I let that number settle over the crowd, before I continue.
“Scholars were able to determine that the girl was on the shorter side, about five feet three inches, and she wore a surprisingly modern outfit: what was essentially a miniskirt and T-shirt made out of wool. Her hair, they could tell, had been short and blonde. In other words, what I realized was that the Egtved Girl looked a whole lot like me.”
As I anticipated, the audience enjoys this comparison.
“Over the last month, I’ve found myself thinking about this girl. When they first dug her up, historians assumed she was native to the area. But nearly one hundred years later, scientists were able to determine through analysis of her fingernails and fibers in her clothing, as well as other things buried along with her, that she had traveled great distances. Possibly on foot, possibly by boat, possibly a little of both. I wondered, What had her life really been like? And dying so young, what had it all meant? In four thousand years, if the Earth is still here, what will people say about me?”
I swallow, choosing my next words carefully.
“I guess the message I want to send to my classmates is this: We often feel quite a bit of pressure on our shoulders, and sometimes we don’t even realize it’s there. So I’d like to offer you this advice—don’t be afraid to surprise yourselves. People thought they had the Egtved Girl all figured out. They thought she was probably a local teen who had never seen very much in the world. In actuality, it turns out she had seen a great deal. She might have even been someone really important. Maybe she’d been someone who’d made great change in her very short life.
“My plans are still intact,” I say. “I still intend to head to Columbia in the fall and pursue a career in journalism. I don’t do this because it was my plan; it was my plan because I love it. But I’m determined not to stick to it too closely. I have no idea what surprises the future will hold. Now my plan is to follow my dreams. My plan is to surprise myself, and write my own story. I hope, whatever age you are, each one of you chooses to do the same. Thank you.”
I step away from the podium while the audience erupts in deafening cheers, and as I make my way back to my seat, there’s only one person I don’t see clapping. It’s Elliot. He’s watching me, and he’s grinning.
I am just shoving a brownie into my mouth, my graduation cap tucked under one arm, when I bump straight into Ruth Epstein.
“I could not be prouder,” she says, clasping her hands together, her bracelets jangling.
“Really?” I ask her.
“Really,” Epstein says. “What a brilliant, unexpected story to tell.” She shakes her head. “You are going to make a great journalist someday, Annabelle Burns.”
“That means a lot to me, Miss Epstein,” I say, giving her a hug.
“And great job on your final project, too,” she whispers in my ear as she holds me tightly. “Grades aren’t due for another week, but you nailed it. How you ever came up with a crazy story about a character and her author waging war on each other is beyond me, but you blew my mind.”
I hug her tighter. She doesn’t need to know that I made very little up at all. That once again, I was retelling a story that already existed. But honestly, I don’t really care. You can’t be perfect at everything. Sometimes you just have to do your best. And a small part of me enjoys the fact that after everything Lucy did, I flipped it on itself and used it to my advantage in the end.
“Annabelle, hey,” I hear a familiar voice say, and turn to find Will waiting patiently. “You were awesome,” he says.
“Thanks, Will,” I say, and after the silence between us lasts one moment too long, I ask. “So, what’s new?” When I got together with Elliot, we both decided it would be best to take a little space so Will could figure out who he was, and what he actually wanted.
“Well”—Will leans in, his smile turning mischievous—“check this out.” He raises the bottom of his pristine collared shirt, and up underneath his shoulder blade is a tattoo. It’s small, but it definitely makes an impact.
“It’s Hawaiian,” he tells me excitedly. “I found it in an old album passed down in the family. I went into the shop and nobody even stopped me. It was exhilarating!”
“That’s amazing!” I say, and give him a big hug.
“So are you excited for New York in the fall?” Will asks.
“I can’t wait,” I say. “Where will you be?”
“Actually”—Will looks down at his feet, blushing—“looks like we won’t be too far away from each other. I got off the waitlist at Yale a few days ago.”
“Will, that’s amazing,” I say. “Congrats. Maybe I’ll see you in the city sometime.”
“I’d really like that,” Will says sincerely. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find ourselves in the same story again someday, Annabelle.” And with the ever-dazzling Will Hale grin, he heads off to hug his mother. I watch him go for a moment, and then I run up to him.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulder. Will spins around.
“What?” he asks.
“I guess . . . I just wanted to say thanks,” I say.
“For what?” Will looks equal parts delighted and confused.
“For being a part of my story,” I tell him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Yes, you could have.” Will tilts his head.
“Okay, maybe I could have,” I say. “But it was a lot more fun with you in it.”
“Get your butt to my house in thirty minutes, or we are leaving for Palm Springs without you!” Ava yells into the phone. Behind her, I hear Lee squealing.
“What’s going on over there?” I ask, throwing my cap and gown down on my bed. “Why are you guys always yelling?”
“We aren’t telling you until you get here!” Ava yells louder. I’m just telling her I’ll be right over when I realize she’s already hung up the phone. We’re headed to the desert for a celebratory weekend, just us girls. We’ve had it planned since December. I’m so excited I almost want to go without packing.
It’s for this reason that it takes me a solid minute and a half to notice Elliot lying on my couch, staring at the ceiling.
“Oh. Hi,” I say.
“Hope it’s okay that I’m here,” he says. “Your mom let me in.”
“Of course it’s okay,” I tell him, like he’s crazy, but I still haven’t gone over to him yet.
“You’re being weird,” he observes. “You haven’t been returning all of my texts. I know you do that when you’ve got a problem you can’t figure out how to solve.”
I nod. “I know,” I admit. Because I have.
“Your speech . . .” he starts.
“Unexpected?” I ask.
“Awesome,” he says. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. “You never cease to surprise me, Bellybutton.”