Tonight the Streets Are Ours

Despite what he said in the garden near my mom’s apartment that day, Peter did no book tour, and as much as I scoured the Internet, I found very little discussion about his novel: a handful of middling reviews, a couple of interviews with him on poorly trafficked blogs. Maybe if the book were presented as nonfiction, then people would have cared, in the way that I had cared. Maybe it’s only in fiction that Peter’s story seems—as Kirkus Reviews will put it—“self-congratulatory, navel-gazing, and aimless.” His book was published to a nearly universal lack of interest and then it disappeared, leaving behind almost no trace, like a rock sinking to the bottom of a very deep pond, or a single individual living high up in some big building in some very big city.

My friends and I visit New York City periodically to go to shows and museums, always by train or bus—the Heart of Gold has never again been on a journey so far from home. My mom is no longer there; she moved home eventually, and she and my father are working things out, or trying to, anyway. Whenever I go to New York, I walk around outside, I ride the subways, and I look at the face of every person I pass, because any one of them could be Peter or Bianca. But none of them ever has been. As Peter himself once wrote: there are a million different New Yorks, all layered on top of one another yet never intersecting.

After successfully graduating from high school, Lindsey got an internship at an organic farm in Pennsylvania. As so often happens with her, Lindsey forgot all about her New York City dream. She did at last learn to drive—not just a car, but a tractor, too. And Jamie did break Lindsey’s heart, and it was indeed sad, but now Lindsey is madly in love with a stable hand at her farm, and Jamie and her stupid nose ring are just distant memories.

I miss Lindsey every day. We don’t always make time to talk, we don’t have the same friends, and when Lindsey needs saving—which she has many times, and certainly will again—I’m not there to catch her. But when we do find each other, at home in Cumberland on holidays, or on the phone in those rare moments when Lindsey is resting and I’m awake, it’s as if nothing between us has changed.

I used to think that loving somebody meant sacrificing anything for them. I thought it meant writing a blank check. I thought it meant that you would die without each other. But it turns out that Peter was right about that, too: death and a broken heart are not the same.

These days I think that love is not so dramatic as all that. Maybe loving somebody means simply they bring out the best in you, and you bring out the best in them—so that together, you are always the best possible versions of yourselves.

You were promised a love story. And this is mine.





Acknowledgments

I am tremendously grateful to all who have supported my writing career and helped make Tonight the Streets Are Ours a reality. To name some of them:

Thank you to Joy Peskin, who has always believed in me. To Molly Brouillette, for her creativity and enthusiasm. And to the rest of the extraordinary team at Macmillan Children’s Publishing Group, including but not limited to Lauren Burniac, Angie Chen, Beth Clark, Liz Fithian, Angus Killick, Kathryn Little, Karla Reganold, Holly Ruck, and Mary Van Akin. You know how to treat an author right.

To Stephen Barbara: every day I feel lucky to have you on my side.

To everyone at Foundry Literary + Media—especially Jess Regel and Yfat Reiss Gendel—and to Michelle Weiner and her team at CAA.

To Venetia Gosling and the rest of the group at Macmillan UK for bringing my work to a whole other continent of readers.

To Kate Hurley, a ray of sunshine and my defender against inconsistencies.

To my writing partner, Rebecca Serle, for her unwavering love and support. And to the entire crew: Emily Heddleson, Lexa Hillyer, Lauren Oliver, Jess Rothenberg, and Courtney Sheinmel. Please let’s never stop being Type A and talking about ourselves.

To all my friends and colleagues—especially Kendra Levin, Brian Pennington, and Allison Smith—who have celebrated with me the good times, helped me through the rough times, and understood when I just have to stay home and write.

To the alternative spaces and parties throughout New York City, both past and present, that inspired Jigsaw Manor, especially Rubulad and Death By Audio.

Thanks to all who have taken the time to read my books, and who have told me the ways in which my writing has affected them. I could never find the words to express how much your support means to me.

And thank you to my parents, Amy and Michael Sales. I love you totally and completely.