Though I know I’ll wake with a mess of snarls, I don’t braid my hair either. Or wash off my makeup.
In my room, my black dress is back on my closet door. A note from Evy pinned to its collar with a rhinestone hairclip.
B—
I shouldn’t have taken this. Wear what ever you want tomorrow. And tell me to butt out sometimes.
I hope you had fun to night … But not too much. I want details!
Xo,
E.
But she was right the first time. The dress is wrong. I shove the hanger in the back of my closet.
Grabbing a pen from my desk, I circle the last line of her note and add: Maybe … If you let me sleep in. And slide it under her bedroom door. If I’m still in bed, she’ll have to deal with Mom, questions from the caterers, any early-arriving guests. Evy won’t be happy about it, but she’s a big girl and I’m tired.
There’s only one thing I have left to do before I change into pajamas and climb into bed, but I stand in front of my closet and reject my outfits one at a time: too beige, too black, too khaki, too bland. Finally I choose a navy-and-white-polka-dot blouse. Normally, I pair it with white capris, but tomorrow I’ll wear it with a red skirt. And a green-and-navy-striped belt. And red shoes. And my ring. I lay it all on the back of my desk chair. Dad used to call me his Rainbow Brite—how could I celebrate him dressed in anything drab?
Even after I turn off the lights and get into bed, I’m still smiling in the direction of my chair. It feels right.
I roll onto my back and whisper up at the ceiling, “Dad, I don’t have an answer for you tonight, don’t have my ‘one thing I did to make the world better.’ I don’t even know where to begin … I did lots of things today—some of them good, but I made a lot of mistakes too … and some of my mistakes turned out to be good things …”
I blow him a kiss and roll onto my side. I wish he was here, I wish I could hear his voice. I think he’d say he’s proud of me. I’m proud of me too. But I don’t feel like me. Curls tickle my cheeks and my toes sting when I brush them against my blanket.
One night with Jonah and I’ve morphed from Teflon to something that reacts when scratched … a record or a match. No, not something that’s damaged by use. Something better.
My brain’s too tired to spin ideas and pick a new analogy. And why bother? Amelia will come up with something soon enough.
I shift and shake a piece of hair off my cheek—I don’t feel settled in my skin. In the skin of this girl with chaos in her brain and curling around her shoulders. A girl with a rumpled dress on the floor at the foot of her bed, smeared eye makeup, flushed cheeks, and lips swollen from kisses.
Who is this girl?
I owe it to myself to find out.
Acknowledgments
I wish I could give a cookie and a hug to each of the readers, teachers, bloggers, librarians, and booksellers who have supported me along this journey … Since that’s creepy, I’ll just offer sugar-coated gratitude instead.
Without the following people, Brighton and Jonah’s story would never have made it into your hands. I am so thankful that they’re in my life:
Joe Monti, Agent Extraordinaire, thank you for understanding what this book meant to me. I hope you understand what you mean to me too. Barry, Tricia, and the rest of the Goldblatt team—I raise a glass of jelly beans in your honor.
The talented group at Walker Books for Young Readers: Emily Easton, who pushed me with fabulous editorial notes; Laura Whitaker, who knew just when I needed to hear “I’m proud of you”; Rachel Stark, Emily Ritter, Patricia McHugh, Bridget Hartzler, Katy Hershberger, Jenna Pocius, and Erica Barmash, who did a zillion lovely, supportive, behind-the-scenes things to make my books better.
The artificially colored pieces of heaven I call Revision Skittles, whose sugar highs kept me going during many, many late-night writing sessions.
The best critique partners an author could dream of: Emily Hainsworth (Team Jonah) and Courtney Summers (Team Brighton)—whose amazing and insightful advice is ALWAYS contradictory. I would be saner without them both, but the story would be weaker. And sanity is overrated.
Team Sparkle—Scott Tracey and Victoria Schwab, without whom I’d never believe I could “write boy,” and Linda Grimes and Susan Adrian, who patiently brainstormed bucketfuls of titles.
My local writing support group: Jonathan Maberry, who wins the gold in author mentorship; Nancy Keim Comley, Elisa Ludwig, Eugene Myers, Kate Walton, Gail Yates, Eve Marie Mont, Tiff Emerick, Jen Zelesko, and Heather Hebert—they will always have a place in my heart, house, and in-box.
Taylor Mysza—who wrangled my Schmidtlets so I had time to write. I’m sorry for all the times they made her sing Taylor Swift—someday they’ll figure out the Taylors are not the same person.