I told my whole family about me and Elliot a few days ago over breakfast. I did it with a lot of dramatic flair. I even got the Good Coffees. To be honest, I was looking forward to shocking them. But to my great disappointment, my parents just smiled, and Sam shrugged as he wolfed down his scrambled eggs. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he wasn’t exactly surprised, either.
The beach is nearly empty this morning, and only a few other people are out on the waves. The sun is fully over the horizon now and lighting up our part of the world. We spend nearly two gorgeous hours out there. Every muscle in my body feels ready to call it quits, but I’m having way too much fun.
When I paddle back out after riding a wave all the way to shore, Sam is watching me, a strange look on his face as he straddles his board.
“Oh, boy,” I say. I know that look. He’s about to say something serious.
“Hear me out,” Sam says. “I’ll make it quick.”
I roll my eyes, but I listen.
Sam takes a deep breath. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you, right?”
I make a face. “When? Out here? Sam, I haven’t been afraid of sharks since the fourth grade, but thanks anyway.”
Sam shakes his head. “Out here, back there.” He points to shore. “What I’m trying to say, AB, is that just because Mom and Dad are splitting up, doesn’t mean you are all alone. I’m your big brother. It’s my job to watch out for you.”
Suddenly, I feel like I am going to cry. Not just because my brother’s never really said anything like this to me before, or because it helps to know he has my back. But because for the first time, in this moment, I can acknowledge how scared I really feel. I had assumed, though I never said so out loud, that when Lucy stopped writing my life, my parents would magically be back together. Like it was all just a bad dream. But that’s not what happened. My dad is still sleeping in the guest house, and my mom is still going through the motions, clearly a little fragile, trying to take it all one day at a time. Maybe in the same way that Elliot fought through his story to be with me, my parents really did want to get a divorce.
“But what if you can’t be,” I say. “What if you go off on tour or something, and I have to come home at Thanksgiving and spend it with just Mom or Dad, all alone. That will be awful.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Sam says.
“How do you know?” I ask. I wipe away a tear, grateful that we are both already soaking wet.
“Because Mom and Dad are weird, so they will probably always spend it together regardless, but even if they don’t, I will always be here. Wherever I am in the world, I will come back.”
I stare at my board. “Do you promise?”
“I promise, AB. Swear on Napoleon’s life.”
I sniff, and let out a giggle. My brother is watching me with a twisted smile, his eyes sad.
“Well, I promise, too,” I say, and smile back through my tears.
When we arrive back at The House, my dad is just taking the general out on a walk. “You two have a good time?” he asks us.
“She killed it,” Sam says, unloading the boards. “She’s getting really good, Dad.”
“Better than her old man?” my dad asks.
“She’s gaining on you for sure,” Sam tells him.
“Hey, AB,” my dad calls when he reaches the fence, Napoleon trotting behind. “Something was on the front steps when I came outside this morning. An envelope. I put it on your bed.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say as I go to hang up my wetsuit to dry.
“And, Annabelle?” my dad calls again.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“I never thought I’d ever have to say this to you, but for God’s sake, clean your room,” he says sternly. Then he smiles.
I walk into my bedroom with renewed energy and get right down to business, throwing all my clothes into one pile, trash into the bin, and stacking books on top of my desk. It’s only when I move to straighten my bed that I see the envelope lying on top of the covers, and handwriting I’ve come to know all too well scrawled across the front.
Miss Annabelle Burns: 732 Oakwood Avenue, Venice, CA
Feeling my breath start to come more quickly, I rip off the envelope, and a letter falls out, on her signature blue stationary: FROM THE DESK OF LUCY HARRISON KEATING.
Annabelle,
I want to tell you that I’m sorry for many things. I’m sorry for taking over your life. I’m sorry for not listening to you when you asked me to stop. I’m sorry for letting my own heartache seep into your world. But mostly, I’m sorry about what I did to you and Elliot. I know you love him.
On that topic, I can tell you two things. One, he loves you back—trust me. And two, your relationship was real. I didn’t create that one. Elliot was merely a side character, but he fought his way into your story to be with you.
And you: You are a brilliant character, AB, but I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit. You may have been my creation, but you were always you. This is who you are, like it or not.
The end is up to you now, Annabelle. You’ll find your Happy Ending, and it’s not about with whom you end up. I am only just beginning to figure that out.
Until next time,
Lucy Keating
I take a moment to sit on my bed, staring at the letter in front of me. An apology from Lucy Keating? I never thought she was capable of such a thing.
But, more important, she’s right. Elliot and I did fight to be together, and what we have is real.
And, most significantly of all: I love him.
Public speaking is not something I’ve ever had a particular problem with. I’ve seen people melt down over even the prospect of standing up in front of strangers, and others hold a carefully written speech with shaking hands. But to me, like so many things in life, it’s something you simply do when you are asked to do it. What could being nervous practically accomplish?
The question on my mind now, as I stand before my classmates, teachers, friends, and family, as the valedictorian of Cedar Spring’s graduating senior class, is what I should choose to do with this moment. It probably isn’t a surprising fact to learn that I’ve had my speech written since the beginning of the year. I planned to reference Diane Sawyer, her brilliance and determination, and her advice to young people like me to always “Aim High.”
But as I look down at my carefully written note cards, something isn’t sitting right with me. And when I open my mouth to speak, I talk about a different woman in history. Someone that nobody expected, least of all myself.
“Those who know me are well aware that I’ve been thinking about my future practically since birth.” I smile at the crowd, and a low murmur of laughter reaches my ears. “Since a very young age, a big part of that future has always involved being a journalist. I love to explore stories in current events and even history, and unearth their greater meaning in our world.
“Earlier this year, I stumbled upon the story of what has come to be known as the Egtved Girl,” I say, looking out over the audience. “The Egtved Girl’s burial place was uncovered in the nineteen twenties in a moss-covered area of Denmark. She was a teenager at the time of her death, but at the time of her exhumation, she was nearly four thousand years old.”