The end came and I’m still standing.
Mom and Alison are waiting for me on the train station platform. “Oh good,” Alison says as I haul my bags toward them. “You’re alive.”
Mom cups her hand around the back of my neck. “Jesus. Where were you? We couldn’t even call.”
“I made it,” I say. “I’m here.”
I look around. Other travelers move toward the yellow line on the platform, watching as the train’s snub nose glides toward us. Seconds spin out and around us like spiderwebs.
Alison takes out her ponytail, shakes out her hair, and points at my hand. “What is that thing?”
I open my palm, where it’s lying. Crushed and fragile, like a fallen leaf.
“Nothing,” I say, but when she frowns, I add, “I’m just borrowing it.”
The train stops and the doors exhale open. Mom starts bringing our stuff onto the train, and, for the few seconds before I follow her, I slide on the leather wristband. It’s too big and too light, only glancing against my skin. It feels nothing like a watch and everything like good-bye. But I can feel it nonetheless, almost beating, almost breathing against me. The warm, living ember of a star.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If this book is a love letter to Tokyo, this part is a love letter to all the people who cheered me on, picked me up, coaxed me to my computer, and fed me cake as I wrote it. Without you all, I’d still be eating cookies and avoiding my Word doc.
Thank you, Molly Ker Hawn, for being a thousand times more wonderful than I dreamed an agent could be. You are a publishing force to be reckoned with, a fount of apple cake knowledge, and the dose of strength and laughter I usually (always) need. I am lucky my work found its way to you.
I am constantly floored by my wise, whimsical, and sharp editors: Bethany Strout, my jaw hung open the first time I read your editorial letter. You got this book, and you pushed me—consistently, patiently—to improve it. I am singing Tori Amos songs in your honor. Karen Ball, thank you for tirelessly guiding my language and for helping me unearth hidden gems in Sophia and Jamie’s journey. Their story could not have been in better hands. An enormous, heartfelt thanks to Farrin Jacobs, Pam Gruber, and Leslie Shumate for your warmth and unceasing support.
I could fill page after page with a list of people at Little, Brown in the United States and the United Kingdom who changed my life (and this book) for the better. Thank you for being my first publishing home in so many ways. Unending gratitude, glitter stickers, and strawberry mochi to all of you—and extra strawberry mochi to those who are my fearless advocates and dear friends. You know who you are.
To my parents: You are the most brilliant people I know. Thank you for being my home no matter where you are in the world and for giving me years of travel and adventures to pull inspiration from. I complained (a lot) at the time; I have been grateful every day since.
Lesley Glaister, this book would never have been written without you. Thank you for getting me through the first fifteen thousand words and for saying, “You’re on the right track. Keep going.” Thank you to John Burnside for believing this idea had promise, and to my fellow St. Andrews creative writers for letting me bombard you with the same story for a whole year.
Susan Manly and Angus Stewart, arigatou gozaimashita for reading this manuscript with such forgiving eyes. Extra thanks for the vegetarian dinners and glasses of champagne. They helped a lot.
I’m grateful that the staff at the University of St. Andrews Special Collections didn’t say anything when I was so lost in a book fog I showed up to work in pajamas and bright purple lipstick.
Thank you, Jessica, for being the Sophia to my Alison.
Thank you, Julie Haack, for being my New York City.
Thank you, Jennifer, Laura, and Lindsay, for making my own YA story bearable.
To my ASIJ and Sapporo crew, I never wanted to leave you behind. Thank you for all the karaoke nights and konbini picnics. They mattered so much to me—they still matter.
And finally, thank you, Rachel Holmes. For fortifying me with maple syrup lattes and lemon bars. For saying, without reservation, “You will,” when I told you I wanted to write a novel. For always reading, always listening, always thinking, always rolling your eyes, always laughing, always gently prying the manuscript away when I needed a break but didn’t realize it. You breathed life into each and every word that ended up in this book. With my whole sparkly neon heart, thank you.