town, Mike falls in love at first sight. Xanadu is everything Mike is not: cool, confident, feminine, sexy...and straight. Originally published under the title Far From Xanadu,  this heartbreaking yet ultimately hopeful novel will speak to anyone who has ever fallen in love with someone who can't love them back.  "Another gem in Peters' string of literary treasures."― VOYA "Excellent characterization makes this piece shine."― Kirkus Reviews "Readers will root for Mike in this heartfelt coming-of-age story."― School Library Journal "There's no arguing with the honest intensity of Mike's emotions. Readers will wish her heartsease."― Booklist Julie Anne Peters is the critically acclaimed author of Define "Normal , " Keeping You a Secret , Pretend You Love Me , Between Mom and Jo , She Loves You, She Loves You Not... , It's Our Prom (So Deal With It) , and Luna , a National Book Award finalist. Pretend You Love Me By Peters, Julie Anne Little, Brown Books for Young Readers Copyright © 2011 Peters, Julie Anne All right reserved. ISBN: 9780316127417 Chapter One After my dad’s suicide, the town council decided to remove the bottom portion of the ladder from the Coalton water tower. Like that was going to keep me down. We pooled our savings, me and Jamie, and bought a thirty-two-foot extension ladder at Hank’s Hardware. In the long prairie grass around the tower, we could keep it hidden so no one would ever know. Who were we kidding? This was Coalton. Everyone knew everything. The sky was already pinking up and I was going to miss the whole show if I didn’t hurry. I dragged the extension over and clanged it against the remaining rungs, then clambered up to the landing. The sun was peeking over the horizon as the gate screeked open to the walkaround. It was chilly. I could see my breath. I’d pulled a pair of Dad’s sweats on over my boxers, but now wished I’d dug out a flannel shirt from the laundry. His ribbed undershirt was flimsy. I sat on the metal platform and dangled my feet over the rim. Resting my forehead against the railing, I thought, Oh man. The colors—rose and amber, indigo, orange-streaked clouds. Dad said angels painted the sky at dawn and dusk. Dad was a liar, but I could almost believe him on that one. The magnificence, the majesty, the sheer magnitude of sky was beyond human dimension. Beyond understanding, expression. It was bigger than life. Bigger than death. Only one thing could be better than a sunrise in Coalton—sharing it with the person you loved. Someday… Someday… When I got home the house was quiet. Good. They were both still in bed. Maybe I could get out of here without an encounter of the ugly kind. I changed into a clean muscle tee, but decided to wear the boxers to school. They looked cool. I threw on a hooded sweatshirt, since it’d be late by the time I got home tonight. “Morning, morning, morning.” I performed my morning ritual—finger kissing all my nudie posters: Evangelina, Beemer Babe, the Maserati girl. Down the dim hallway I heard Ma’s radio click on full blast to a morning call-in show. I hustled to the kitchen to make a power shake and bail. Two raw eggs, a scoopful of protein powder, water from the tap. I covered my plastic glass with a palm and shook it. As I swigged down the chalky goop, I lifted a shock absorber off the top of Darryl’s stack of car zines and did a set of curls. My upper arm strength wasn’t where it should be. The game with Deighton yesterday I underthrew to second and T.C. had to dig the ball out of the dirt. Inexcusable. I made a mental note to add another set of tricep extensions to my circuit. Another rep of lat pulls. In my reflection off the grimy back door, I flexed. The sleeve of my sweatshirt bulged. Nice definition, if I did say so myself. Darryl slimed into a chair at the dinette. On his way he’d snagged a can of Dinty Moore beef stew off the counter and popped the pull top, managing to slop half of it down his bare chest. Disgusting. I didn’t claim him as a brother. “I’m taking the truck today,” I said. “Fuck you are.” He slurped right out of the can. I considered crushing his skull with the shock absorber. Then figured his thick head might actually absorb the shock. “I need it for work. Everett wants me to run a load of feed up to the Tillson ranch near Ladder Creek.” “Use the Merc’s flatbed.” Darryl swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Everett needs it for hauling portable stalls.” “Tough titties. Last time you made a delivery the inside of the truck reeked of sheep shit for a week.” “This is only