The rest of my room was bare now. Everything was ready to go, except the chunk of Berlin Wall perched on my desk. I swiped it up, running my fingers over the rough surface. Some places were starting to wear smooth where I always stroked them with my thumb. More than once Lil had woken me up and scolded me for having slept with it hugged to my chest. I tried telling her I didn’t take it to bed on purpose, that I must’ve woken up in the middle of the night to get it. She didn’t believe that, either.
I waved goodbye to the other patients—my friends, as strange and as absurdly normal as that was—as we passed the rec room, the place where I’d spent every weekend for months with Miles. He seemed to find it perfectly obvious that he should come and visit so often, when it was so out of his way.
Now, finally, I got to go to him. All I had to do was sign out at the front desk and walk the last long mile to the door. And I’d be free.
When I shouldered my way out of the building, blinking in the autumn sunlight, I looked down the walk and found a sky-blue pickup parked along the curb. Miles leaned against the truck’s side, looking familiar in an old baseball shirt and bomber jacket. Something had changed in his face since graduation, though. Every time I saw him, he was a little brighter, a little happier, a little more excited about whatever the day had in store for him.
“That is Miles Richter,” I said to Lil. “And he is not imaginary, thank you very much.”
I took my suitcase, gave her a hug, and approached Miles.
I stopped in front of him, smiling. He smiled back and leaned down to kiss me. A feeling erupted in my stomach, like nothing would ever be the same again. Like good karma was catching up with me. Like someone had opened up the lid to my lobster tank and I was finally breathing in the shockingly fresh air.
“Ready to go?” His smile looked permanent. The tiniest German accent wrapped around his voice. “They’re all waiting to see you.” His fingers absentmindedly traced the scars on the left side of my face, but they were fading now, and didn’t hurt anymore. I didn’t try to stop him.
I climbed into the truck, breathing deep the smell of mint soap and pastries. He tossed my stuff in the truck bed.
“I bet they’ve made up stories,” I said.
“Oh, they have.” He glanced at me as he closed the passenger door. His impossible blue eyes sparkled in the sun. “They have, trust me. But they aren’t as good as the real thing, of course.” He slid into the driver’s seat. The truck roared to life.
I glanced back only once as Miles pulled away from the curb. Wisps of violin music floated on the air. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.
I turned away and closed my eyes.
“They never are.”
Acknowledgments
First and foremost I want to thank my editor, Virginia Duncan, for finding the truth in my mess of a story and dragging it, kicking and screaming, into the daylight. Without you, this book would have no backbone.
To Sylvie Le Floc’h, whose design work, both exterior and interior, absolutely stuns me every single time I see the book; to Tim Smith, for those sharp copyedits (and for appreciating my Norm Abram reference); and to Katie Heit and everyone else at Greenwillow and HarperCollins, for being such a welcoming family.
Thank you to my fantastic pit bull of an agent, Louise Fury, for taking a chance on this weird book (and my future weird book endeavors), and for knowing exactly when to rein me in and when to cut me loose. I honestly didn’t believe in dream agents until you came along.
To Kristin Smith, for working so hard to make this book perfect, and for giving Alex her voice back. To the amazing Team Fury, for their unwavering support, and to the wonderful people at both the L. Perkins Agency and the Bent Agency.
A thousand thank-yous to Erica Chapman, whose belief in Made You Up started it all. (She’ll try to be humble and deny this. I will ignore her.)
To all my critique partners who kept me going: Darci Cole, Marieke Nijkamp, Leigh Ann Kopans, Dahlia Adler, Caitlin Greer, Lyla Lee, Jamie Grey, Gina Ciocca, Megan Whitmer, Jenny Kaczorowski, and Angi Nicole Black. And thank you to Christina Bejjani, who keeps me sane in the little world of publishing. Also to the Class of 2K15, the Fearless Fifteeners, and We Are One Four debut groups. You made this journey so much easier.
Thank you to my friends who carried this book around high school in a three-inch binder so you could read it during class, and to everyone who ever asked to be mentioned in my acknowledgments, because you believed that one day I’d have acknowledgments to mention you in.
Thank you to Dominic and Andrea, for teaching me all the best ways to terrorize a younger sibling (I still haven’t gotten over all those vile things you made me drink). And finally, thank you to my parents. They moaned and groaned every time I told them I was rewriting this book, but only because they knew it would be something when I finished.